KAYLAH DIXON

BACKDATED//WRITINGS THOUGHTS FEELINGS FROM 2021

DESTRUCTION STUDY_4 [voyeur]


critters and someone: something’s watching you and something is watching you

every left and right turn

every photograph every moment every phone call

every post and google search and every swipe

every tv every microphone every camera x2

every window without blinds every window with blinds

we’ll build walls because we’ve been building walls

we’ve always built walls (to hide behind)

every slippery slope captured

every somersault through chaos documented

recording now

processing document: now

every thing’s so fast it doesn’t even load

it doesn’t have the time

it has something what’s longer lasting?:

storage:

a place to shove it all

cloud? where are you going?

cloud? where have you been?

time, you stopped. you left when the internet started, who needs the past when you have more than presents? 

you have. the future

you. 

make. 

reality

reality

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DESTRUCTION STUDY_3 [depression]


time passes so slowly here across the way. where i can see every thing but i can’t feel it when i reach out and try to touch it. this island i overextend myself on and still, nothing. stepping stools are present: to get to the other side, and still, nothing. even with a stupid dumb silver ladder that is useless, i am deprived but i am here. yes, alive. i just don’t know how to climb. i am trying and falling and trying and failing and trying. at least it’s not like i’ve never tried before. you may not know this but i don’t feel so good. this feels difficult to maintain a connection with, this place. there are days and moments and times that don’t feel real after clarity exposes then defines herself. days where i do wish i could fly away but i don’t have wings. 



do you know what i’ll do? i’ll try and swim. 

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DESTRUCTION STUDY_6 [secret]


i don’t want to keep it and i don’t want to tell you. this is the weight on my shoulders, this is what i was born with when i came into the world. the weight of my mother and her mother, and her mother’s mother and so on. the secret of what it really is to be a woman, to be able to feel this much. it can’t always be done the way we want i suppose. the way it should be. and i remember once everyone was surrounding me and watching me when i was a little one, and everyone is gone now spread out everywhere watching their little ones. my brown beetle only seats four, but look, we’ll make it work alright? all of these things to climb upon and feed on another to multiply into another layer of destructive ways of thinking, being, existing. there are so many ways to do this the wrong way. there are so many ways we can eternally fuck this up and honestly it may just be that this part is something that is inevitable for our future. maybe we are supposed to fuck it up and there is no other way and i can be at peace with this eventually. there is something about knowing completely that i am only here for a while and then it’s on to the next thing. does self-destruction deter the decisions of the next life? it is a trail isn’t it, we follow the scent, we follow this divine plan. the weight of all of the other ones from a long time ago, decisions. the weight of everything i know: decisions. and all it took was one. to be the one to decide is heavy, how does any one thing carry this much mass around with them? it clings to the body in all the unwanted ways, it feels draining and unsanitary to keep dragging it along every where i seem to end up. 


on your back, all of it begins to stack. the earth, we cram on top of. now that we’re here, i wonder if we’ll ever be able to leave and go somewhere else that is less than or equal to the alienness of this planet we all didn’t decide to live on at the same time. it’s like going to a showing for that one big house that you want and the predatory realtor didn’t just invite you, but the entire neighborhood to come take a look at the house you want to call your home. all of you. that’s how crowded and intimidating it can feel to be aware of all of the lives just in this small small place with live oaks and dead, swaying moss on almost every living tree. sometimes after it finally falls, it lays there. dead: like a rotting carcass in the middle of the street. unrecognizable until you get closer and don’t have to hold your nose and close one eye. it’s just a piece of plant, flowerless perhaps. moss appears to me like a truth that i can’t tell. so i lay. i lie. on the ground. i lay with you and i wouldn’t take a second of it back, moss. you tangled me into you, you did what you wanted with me. i lay there, i experience. this feeling of you, your velvety spiral i go down as it wraps around me. as i wrap around you. and then, something new. something wrong maybe, but this is it. is it?


is this the cycle?

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anxious, lonely me in the early stages of pandemic. feels like a light year or eight away…

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