The Diabolical Panther

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"Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, ”Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day."

- Kait Rokowski (A Good Day)

(Source: justsingyourlifeaway, via darksilenceinsuburbia)


Design Crush

David Fullarton

All I need to write, Grant Snider

In the Shadow II- by Will Kim Graphite and Colored Pencils on Paper ©Will Kim

Illustration by George Pavis
For La Vie Parisienne


"What interests me is the conquering of the fear, the hiding, the running away from it, facing it, exorcising it, being ashamed of it, and, finally, being afraid of being afraid.

(Source: iamiandiwishiwerent)


Love actually

My skin is dry and my heart is heavy

It’s the end of October. The air is crisp and thin and it reminds me of taking tests in school. Leaves are piling on the ground, slowly making skeletons of the trees.

I saw a picture of Britney Spears today and I thought to myself, “She looks old.” And then I wondered if I look old, too.

Recently, a friend unearthed a VHS tape containing footage from early in 2000 when we were ravers and posted it online. At the very beginning, I’m in the frame for a fleeting second. I was 18 then, with short hair and bad skin and a flat stomach. I remember exactly what I was wearing that night, though my outfit isn’t visible in the video. A desert camouflage tank top and dark grey pants a million sizes too big that were made of some sporty synthetic material that swooshed when I walked.

Seeing the video got me thinking about how much I’ve changed, if I’ve changed at all, and begging the question whether anyone ever really changes. It’s something we all obsess over: change. We’re afraid of it, we pray for it, we accept it, we avoid it, we succumb to it. We write catchy pop songs about it and let the promise of it guide us.

Looking back, I can acknowledge that things around me have changed, but I don’t know that I have. I still have the same bad habits and quirks. I’m still unreasonably impatient, I still procrastinate, still smoke cigarettes and practice very little self control when it comes to all the things that are bad for me, and I still worry about my butt and thighs being too big.

Since age 18, I’ve learned to cook and to write an “A” college paper. I now know how to drive a stick shift (though poorly) and how to change a keg. But have these things changed me? Maybe they’ve made me more capable, sure. But have I changed in some irrevocable way? I doubt it.

I will probably always soothe my aching, longing heart with junk food and whiskey. I will probably always feel a disconnect because of my introspective moodiness. I will probably always laugh at farts. I will probably never stop feeling nostalgic when I hear The Spice Girls. (But I will never again wear platform sneakers.)

I think it’s vital to accept what we cannot change, just like all those drunks have been saying all these years.
We have to give up control in the face of change, and at the core of this action we have to admit there are things we are powerless over. The broad strokes of our personalities make us who we are and we shouldn’t expect huge shifts to alter who we are. Just as we shouldn’t expect the leaves to stop falling in October. The snows come and go and the leaves come back with vibrance and purpose. The landscape may change but we can still rely on one season to follow the next just as it does every year.

I still go out dancing though my taste in outfits has changed. I still have the same dreams I had when my hair was short and my pants were too big. I’ve adapted to the  changes around me by staying consistent in who I am, good or bad. And I wouldn’t change that even if I could.