(from discorporated)

My brain is that sparked shred in the rubble of sense memory, still creeping it's way along the back of my throat...

And i remember.

Fuckin' a right i do.

Those days when we thought we were incredible. when each word was laced with such fortitude it still stuns me we never made it quite as perfect as we ever wanted to (not that perfection was ever a choice. we spoke well, but we knew better. we knew these days of swine and poses would try and steal the thunder of our eyes but still we believed in ourselves and every fucking cheap thing we were doing to save our lives through a time that we all might have survived just as well [if not better] had we not met the dubious privilege of being our fucking selves). as glorious. as painfully pristine in the young of eyes of our dilettante years.

Who were we then?

Just kids. lost in the suffering of our age just like we should have been but i still can't help but imagine that we were different. that we made a difference. if just for the time we spent raising a screaming hell among those sandstone houses that we never called a home no matter how much we miss them now.

If only to know that we were remembered.

And sometimes that's something enough to keep me going. even if i'm fuller now. rattier. stranger in my own simple ways.

Because we weren't marked, then, by our mistakes (though they were so fucking plenty) but for being...

Fuck.

Just for being bold enough to survive the brunt of the profane.