the familiar sound of your voice

sent tears to my eyes

I missed the sweetness of your laughter

washing over me

as if it were

wrapping me in a soft new blanket

on a cold winter night

like the sound of

my own heartbeat,

you’ve made me feel alive again.

there’s something about

falling

in

love...

it’s that moment when

selfish

becomes

selfless,

&

the future is

no longer

just

Me.

It has been two days since the horrific mass shooting at the Route 91 Harvest Festival, and it has been completely aggravating.

This was the first time I was old enough to fully take in what was happening, to completely feel the impact this had on my surroundings—I finally understood the unconscious priming that had been building up for years. I grew up sitting in my middle school classroom, wondering where I would hide if someone were to show up with a gun after Virginia Tech. I grew up anxious as I walked around my high school campus, worrying about the violent threats I heard about in the halls after Sandy Hook. I grew up questioning humanity and fearing for the safety of my LGBTQ+ friends after Orlando.

But each of these events had only been stepping stones to Route 91.

As the story unfolded, I received various pieces of information from different sources; but I cannot forget the moment I ran into two completely false statements right after another, not even an hour after the media began to broadcast the event.

It was sickening, I was infuriated. These accounts began throwing out false statements before the bodies even turned cold, and people were believing them.

This is where I can begin ranting about the importance of journalism, and knowing how to differentiate between real or fake sources—but I’m not because I might throw my laptop across this Starbucks.

I am 20 years old and have experienced four of the “worst” mass shootings in modern U.S. history.

I am 20 years old. For fucks sake.

There can be a real thin line between “very fine people” and “sons of bitches.” There can be a real thin line between between putting your hands up and the gun powder exploding into the air — split second, wrong move, gone.

We live in a society of blurred lines, crossed lines, and imaginary lines; in a society of split seconds and hashtags; of influencers and Instagram models. 

A society that trends a celebrity’s pregnancy over massive natural disasters and the death tolls of innocent civilians — because it’s not inside our little bubble, it’s not our problem.

How did we get here? 

-n. (stoned, bedroom)

#thoughts #latenight #how #society #america #westernsociety

I joined Prose on a whim yesterday after a very quick Google search, so now I'm here. I'm hardly a serious writer but I would love to dip my feet in and see what my fingers can conjure up.

Oh, I'm also 20 years old and from Southern California–keeping my profile as vague as possible so I can spill my deepest darkest secrets to you all.

Cheers!

-n.

It’s a curious thing when I go to write and, suddenly, my mind goes silent. The background noise to my life suddenly goes mute, and I have no words to spill onto paper.

It’s a curious thing when therapists suggest to journal and write out your feelings when you’re anxious, depressed, or in a manic state — but nothing comes out. I tried to take up journaling one night in which my insomnia was at its peak and my depression and anxiety were tag teaming my mind. In the end, my hand hurt from writing on paper, I felt weird for essentially talking to myself, and my mind wasn’t any more at ease than before — I gave into my sleeping pills and haven’t touched that journal since.

It’s a curious thing when you start typing away on a blog site and suddenly become overwhelmed with emotion when writing about absolutely nothing, in the middle of a cafe. When suddenly you realize the conversations you’re overhearing will eventually fall victim to the generalization of human memory, and that moment will only be a glimpse into this person’s complex existence. 

It’s a curious thing how being immersed in your words can lead to an enlightenment of your surroundings — leaving you vulnerable to your senses, incapable of explaining that exact moment. 

It’s a curious thing when the frustrating writer’s block you’ve always complained about is actually your mind’s own defense mechanism — blocking your inner thoughts from becoming real.

It’s a curious thing when I go to write and, suddenly, my mind goes silent — and I am no longer frustrated by it.

-n.

#mentalhealth #writing #depression #anxiety #writersblock

it's been an hour

and I want you to reply with

I miss you too.

But for now,

I'll lay here and wait.

Waiting for a response from you

—if there will even be one.

-n.

I have had this page open for days, waiting for the right moment to write my story. I have an hour left on my meter and the backs of my ankles are killing me — I thought it would be a good idea to not wear socks with my new shoes.

I’m in Los Angeles, sitting on this little bench, in this little cafe. I’m also running out of power and there is exactly one outlet available to the public. One.

There’s something about cafes that allows me to fall deep into the depths of my mind. Is it the sound of the coffee grinder? Is it the coffee itself? Or is it the conversations between people I will never know after this moment?

I think I like cafes because I feel important — at least I look like I’m doing something important as I stare intensely at my laptop screen, probably scrolling through Twitter.

-n. (Alfred Coffee + Kitchen)

#losangeles #cafe #thoughts