mein kompfy sweat pants and your old sweater met their match today.
they danced through our conversation, and fought the whole time I ate pancakes.
The 3 of us thought of you when I bit my lip, denounced god, went blind, and even when I typed this meaningless drab til 6 in the morning.
I think they’re going to be good (meaningless) friends. Not the kind that are nice to each others faces and then talk shit the moment the other has left the room. More like the kind that meet by fucking the same mutual friends a week apart, cause they are young and carefree and have so much in common, not cause they are roach infested whores.
They look so happy together, great things are going to come of this, I promise.

Look into the eyes of the night, the tragic stars that are destined to fall. It holds all the secrets, telling us that nothing is forever. It is so much larger than us, so much greater in scope and magnitude that it boggles our minds, because if it is not eternal we must be nothing at all. It is within us to think that we are important, but from the perspective of any star on the cape of the sky we are nonexistent, as they are sometimes nonexistent to us.
This revelation of insignificance brings us pain, and we take our pain and give it back threefold, witches’ rules that bend and break and have us fall apart, fall on our faces, fall like stars. We can almost understand how they feel at our ignorance when we share in their wounds.

Victoria makes me want to go. Want to go. And not just Victoria I guess. I can’t give all the credit to the small energetic and contrary. No not all. Some of it goes to Steinbeck too. Yes, to Steinbeck too. They make me want to go. Go.

I’m dreaming of the drive to the West in the summer. I’m dreaming of the time it would take to make my way lazily cross the country, to drive through the desert and the forests and to end up at another coast in another world. I’m thinking about the things I could see and the places I could go and the people I could meet and I’m thinking about the time I would spend, with a foot out the window and my sunglasses on, and my hair the western valley wind. Sun and gold. I feel myself. Feel myself. I want to just Go. Go. It’s calling me.

The describe oneself is possible one of the most difficult tasks life presents. I could tell you that I'm just a few inches under six feet tall, that I have brown eyes, brown hair, and sometimes goldbrown skin, but that wouldn't be enough. I could tell you that I've been writing ever since I could remember and that I don't only do it because I want to, I do it because I can't stop. And I could also tell you that I'm here begging for comments and critiques. But that would only a be a little bit true.

So I'll tell you what I know.

My name may or may not be Krysten.
I take Fearless as my username because that is what I strive to be. Fear just means wasted time.
I love, hate, and feel with an intense sort of fire that can be rather exhausting sometimes.

SHOULD I GO OR SHOULD I STAY?
By jw culbert

To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream…
William Shakespeare - To be, or not to be (from Hamlet 3/1)