My name's Zina.
I create.
I thoroughly enjoy sounds and instruments.
Things inspire me.
I think, feel, then grab a pen.
This blog partially tracks my personal, mental, and emotional development.
death is funny
yes
death is funny
death is quick
instantaneous, a millisecond, without warning
death is slow
slow, slow, painfully slow
in both ways
life is gone
no one is immune
even you
energetic, lively, expressive
so strong and alive
you are not immune
and to think of what death took
and where you are now
you are not alive
you are nothing
you are dead
you are decaying
you are no longer mine
you are gone
*sobbing violently*
I hate and envy Chris with every atom of my being
“Dying is an art.
Like everything else,
I do it exceptionally well.”– Sylvia Plath
I inched my fingers closer to his.
Close, but not touching.
I didn’t have to. His warmth radiated.
“Your hands are really warm.”
He smiled. He had been told this before.
“My body heat is naturally a bit high.”
I chuckled.
“And my hands just happen to always be cold.”
It was ironic. Even our body temperatures decided to take opposites.
“They are cold.”
He placed his hands in mine and squeezed slightly.
“But if I hold onto your hands long enough, they’ll be warm.”
I brought my face closer to his.
“Equilibrium?”
“Equilibrium.”
“You’re under no obligation to be the same person you were five minutes ago.”
How to describe Florence and her music?
Powerful. Unique. Distinct. Melodic. Beautiful.
More Regina Spektor inspired sketches.
Everything about us was banned.
Down to the family he came from to the pigment in his skin.
Each kiss was bittersweet.
Sweet in the moment. Bitter as soon as our lips parted and reality screamed.
Reality laughed, reality pitied us.
“We could try.”
At times he seemed to be begging.
I shook my head no. I sobbed in bed. I cursed myself. I cursed circumstance. I cursed my terrible, terrible luck.
“Maybe our timing is off. I can wait.”
Timing was never off.
Today, ten years, fifty.
Impossible.
“I’ll always love you.”
I shook my head no.
“Time.
Time will help.”
I say things even when I’m completely, utterly unsure of them.
I watch the imaginary clocks.
Time has came.
Time has went.
You haunt me, and it’s timeless.
“I am that clumsy human, always loving, loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving. You are a stone. We weep together and make a bed for rain.”
– Frida Kahlo, The Diary Of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait
“While I can’t have you, I long for you. I am the kind of person who would miss a train or a plane to meet you for coffee. I’d take a taxi across town to see you for ten minutes. I’d wait outside all night if I thought you would open the door in the morning. If you call me and say “Will you…” my answer is “Yes”, before your sentence is out. I spin worlds where we could be together. I dream you.”
– Jeanette Winterson
