Mold Angel Blog – purifying myself

Mold Angel Blog
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Rating: 3 out of 5.

Thursday April Seventeenth

“I’m scared.” I declare to my empty apartment. I’ve been scared since last summer.

It’s hot in my bedroom. The warm air seeps in through the 100 year old windows. I’m scared. I put on my fiercest perfume. The one that clung to me through my last romance and through my first year at my grown up job. I haven’t worn her since before I moved last October. I retired her after a comment from a coworker I took too personally. I suppose I can’t expect everyone to enjoy lavender and orange blossom. It’s too warm for pajamas. I’m stripped to my black undergarments, lying atop my purple bedding. And now I’m stalling.

I’m scared. I’m regretting comparing myself to Jesus after the last time I argued with my family. I took an extra green pill. The only way around my fear is through. I know it’s my duty to use the intense emotions I have been gifted for something important. I am afraid when I finish writing this I will cease to exist.

The visions that started last summer only grow stronger. The tightness in my chest too.

God, is there a way to bring about great change without death?

I think of the quote I read somewhere “only love and death can change all things.”

I’ll let you know if I wake in the morning. If so, this lesson is for me and I promise to not waste it. If not, it’s for you.

April 17, 2025
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Rampage as defined by Shelby Mai, facilitated by a couple glasses of champagne at 2 pm on a Saturday

I wrote this over the summer when I still lived in the pink apartment and I was on the precipice of something

I will spend the day condemned in a prison of my own isolation. I will grow more tense and pensive as the day goes on, but it’s okay because my pink robe keeps me blanketed in softness no matter what crosses my mind. I will draw my blinds and drink a couple glasses of champagne and wash my hair and listen to songs with sexy guitar solos as if to deceive myself into thinking it is a lavish and divaesque — a hedonistic separation from the world rather than feeling I am not of this world entirely and I will soon be shown why. Sometimes I imagine some kind of nonearth being in my window at night who takes me from my bed and returns me to the world I came from.

then after I have watched a couple of movies (Princess Bride and High Fidelity) and I’ve felt my heart beat a little bit faster (during the commercials) over the idea of reaching out to to a couple of men I’ve been slightly entangled with at some point or another. And then I will go to bed at 9 o’clock because I am a reasonable and logical gal and I don’t get swept away by emotional impulses. I lay my head down and return to the world of the exciting and absurd and the comfortable in my dreams between my purple sheets.

But when I ask my pals if I should go on a rampage I’m hoping they will say yes, go burn down a house, you deserve it. I hope they say yes, go get arrested and call that defense attorney to bail you out and then go elope in Vegas, why the hell not. I hope they say yes, you should absolutely go be swept away by your most heinous emotional desires.

in the end to rampage must simply mean to speak more than usual.

January 16, 2025
Mold Angel Blog
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on Love and Hatred

My entire being has vacillated between two extremes for all of my life. Love and hatred is what makes the world go ’round, my little world anyways. As a child I existed majorly inside of my rigid little mind. I looked forward to getting into my bed at night and looking into the theatre inside my mind. I found immense joy from using my energy to depict the girl at school who was selected to be the object of my hatred. I hated her for her messy blonde hair. I hated her shoes. I imagined her in the nurses office being poked and prodded like a science experiment. It made me smirk and giggle underneath the covers and it allowed me to forget everything hidden in my closet. I felt elated at how humiliated she would feel trapped in a modern day medieval torture device. I don’t know if I ever considered whether other people had thoughts like these or not at that age. I was in the second grade then.
Existing in the real world felt too intense to bare and it still does a lot of days. At 24 years old I am now letting my sensitive nature envelop me, and hold me, and carry me, and I allow her to guide me through the night. My sole focus is to slowly but surely allow who I am at the center of my being escape little by little day by day. in looking up synonyms to the word "sensitive" I have gleaned new understanding in this moment. Conscious is the first synonym listed. I have spent so much time running from my emotions. I did drugs and I drank copious amounts to dull the pain of my emotions and to resist the upward spiral that my emotions promised me if I simply acknowledged them. As a teenager I would have swallowed any pill that was handed to me in hopes of never feeling the tiniest prick of my sadness and rage and shame come to the surface. In the end, all my pain has led me to my joy and salvation. Pain is the god that I bow to. Deciding to stop running has led me to the state of consciousness I live in now. The second word that is listed is delicate. followed by perceptive, receptive, responsive, tense, touchy, unstable. Also mentioned are the words knowing, psychic, seeing, understanding. I am writing this on a whim. I am writing this in the aftermath of telling my mother not to speak to me until she has been in therapy for several months. I love my family dearly. I feel that I am too sensitive to be a part of both my family and society. oftentimes, I long to retreat to the darkness of my cave every night where I don't exist to anyone, not even myself. everything my mother says, her tone of voice, a raise of her eyebrow, it's a dagger through my chest. I am writing this because something tells me that voicing my experiences will free me. At least if I fill pages upon pages about my suffering it is made physical and tangible and at the end I can go running through fields of flowers feeling lighter than ever. It will be an act of creation in the alternative to laying in my bed becoming one with my purple sheets, wrapped up in a bird's nest of all my pillows and blankets. It will be the epitome of self involved and indulgent. it will be more dignified than smoking too much weed and calling 911 while lying on my bathroom floor shaking, thinking that the end is near. I will revel in the delight and decadence of declaring my misery. I will quench the part of my soul that is ravenous for indulging in the ravines of my consciousness. it will feel like the most delicious debauchery. and at the end I will be so light and airy that my misery could never again grab onto me. and after you have indulged me in my miserable words I will become transformed because the moment I am perceived as pure hatred I am reborn as pure love. Nobody shall get a firm grasp on my soul. How dare you even try. please try. please give me the satisfaction of attempting to know every horrid little thought that wanders through the infinite river behind my eyes. the ultimate satisfaction for you will be in the way you will categorize me and label me as crazy, as evil, as an alien. You will label me as an outsider, you will exchange glances at the table with others who conform and uphold and enforce all the rules. I will allow you your feeling of smugness. The satisfaction for me will be in the moment you think you know me I will rip the rug out from beneath your feet. I will become an angel. So here I am becoming an angel, purifying myself for all to see.

January 16, 2025