Because I didn't publish anything for a long time and because I have as many drafts as published posts. And because this relates to our WEEKLY PROMPT in an indirect way, and because I want to be brave, and mostly because I Just Feel Like It.
these were my drafts. more will be coming.
October 26, 2014
10/26/14
I
everyone is cold.
Everyone is scared.
your faults are only what you have control over.
your complexion is not a fault; your family situation is not a fault,
so don't apologize.
Half of skiing is confidence.
Half of life, too. at least.
Right now I want to write. What does it say that I would rather do this than anything else? That I stay up until midnight writing posts that I may not ever publish?
i stay up until midnight writing posts that I'll probably never publish because I'm paranoid I'll forget my thoughts. that i'll forget
something.
and thinking words just isn't the same as writing it down, in a place where you, dear reader, can touch it. As if i care if you can touch it, i just want to MESS WITH your brain, play around with your heart because i'm dealing with words and yes They CAN mess with your heart, and i want to make you THINK and make ME think and let all of the junk and the thoughts and the turmoil and the peace go somewhere other than trapped inside of me. Oh man, it feels so nice when its lifted off your heart. I just want to put it somewhere else, and if it touches you then thats just frees up my heart a little more.
But really, i sometimes think what does it matter if i write a brilliant post if no one else sees it, because if they don't they're just my thoughts and I've got those anyway, i don't need a hard copy.
and so really I write for you.
November 18, 2014
11/18/14
I really kind of don't care anymore. for keeping secrets at least.
Maybe I just don't care for hiding?
My brother behind me doesn't worry me so much, because if he reads my blog I am I'm still alive, and so is he and you.
Because when I closed my mind it was to silence.
There was a boy. His name I don't remember, and maybe it was Eduardo but he was ten years old.
The women who was Eduardo's mother cleaned the building. She wore an apron and unlocked cupboards and prepared meals and organized.
I want to paint my soul.
I want to paint a lot of things.
like how I'm feeling right now. Like why it didn't work, i want to paint the sound of my running shoes that let in water as they pound the sidewalk by starlight. I want to paint the gloves that I gave away. the gloves that meant something to me and that i gave to someone who meant nothing to me, because he was cold. Because he was a salesman from Georgia and an orphan and his hands were cold, and my mom usually doesn't listen to salesmen but she listened to him.
I hate the cold.
I want you to listen to me. I'm still not sure who I am, and I haven't learned how to paint my soul quite yet, and we don't know each other but I'm tired of living alone. Life alone should not exist, you and me lets be friends and just the way Thoreau went into the woods to live authentic, lets be real. Lets go somewhere and live for nature, for human's nature of overcoming. I don't care if you tell me your problems, I don't care if you have problems, are you alive? then lets go to this place we call living and grow up some and maybe even be friendly, maybe be brave, maybe.
my soul hasn't been painted yet but chances are you can't paint a soul either and I don't want to try until we've slept in pillow forts and played cowboy and indian and maybe broken each other's toys. maybe we can freeze water balloons and throw them into the road.
my mom also gave that boy from Georgia a coat.
the ten year-old kid, he watched me draw between tears for a solid hour-and-a-half.
and I've given up painting, for now.
A collection of thoughts doesn't need to have meaning. thats good, I have none.
everett mills.
October 30, 2014
10/30/14
death. death. death. if you say it like that it sounds so heavy. like its got a ring to it, but the kind of ring from a gong in the Himalayas in a night storm.
Death. or if you say it that way you could think its something happy, something exciting and light.
Unless you said it a different way than I did.
Death is too heavy to talk about right now and too heavy to talk about PERIOD.
(except for when its real) (like maybe now) (for all of us) (we're all going to die) (maybe soon, maybe not) (but SHHHH nobody's supposed to know that yet) (its a surprise) (like the surprise birthday party i'm planning for you) (Spoiler Alert: yes its planned, the party and death) And I'm tired of pressing shift+9 and shift+0 and so I'm done with the parenthesis and the hush-hush because YES death is real and yes it sucks and yes I'm sorry you had to go through it, would you do it again? Do you like where it spit you out? And if i told you that death is really all right, that its not real how would you look back at me? Because any way you look back at me would be right. You would be right. I don't know what death is for us humans. I don't know how it works and I don't want to think so much about it.
But really, i sometimes think what does it matter if i write a brilliant post if no one else sees it, because if they don't they're just my thoughts and I've got those anyway, i don't need a hard copy.
and so really I write for you.
everett mills
November 18, 2014
11/18/14
I really kind of don't care anymore. for keeping secrets at least.
Maybe I just don't care for hiding?
My brother behind me doesn't worry me so much, because if he reads my blog I am I'm still alive, and so is he and you.
Because when I closed my mind it was to silence.
There was a boy. His name I don't remember, and maybe it was Eduardo but he was ten years old.
The women who was Eduardo's mother cleaned the building. She wore an apron and unlocked cupboards and prepared meals and organized.
I want to paint my soul.
I want to paint a lot of things.
like how I'm feeling right now. Like why it didn't work, i want to paint the sound of my running shoes that let in water as they pound the sidewalk by starlight. I want to paint the gloves that I gave away. the gloves that meant something to me and that i gave to someone who meant nothing to me, because he was cold. Because he was a salesman from Georgia and an orphan and his hands were cold, and my mom usually doesn't listen to salesmen but she listened to him.
I hate the cold.
I want you to listen to me. I'm still not sure who I am, and I haven't learned how to paint my soul quite yet, and we don't know each other but I'm tired of living alone. Life alone should not exist, you and me lets be friends and just the way Thoreau went into the woods to live authentic, lets be real. Lets go somewhere and live for nature, for human's nature of overcoming. I don't care if you tell me your problems, I don't care if you have problems, are you alive? then lets go to this place we call living and grow up some and maybe even be friendly, maybe be brave, maybe.
my soul hasn't been painted yet but chances are you can't paint a soul either and I don't want to try until we've slept in pillow forts and played cowboy and indian and maybe broken each other's toys. maybe we can freeze water balloons and throw them into the road.
my mom also gave that boy from Georgia a coat.
the ten year-old kid, he watched me draw between tears for a solid hour-and-a-half.
and I've given up painting, for now.
A collection of thoughts doesn't need to have meaning. thats good, I have none.
everett mills.
October 30, 2014
10/30/14
death. death. death. if you say it like that it sounds so heavy. like its got a ring to it, but the kind of ring from a gong in the Himalayas in a night storm.
Death. or if you say it that way you could think its something happy, something exciting and light.
Unless you said it a different way than I did.
Death is too heavy to talk about right now and too heavy to talk about PERIOD.
(except for when its real) (like maybe now) (for all of us) (we're all going to die) (maybe soon, maybe not) (but SHHHH nobody's supposed to know that yet) (its a surprise) (like the surprise birthday party i'm planning for you) (Spoiler Alert: yes its planned, the party and death) And I'm tired of pressing shift+9 and shift+0 and so I'm done with the parenthesis and the hush-hush because YES death is real and yes it sucks and yes I'm sorry you had to go through it, would you do it again? Do you like where it spit you out? And if i told you that death is really all right, that its not real how would you look back at me? Because any way you look back at me would be right. You would be right. I don't know what death is for us humans. I don't know how it works and I don't want to think so much about it.
YOU DON'T HAVE TO READ THIS BECAUSE I THINK I'M FINALLY WRITING THIS FOR MYSELF
it doesn't matter what you think, but for some reason it does. People beat death all the time. Death is just a curtain, that's what Sirius Black discovered. Just a curtain, and then he was gone.
Death is when you left, they told eachother.
death was his crying, the little boy who would never see Daddy again and he didn't know WHY and maybe he didn't care why he just wanted him back
death was what broke the grown woman who worked in the building and rode the bus and wore shoes and a dress and looked nice everyday and smiled until the day you didn't see her at all.
death is what gave my arms and legs and the small of my back goosebumps just now, unless that was only the cold, but they're friends, is what people say.
unless death isn't so evil and we're just so caught up in being human that it "is." yeah its rough, really rough, but so is life. life and death, they're the same thing, and dying just means your living starts over.
I want to believe something less dark. I believe that death means you go to heaven, and then you come back and help the people who miss you. I believe that death
death is like an old shoebox. you never know what you'll find inside but it always smells foul.
death. oh man. I don't want to write about you. you realize everyone hates you and still you keep coming for more? or is it really your fault that you're stuck with the job.
death. oh man. I don't want to write about you. you realize everyone hates you and still you keep coming for more? or is it really your fault that you're stuck with the job.
I'm tired of depressing, life is too short to live in the dark all the time.
and i think i finally realized why the sad things connect us more: it's because darkness has an edge. happiness doesn't.
Edges I don't like. They're there to be fallen off of, jumped over, avoided, sharpened, I don't want that so I'm done with darkness. I don't like edges at all and I'm in no mood to fall in, so I'm stepping away from it now.
I've never been afraid of death, mine at least. I'm not afraid of my death, but I really don't want to go there yet. Life is too full and there's so much I'm looking forward to. Like sleep tonight.
.....................I've got so many unpublished posts its getting intimidating to look at the list. I've really got to change that. And I'm done with spilling all the sad thoughts I've ever had.
If you're reading this you deserve better.
Everett Mills.
more drafts coming.
this feels weird.
(this feels like reading through a journal)
-ADT, Everett Mills
.....................I've got so many unpublished posts its getting intimidating to look at the list. I've really got to change that. And I'm done with spilling all the sad thoughts I've ever had.
If you're reading this you deserve better.
Everett Mills.
more drafts coming.
this feels weird.
(this feels like reading through a journal)
-ADT, Everett Mills
