Tag: writing

Art

October 5, 2025

Art is the essence of capturing the beauty of life.

Even in the darkest times, there is still beauty to be found. It is hard to remember that these days. I cannot and will not allow these atrocities to ruin life completely. I need to always be grateful for what is still here.

– The devastating feeling of finishing a good book.

– Watching the sky paint in colors that are unreal.

– The soft feel of petting my beautiful cat.

What grates on me the most right now, (and this is showing my immense priviledge,) but the weather. It is in fucking October and today was over 80*F. Absolute madness.

The only solace I held was the joy in a crisp, autumn day. The blazing reds, citrusy yellows, and burnt oranges of the leaves before they fall. The smell of the chill air. The taste of pumpkin and apple everything. Even just thinking about it brings me peace. But right now, when I need it the most, the weather is not forgiving.

I hate summer. (sorry, I guess.) So, it has been destroying my nerves when people are celebrating this weather instead of cowering in fear, like I am over climate change. I don’t say anything because any joy you can find right now, except at the expense of others, is valid.

And climate change is only a small fraction of the previously mentioned atrocities. I can’t read the news without losing my mind. I’ve run out of comfort shows to soothe me. I’ve barreled through all of them, season by season, since January. Even new comfort shows are being overplayed.

I just need a release.

I’ve been going through a lot

April 9, 2025

Trigger warning: death, grief

I am experiencing what I truly had hoped wouldn’t happen. But what is hope really but a promise to yourself to be sorry later. Nothing works out the way you expect.

It isn’t permemnt, this grief but it’s still a phase that is necessary to enjoy the good parts of life better. The light is that much brighter after experiencing the dark. But what if what you had was that light in the dark?

The darkness that won’t cease. The darkness that can only get darker before getting better. But it is dragging so long that the brief light that I experienced is all the much more obvious that its missing.

The beginning of my writing from today was about this man I lost contact with who was an amazing part of my life for a short period of time. I wrote about him when we first started talking in a prior post (if I’ve left it up). We started off so great that I knew it wasn’t going to end well.

Also, my mom is very sick and has been sick for a long time. She has a degenerative, chronic disease that has rendered her completely disabled. She has no use of her limbs and she cannot lift her own head. I care for her occasionally when my father needs to travel. The immense pressure I’m under when I’m responsible for her well being is straining me. It’s not her fault and I don’t blame her for it but the burden is real. The worst part of all of it is that this disease will never get better, her only relief will be death. So, the poem above is mostly about how I have to experience her death before I can start to move on. I will miss her but my life is on hold until she passes. I know she knows this and so I don’t burden her with complaining. I just write vague poetry on WordPress while on an edible after my migraine treatment. Goddamn.

Sorry for my downer of a post today. Like I said, I’ve been going through some stuff. Take care, dear reader. Appreciate what you have now since it won’t be around forever.

(Copyright photo to https://www.gabewasylko.com/social.html#/)

1/29/25

January 29, 2025

Have you ever felt some sort of happiness that it scared you? It scared you because it was new, different, and could be taken away. The kind of happiness that actually warms your heart. Its comfortable and what home should feel like. Not like the home I grew up in. I didn’t know what this could feel like before you.

I’m guarded because this feeling could truly wreck me when it goes away. I’m afraid to actually feel this emotion. If I let it in, it will make space in myself. A space that will be vacant one day. Left as a cold emptiness.

But am I doing this feeling a disservice by not letting myself experience it? Even though it will be gone one day, it is here today. I need to stay in the present, leave the trauma responses in the past and promise myself the best of futures.

Coca Cola #2

May 26, 2022

Here’s more pretentious garbage I’ve written:

I have always wondered what are memories? Our whole being is meat and electricity. How does consciousness work? There has to be something out there. Something that connects us all. We are not individuals. We experience the same stimuli. Our realities are so different because of our experiences. Each new experience changes the filter of how you see life. Some for the better and some the more opaque. I feel that my lens has been clearing up lately. I know more about myself and how I act. My general behaviors and where I want to be. But do I know where I want to be? I really don’t because I don’t have a sense of self. My identity has been lost to the constant need to please others. I built each layer around me to form into every situation and relationship I’ve ever been in. And since my earlier formative years were around narcissists, I have no sense of myself. All that mattered was them.

I’m starting to return. I can feel the small irritations throughout my meat suit. My foot feels like a nail has fallen through the top. My arms feel like they are wrapped in barbed wire. I still can’t feel myself. How would I know?

That’s all, folks! See ya next time!

It’s been a minute…

May 24, 2022

um, hi!

I always forget I have this place to post my work but here is some garbage I wrote:

Here we go. I’m in my zone with my music ready to go. As I sit here I wonder why my heart is so light and yet so fast. Like a hummingbird floating in my chest. My brain is the flower that feeds my heart’s form.

My skin is beading with sweat and the hummingbird works. The fierce ripples of motion that reverberates out into the universe. I feel the universe inside me. All of space is caught in my lungs. I breathe it. Swirls of consciousness, all except mine, are drifting around my head/soul/aura. It seems like there is going to be an earthquake in my soul.

The heat rises from my arms as I type. Trying to keep up with the whirlwind that is my mind right now is making them overheat. OR it’s the energy of my life seeping out. 

There is a sense of urgency in this song. A bustle of movement. But the heat. Like NYC in summer. I am not here. I am elsewhere. I am transported to anywhere beyond my reach. With that is a sacrifice of not being here now. Everything has a tracer. Movement is drawn in the sky by motions of atoms. The molecules that make up everything. I can feel them under my skin. The motion of blood and electricity. 

I am lost. I traveled too far. My sleep notification just went off but I know I am far from sleep. I’m being awoken now. In this instant, I can feel everything and nothing all at once. I’m detached from my hands and yet still, I control them. Softness, among the chaos. A sense of belonging in a world of loneliness. 

Chaos. I can’t contain the chaos. I flow with each change. Each motion of the water carries me further. I’m still warm. But now I’m in a hot spring. With nature. 

I’ve traveled again. I’m not sure where I am. A distant noise draws my attention. A clink of metal on taut string. It is creating music. A gentle rhythm underneath the spot stealing trumpet. I’m lost and feel like switching the song.

That’s it for now. Don’t worry, there’s more.

Short Story: Subject My Night

October 19, 2020

I sat on my couch that was more duct tape than leather at this point. I was playing Halloween music loudly in my empty apartment. I rigged together my laptop and my second favorite mechanical keyboard on a lap desk I had impulsively bought from Barnes and Noble years ago. I felt good, I felt semi-awake, and I was going to write. About 30 minutes into writing, I realized that I had started many thoughts but finished none of them. The desire in me to write is rooted in my love of reading. Occasionally, I will read a book off Amazon and think to myself, “I could definitely write better than that.” 

To this point in my life, I never actually wrote a complete story. I even enrolled in a creative writing course through some scam of a website, definitely not affiliated with any respectable school. I ghosted that program the second I realized the teacher and I did not agree on what was quality writing. I would never say that I am an expert in anything to be honest, but I know that I enjoy writing in a certain way, and no one could persuade me otherwise. 

At some point, I believed in between college and grad school, I had convinced myself that I should write a memoir. What I forgot at the time was that my life was eventless and I was not humorous enough to write anything that someone would read, let alone give me money. So, now I am doing something similar to a memoir but more scatterbrained. I’m writing a blog. Again, there was almost no planning or structure to what I was embarking on but who cared, it was free and I didn’t have to use my own name. 

Well, here we are. I am two months or so into this blog and yet I have no idea what I am doing still.

Learning to write well

October 17, 2020

Hello, dear reader. I hope you’ve been surviving and thriving. I am starting a new book that I’ve had sitting on my book shelf for two or so years. “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft” -Stephen King. I’m hoping that this will be a step in the best direction for me to develop any skills in writing.

I have about ten drafts in my phone of blog posts I am hoping to develop soon. One day. Take care, reader. I still appreciate you.