what is there to do about the flowers?

Updated: May 16



what is there to do about it?

about the flowers?

cause the shadows they’re casting on my wall in this dull grey of a sunset through my window almost made me forget for a second

and what is there to do about the fact that i still think they’re pretty?

and how it doesn’t make me feel less lonely


it’s funny cause i looked over at the pictures and papers pasted all over my walls and my first thought was “god that’s gonna take so much effort to take down”

'cause i’ll have to not too long from now

only two years

practically tomorrow

my homes are always temporary but it doesn’t take very long for me to make them feel like home

although that doesn’t stop me from leaving


i hate that i'm always observing myself

but it’s the only way i’ve learned to exist

it’s the only reason i’m not as scared as i used to be

but i wanna throw away all the clothes i wear

you can take them if you want them

i don’t want to need them anymore


i used to have a music box bigger than this, same song

it’s collecting dust on my shelf now

i don’t think it ever meant anything special to me

i don’t recall any fond memories that it makes an appearance in

i don’t remember where the stickers on it came from but they’re leaving marks

and i think i only pretend it’s sentimental

i don't remember much in general to be fair

maybe cause it’s one piece of my childhood that i know the place of

out of all the ones that got lost in the packing and moving over and over

and i want the anchor of nostalgia

but i don’t feel anything towards it at all

or anything else i’ve forgotten in boxes


and yet there is never a day that i forget the feeling of missing someone

but now we’re both miserable

are you happy now?



It’s not about the dull grey blue lighting washing the flowers that juxtaposed my finding them pretty.

It was the admittance that I still found the beauty in things

even when I wanted to die

and I’m not sure if that's a sign that maybe I don’t really want to die or if it’s a sign that perhaps it really is hopeless.

if the beauty in it all isn’t enough anymore.


Either way, there's a resignation to all of it.

Resignation.


As the first to watch this film, Victoria and her reliability for analysis found us looking for the word to convey something between acceptance and defeatism. The resignation that everything in life is fleeting. Letting go not because I'm okay with it but because I have to be.

The word didn't occur to me until 3:57am (when she had already stopped replying hours ago).


Seeing my half opened drawer overflowing with unfolded clothes out of the corner of my eye, I felt a sense of dread similar to that of glancing over at my wall of assorted papers. Do I no longer want to need the clothes in order to be seen as pretty or do I no longer want to be seen at all? I don't know which it was at the time but I do know I'm still putting off going through and sorting them.


In the end, I suppose it's that I feel the absence of people and nothing else. The hole in my unrequited dependency more than the loss of houses and objects (until I'm looking for the old books and my parent's mixtapes in the garage)


And I guess the last line is sarcastic in that it contradicts the previous statement.

But it’s also asking,

Are you better off without me? Are you happier than I am?

or are we still in this together even without the other in our life anymore?




I was meant to go out this evening. For my friend's birthday. I was all dressed up, makeup done, sitting in my best dress. And then, I was crying.

I can't even remember why. Something just set it all off and I knew immediately I was not going out dancing that night. It happens.

After sending a message to cancel (over a headache and nausea, which, to be fair, wasn't a lie on top of everything else), I sulked up to my bedroom on the top floor.

The sunset that day wasn't as warm as previous evenings so I hadn't even noticed the daylight fading. Until I was lying at the foot of the bed, parallel to my pillow, thinking a thought that didn't finish the way it started.


"What is there to do about-- ?"


And that's when I noticed the sun was setting. That's when I noticed the dead flowers above my mirror that I overlook every morning when I'm assessing my outfit of the day. And my brain autofilled the rest with its own newfound fixation. They weren't even doing anything special to catch my eye. They were only intercepting the last of the day's light to outline itself as it always does. But they distracted me so much, interrupted my pity party-- the nerve of them. And then my head just kept repeating the same phrase.


So I grabbed my camera, I opened my notes app, I started writing.


I didn't think too deeply about the meaning or the symbolism as I made it. I simply wanted to record my thoughts as they came. I'm only reflecting on it now (Sorry for tainting it with too much tangible meaning).


And so, aside from the clips of me, I filmed, edited, and recorded the entirety of the piece in that evening. It felt like writing a diary entry-- creating it that quick-- and I think it helped me process those feelings the same way journaling would-- but even more so because I had something to show for it. For once, I was able to capture how I saw the world from the space of my room-- where I spend most of my time-- and put it into visuals and sound the way that it felt to me. For once, I had something to show for the world inside my head that wouldn't usually see many visitors.


I'm a very visual person, I think-- my emotions are often linked to some sort of imagery in my head. I think it's what allows me to write songs that are sort of narrative. The main issue I've faced in my creative and personal life so far is that I never feel fully satisfied in how I convey my thoughts and feelings, because I can't present them through my own eyes. It will always go through the filter of interpretation. And even if later on, I gain the skills and means to recreate the vision in my head and supplement it through media, by that point it's also been worn down by the nature of memory and the way I don't tend to be able to grasp much from moment to moment.


But I think with this, I may be able to get a hang of it.

And Willem, I'm sorry I missed your birthday.

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