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Monday, November 30, 2009

Real

Is there something wrong with me? Am I in some way flawed, in such a way that I myself cannot see it, cannot recognise it, cannot address it?? FUCK. I can't handle rejection. I just fucking can't anymore.
"I love you"... "I don't love you anymore."
"I like you,"..."I was just using you."
"I was just using you."(repeat)
"I love you!"... "I did love you, but it faded away into abyss."
"I fucked up."
I'm one big fucking mistake. One strange witty awkward blonde haired brown eyed mistake. USE ME! I MAY AS WELL TATTOO IT ON MY FOREHEAD. Use me, use me, use me, use me, use me. Just use me, don't bother loving me, don't bother even feeling anything but animal lust. Use me. Please, save me the energy of hoping that this time might be something worthwhile. Save me the effort of thinking you might actually care about me as something other than B cups and shapely hips. Don't lead me to believe that you actually care enough not to just use me, that you actually care how I feel at all, how I will feel when you throw me away. I'm used to it. I really am. I'm so used to it in fact, that I can honestly and genuinely say that I'm acclimated to the pain. Use me so I can commiserate over whether or not to leave, for the sake of just being held, and then laugh at my anger. My genuine and justified anger, just laugh at it, because goddamn I must be cute when I'm angry. Pouted lips and hair all over the place, fingers fumbling impatiently at the buttons of my jacket, lace bra stuffed into pocket. Laugh. Please laugh. Remind me that I shouldn't have let myself feel. Remind me that I shouldn't have cared at all.
Did I do something wrong? Was it something I did, something I said? Something I always do, always say? Don't be so goddamned nice about it. Just say it. Say you don't care. Say you just used me. Own up to it. Own it. I didn't initiate it, you fucking did. I'm glad you stopped it when you did, but you shouldn't have done it at all. Nothing. If you felt nothing, you should have done NOTHING. I have feelings. I'm not just some walking pair of breasts, I swear, I'm really not. I don't give myself without prior deliberation. Is there something wrong with me? Am I not pretty enough? Not smart enough? Not skinny enough? Too weird? Too awkward? What? I don't know. Fuck, I don't know. All I know is that this hurts. This hurts, and I don't want to feel this anymore. I just want to be held. I just want a boy to want something from me that doesn't immediately entail the contents of my bra. Is that so much to ask? For a boy to care, to genuinely care and want the best for me as I do for them?
I'm just a mistake. You fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up. I'm a mistake. I was a mistake. I am a mistake.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Thirty-five Twenty-six

Fish tank window, neon fish.
Televisions upside down,
sideways, leaning on walls.
Colourful lawn ornaments chaotically
overtaking the front yard.
The backyard treehouse,
full of candy, and pillows.
Hammock, firehouse pole, ropeswing,
inside.
Slide instead of stairs.
Disco ball elevator.
Lego Closet.
Cookie drawer.
Racecar bed.
Bookshelves to the ceiling,
sliding ladders, Secret garden.

How am I trusted
to be financially competent
When I buy moon shoes
after touring a condo?

August in Madrid

He pressed the white porcelain to his lips, rolling the side of the cup across them with a slow flick of his wrist. The pungent odour of coffee wafted from the rim to his nostrils as they flared, breathing in with a stutter. Sickness knotted up in his stomach as he closed his eyes tightly, willing the brightness to relent. Looking up as the tepid liquid slid toward his stomach, he noticed the cafe was quite crowded. Couples laughing, talking, bickering, old men sitting alone with newspapers, women with books, steam rising from tea cups and kettles. He regarded the people in the street as they bustled by, unaware, his reflection coming to his attention in the distorted mirror of the windowpane. His jaw protruded beneath his hollow cheeks, as did his cheekbones below his darkly circled eyes. His eyes lingered momentarily unbelieving, then moved to the glassy black surface of his coffee, meeting his circular reflection in the darkness. Steam chilled his skin.
Wincing, he collected himself and, pushing the simple wooden chair back under the lip of the table as he glanced once more into the dark depths of his cup, placed a 5 centimo piece on the table. Izquierda, derecha, left, right, left, he strode out into the hot chaos of the street. The sun was heavy on his gaunt frame, exacerbating the weight of the fabric draped over his shoulders. Madrid possessed a particularly stifling heat this year, a heat which seemed to sear the life out of the city. The crowded side street made him feel impossibly small, its brick and mortar walls pasted with billboards and faded adverts-- Conciertos and Corridas long since past. The clacking of heels on the uneven cobbled street assailed his eardrums, reminders of his hollow loneliness, his eyes perpetually fixed on the ground just ahead of his feet. He was invisible, alien on these streets he had walked for so many years.
A trumpet pierced the August air from a balcony overhead, sputtering a disjointed Pasodoble. The golden tenor of the trumpet sounded empty as it echoed alone in the street, bouncing off of laundry lines and into open windows. The cracked heat of the street beneath his feet gave way to warm packed earth.
"Presente el matadore, Leone Vazquez!"
The Pasodoble thundered as he strode across the arena, posture perfect, shrouded in embroidered gold. He observed the crowd as they cheered, arms waving. He reached the center of the ring, his cuadrilla in formation around him. The ground shook, suddenly becoming scalding hot and hard as steel, the cheers of the crowd became a dull roar. His hands moved instinctively to his ears, his fingers meeting the matted grease of unwashed hair. The street re-formed around him, the ground becoming harsh under his feet once again. Gasping in a vain effort to regain his breathe, he stumbled forward. A passerby addressed him with a shocked expression, Leone slammed sidelong into a nearby wall, careening toward the ground, back arched.
The gritty stones of the street met his sallow skin without mercy, small stones lodging themselves in his palms and between his knuckles. He felt a hot flurry of blood rise to his face, streaming toward his chin from his throbbing temple, momentarily catching on the scruff of his unshaven face. A crowd gathered above him, blocking out the sun. He rolled over, startled, a sea of eyes, blue eyes, green eyes, brown eyes, filled with concern and shock, hovered over him. He clamoured to his feet-- blood running down his forearm, staining his cotton shirt-- and pushed through the sea of eyes into a deserted alley. He broke headlong into a run, his lungs straining, the heat of the sun pounding on his back. He jostled into an alley crowded by line after line of drying bed sheets, the wind throwing them about like capotes. He ran through them, becoming entangled in their crisp dampness, breaking through the alley into the street. En, fuera, en, fuera, in, out. He focused on his breathing as he struggled to keep moving, the city around him faded to black.
Upon coming to cognition he found himself next to the mailbox, breathing slowed to normal, possessing no memory of how he had arrived there. The blood on his arms had dried to a tacky burgundy, forming cracks as he moved his arm eye level to inspect its tattered state. He touched his temple lightly, feeling the blackened bruise throbbing beneath dried blood. He opened the mailbox, reaching inside hesitantly. His hands clutched instinctively at the time yellowed envelope as his fingers recognised the texture. From an old friend. Leone tore at the seam of the envelope, the brittle paper ripped easily. A death, a funeral. The blood rushed to his head, the pressure in his temple built, the blood pounding hotly, his face becoming ghostly pale. His legs felt weak.
Limply marching up the stairs, the slanted walls spinning, he fumbled in his pocket for the apartment key. The lock gave, the door stammered open, a rush of musty air escaped past him down the stairwell. Inside he discovered a fine layer of dust had overtaken every surface, the stagnant air felt hot. Two opened letters lay on the small dusty dining table, he stepped heavily across the tile, his sore feet embracing the rug as he made his way over. Two push pins lodged themselves in the sole of his left shoe, piercing through it to collide with the tender arch of his foot. His expression clouded, tears streaming unintentionally to the floor as he bent and pulled off his shoes along with the offending push pins.
Abandoning the letters, he moved across the room. The wash room floor felt refreshingly cold on his battered bare feet. The sickeningly metallic odour of sweat and dried blood filled the small room as he stopped the drain. The cast iron tub stood silently as an inundation of water shot from the faucet. He stripped away his blood soiled clothing, stepping into the tub, sinking slowly into the warm water. Steam filled the room as he submerged himself fully, the water cleansing his damaged flesh. He closed his eyes, the tension drained from his muscles, his mind quieted.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Theresa White

Her tendency toward being nearly trampled was alarming in Sporting event related settings. A hockey game, of all things, she had chosen a hockey game. Theresa White, so nearly run down by so many buses, so many horses, so many cars, sat nervously next to the ice rink. Would the thick protective plastic really deflect the hard plastic puck? Of, for that matter, would it withstand the force of so many helmeted and armoured bodies careening against it? A hockey game, of all things. She wondered why she had left Seattle, the warm safe interior of her home. The predictable rise and fall of a loaf after loaf of bread. Coming here, to Canada, on whim, could spell disaster. There was nothing but hockey and moose and tall trees to be trampled by- or crushed by. Like those cartoon characters on the side walk that are crushed by pianos or lead weights, or any measure of heavy falling object. A puck hit the plastic with a resounding crack, making her jump. It hurtled full force off of the plexiglass and into the goal. The crowd roared A hockey game, of all places.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Insomnia

I can sleep again. I've been sleeping too much, making up for lost time. I still ended up awake until 5am on Saturday night, just sitting in my room drawing, but other than that night I have been sleeping. A lengthy bout of insomnia, and now relenting into sleep. I even dreamed. Not half sleep nightmares but a real dream, where reality became wonderfully tangled up in my subconscious and strange things happened. Even sleeping alone wasn't a concern, I was far too tired, or my body was. My mind was still attempting to read and engage in Sherman Alexie land, but my eyes refused to see the pages anymore. My mind is awfully wandering these days, back to old times, and to the future, and everything in the present that I must do. I'm trying to write a short story and just failing miserably. I haven't even gotten a page. It's forming in my head, the issue is getting it out of my head and into something presentable.

Then there's sleeping alone. Sending foolish text messages that would do nothing to solve the problem of sleeping alone, and only exacerbate old wounds. I wish we still talked. That would be more than enough for me. I'm not in love with him anymore, though I miss him. I don't miss the romantic aspect, just the connection. Having someone I could talk to about absolutely any strange, weird, alien thought that entered my head. Knowing someone cared and cared to understand. I don't think back wistfully to first kisses in the stacks or love letters. Just talking.

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Thought Corral

I need to clear my mind. The truth is, that I miss you, as you were. Not as you are now. You are changed too drastically, you are too different, too far from who you were then. I miss feeling so safe and yet so exhilarated. Held in your arms without question or lust, just being wrapped in the feeling of home. I am tall and strange, with wrists I find too small, and hair that does not behave in a manner that good hair should. Especially when we were together, it was everywhere, tangling itself up. So many moments of concentration spend regaining control of the knotted sea of blondness. So many moments interrupted by unruly hair trespassing on a kiss. We just laughed. I miss those times. When I was just myself and you were whatever you were and we laughed at everything and nothing. It was so natural.

Anything was possible and nothing would bring down the feeling. Even when something did, when we abandoned our rapture to address a matter at hand, crying on the phone late at night, telling you that you were worth the oxygen. Falling asleep on skype together and waking up together that way, in the closest way available to us. Smiling in the halls on the way to class, when nobody there really knew why. I prefer to think of those times, though they are unrealistic now. Too much has happened, too much has been said, and done. Sometimes I want nothing more than to go back to those days. It's too late now though. I had ten new year's resolutions, one was to fall in love. I did. You still have those resolutions in a box of things you will never lose. I don't have anything but memories and doodles in a coursebook.

I laugh everytime I see that book now, Alice in Wonderland. That was a good night, even if it was all tangled up in blonde hair and love lost. You tried so hard to read that book to me, in that goofy accent that I hate. All I did was lightly punch your arm, tell you I just wanted to look at the pictures. You wanted more from me that night, but you knew I couldn't give it. You just held me close and safe all night, because the sky was falling and I didn't know where else to turn. I had to tell someone that my sky was falling, and you were the only one who understands that sort of panic. I'm sorry I made you cry. I didn't want to hurt you, even though you hurt me. I never wanted any of this to fall apart, but life interjected. You changed, plans were unmade.

I wish you hadn't changed. I miss you. Maybe you didn't change at all. Maybe this is who you have been all along. Days soaked with rain, alcohol, and ecstacy.

Mona Lisa

I need to clear my mind. The truth is, that I miss you, as you were. Not as you are now. You are changed to drastically, you are too different, too far from who you were then. I miss feeling so safe and yet so exhilarated. Held in your arms without question or lust, just being wrapped in the feeling of home. I am tall and strange, with wrists I find too small, and hair that does not behave in a manner that good hair should. Especially when we were together, it was everywhere, tangling itself up. So many moments of concentration spend regaining control of the knotted sea of blondness. So many moments interrupted by unruly hair trespassing on a kiss. We just laughed. I miss those times. When I was just myself and you were whatever you were and we laughed at everything and nothing. It was so natural.

Anything was possible and nothing would bring down the feeling. Even when something did, when we abandoned our rapture to address a matter at hand, crying on the phone late at night, telling you that you were worth the oxygen. Falling asleep on skype together and waking up together that way, in the closest way available to us. Smiling in the halls on the way to class, when nobody there really knew why. I prefer to think of those times, though they are unrealistic now. Too much has happened, too much has been said, and done. Sometimes I want nothing more than to go back to those days. It's too late now though. I had ten new year's resolutions, one was to fall in love. I did. You still have those resolutions in a box of things you will never lose. I don't have anything but memories and doodles in a coursebook.

I laugh everytime I see that book now, Alice in Wonderland. That was a good night, even if it was all tangled up in blonde hair and love lost. You tried so hard to read that book to me, in that goofy accent that I hate. All I did was lightly punch your arm, tell you I just wanted to look at the pictures. You wanted more from me that night, but you knew I couldn't give it. You just held me close and safe all night, because the sky was falling and I didn't know where else to turn. I had to tell someone that my sky was falling, and you were the only one who understands that sort of panic. I'm sorry I made you cry. I didn't want to hurt you, even though you hurt me. I never wanted any of this to fall apart, but life intrajected. You changed, plans were unmade.

I wish you hadn't changed. I miss you. Maybe you didn't change at all. Maybe this is who you have been all along. Days soaked with rain, alcohol, and ecstacy. Who were you before you came here?

Triumph!

I have defeated my writer's block, tooth and nail, it has been slain. The Tercio de Muerte was an exhausting brawl, but the deed is done. All it took was intensive music listening, some amount of hair pulling, and a lot of doodling. Now the task of writing commences full force.

Commence Doodling

I got a new sketchbook! This is very exciting. I also went on an exciting adventure that involved breaking and entering, and broken typewriters. Needless to say, it's been a good day. Despite writer's block and foolishly considering drastic measures to ensure not sleeping alone.

Saturday, November 14, 2009

South By Southwest

From South By Southwest, by Sherman Alexie...

" He remembers it now as he stares at the black-and-white movie where the characters don't make any sense, as Seymour sleeps on the other side of the bed, or pretends to be asleep.
Seymour, said Salmon Boy
Yes, said Seymour.
I am the most lonely I have ever been.
I know.
Will you hold me close?
Yes, yes I will.
Salmon Boy pushed himself into Seymour's arms. They both wore only their boxer shorts. Seymour's blue shorts contrasted with his pale skin while Salmon Boy's white boxers glowed in the dark.
I don't want to have sex, said Salmon Boy.
I don't either.
But how will we fall in love if we don't have sex?
I don't know.
They held each other tighter and tighter. They were afraid.
I am happy in your arms, said Seymour.
And I am happy in yours.
Is this what it feels like?
What?
To be loved, to be held, to be intimate without the fear of penetration?
I think so.
Yes, I think so too. I think this what women have wanted from men for all of our lives. I think they want to be held in our arms and fall asleep in the absence of body fluids.
I think you may be right.
They held each other tighter and tighter. They were not aroused. They were warm and safe."

I want to write like this. I want people to find things in my writing when they most need them. Even if it's just one person.

Friday, November 13, 2009

Concerning Appreciation

Maybe it's the sickly warm feeling in the pit of my stomach-- thanks egg nog-- but I feel ill at ease. Dark circles around my eyes, shaky feeling in my body. College is a self destructive cyclical beast. Work, work, run, work, work, socialise, sleep a few hours on a floor. My body has declared war on my mind now. I'm tired. I can't think. I can hardly speak articulately, just preconceived phrases automatically spit out.
I try and I try, give and give. But it seems to go entirely unappreciated. Maybe a thank you, a glance. It doesn't feel genuine. I don't ask much, just honesty. I'm giving for a reason, it's because I care about you, I want you to be happy, it makes me happy to see you happy. All I ask is for honesty, for care in return, or not even that much, just for appreciation, at least a little, it doesn't have to be directed at me even, just expressed.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Passion

I slept on a floor last night. College has encouraged me to sleep on floors quite often, floors and hard sofas. Initially this was a painful development-- particularly for the lower back-- but over time I've come to find it quite comfortable. Why didn't I sleep on the floor before? It's brilliant. I tried to at home, actually, I asked-- this being my first mistake-- mum if I could put my mattress on the floor. Dismantle the bed frame, put it in the closet, and sleep on the floor. Two stories up yet close to the rocks and rough beneath. "This is not a flop house, if you want to live like Jack Kerouac you will wait until you are out of this home." So I did.

I woke up to a stream of light as the closet door was nudged open. Then I proceeded to stumble around the apartment in half cognition, put on my shoes-- first the left, then the right, toes pointed, pull the backs up over the heels, laces out, laces up, laces tied-- and methodically made my way back to 712. Heel, toe, heel, toe, heel, toe. Right, left, right, left. A writer came to class today, a real live writer, a living writer. Published, accomplished, ordinary looking. Just a man, capable of weaving words together into a working narrative.

Why not be a writer? It's possible. All that need be done is commit to the notion. This is why I am here. I don't feel elated, or even all that relieved, just content. I know what I want, more or less. I don't know exactly how to get it. I am just figuring out how to be it. I'm quite certain I'll commiserate and yell at myself still. But I have a general direction. I'm committed.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Change

Who were you before you came here? I want to yell it from the roof, I want everyone below to masticate the notion that they have changed. Who were you before you came here? Did you spend every night searching for your next high, sleeping the next day, waking up in a haze and doing it all over again? What did you do? Who loved you, who did you love? Did you dance in your underwear sober, or is that a new development, intrinsically based on substance abuse? Did you put on airs, pretend to be something you are not, and lie through your teeth just to be accepted? Why are you doing this? You were better before you got here, when you were yourself. You were nicer. You were smarter too, and more passionate. Now you're just a lemming, like that whole crowd, bending to the will of the high-school-weirdo-on-campus hierarchy. Why are you even here if you don't even care? You told me you came here to learn, not to be strung out on a day to day basis. Not to avoid looking me in the eye because you know damned well I can see right through you. I knew you. I know you.

Be yourself, people would like you better that way. What are you so afraid of?

Monday, November 9, 2009

Archetypes

Flying on wax and feather wings, striving to find the balance between bright sun and dark unforgiving sea. Vacillating between irrepressible joy and unbearable sadness. College is a rush, and a let down. All the oddballs and off-beats have made a pilgrimage to this campus. The kids who were scoffed at all through High School because they were different have built a hierarchy here. This hierarchy is fundamentally built on strangeness and substance abuse, driven by the will to find the next high. It feels redundant to say that, but I am just now reaching clarity on the idea that this place is not all I built it up to be in my mind. It's a lot like Communism; beautiful in theory, but when the human element becomes involved, chaos ensues.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Please.

Writer's block is hell. It strikes at the strangest times, when I really have so much on my mind to articulate. There it is. Nothing, I cannot piece together a coherent sentence of any particular note. So I stare out the window at the grey sky, everything is still, except for the occasional breeze tousling the branches of the cedar tree.

Nothing...

Don't leave. You can't leave, you mean too much, you're too important. You can make good choices here, you don't have to make them back home, this is a place for you. Don't leave. You're considering leaving so much potential here on a false hope there. Perfect as it will get for you isn't good enough for you and you know it, you just crave comfort. I understand, just don't leave, embrace this alien feeling even when it hurts, because you'll know you're living. Your life up to this point has mattered, how many people you have touched matters. You bring sunshine into the lives of everyone who crosses your path, even when you are seeing nothing but overcast. I hope you were just out of it, I hope you don't mean it.

Falling like flies, fireflies in a jar, pounding on the tin lid trying to fly free. The lid is open.

I don't want to see anyone fall, I want to let them out. But I don't know how, how can I make them see that the lid is open? This is not a cage. This is a castle...

Please, please, please...

There is so much here for you. Just see it. Please just see it. You can do anything here, anything you want, anything you need. Just reach out and take it, that's all it takes. Forget self doubt, forget false hopes. Just live, learn, do something, do anything.

Please.



... I'm worried about you...
You drink too much.
You don't want to feel anything,
I can see that.


But not everything you feel here has to be bad.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Pants

Life would be a hell of a lot easier if it was socially acceptable to say,
"Hey, you're cute, we should mack."
Seriously. My life would be so much less awkward. I'm in a hotel room, in Oregon, so very far from Evergreen. Which means I'm still wearing pants...

Damnit.

Reflecting

My mind is too fogged to write anything coherent that hasn't already been written, so I am typing up an old journal entry. I don't know why I feel unoriginal when I wrote the damned thing anyway... hmm... anyway... it's an interesting juxtaposition to where I am now, as this was more than a month ago. Themes have carried over, just not individuals:

"This notebook has seemingly been soaked in Nag Champa, the effect of which is to cause my mind to be dragged chaotically through smashed up memories. Mistakes. Love lost. I feel a terrible twisting in my stomach as it knots up with every inward breathe, every renewal of the odor contained in these pages. Knowing I shouldn't love those who have done nothing to earn my love, and everything to lose it. Yet I still care, I still love. I feel like I should avoid him, but am compelled to speak to him. He still feels like home. I can be nothing but myself and remain unjudged. Despite my better efforts I cannot bring myself to hate him. I'm not in love with him, yet I still deeply care for him, and against all better judgement I feel I should talk to him. Everything feels unfinished. My life feels unhinged. I don't feel like I can deeply connect with other people, at least not genuinely, excluding a select few people. I don't know what I want. I feel the insatiable urge to be held. To feel safe. Maybe that is simply because I am in a new environment and a new situation. I am unsure. I feel empty. I feel a constant and seemling insatiable hunger, not for food but for love. To love, to be loved, to give love in any capacity available to me. But I can't. There is a mental block preventing me from genuinely reciprocating the love that is given to me. I try and always end up feeling vulnerable and unstable-- thus I pull back. I recede back into my mind, where I am safe."

For the sake of keeping busy:

"Does it work?! It's a miracle! Woo! My pen miraculously works again. How annoying... maybe it's because I chewed on it. The novel I wrote this morning may have had something to do with its critical condition. We're about to watch Schindler's List now. Time to cry again. How can I not cry? To believe that anything like that could have happened. That human beings are even capable of such atrocities. I mean, how on earth can there be any logical reason for it? Hitler was so full of hate, it was just... fanatical hatred. It was directed, but it was so intense that it was overwhelming. How could he not feel remorse in knowing that he caused so much sorrow, so much pain? I can't even kill a spider without feeling remorse. Maybe I have too much empathy. I just don't know what would give me the right to end even that tiny life. There is so much finality in death. How can human beings kill? Without substantial provocation? How can they just take orders without question? Human life is not expendable. War is an outdated concept. Human beings have other routes to peace. Does wa even bring about peace? Or does war just make us realise how tired are of fighting, and that it would be easier to give in and relent. It seems to me that human beings ought to have evolved beyond war. Our bodies evolve, our languages, our world, our technology. Why can't we evolve beyond war? It seems the natural progression. Why can't we just love, get along, forget differences... forget hate? Recognise our similar humanity. We're all human How can humans be so inhumane? I wonder about the stigmas that society ingrains in us. Sex, nudity. Why? The magnitude of hatred in WWII is astounding. Children.. for fucks sake. Really? How could you kill children without shame or pangs of remorse? Especially if you have children of your own? Everyone deserves hope... what's so wrong about giving people hope? Human beings are so complicated. We should live more like little birds. They have purpose without obligation. They embody simplicity. They aren't weighed down by responsibility or greed or desire or materialism, thus they can fly. People will never be able to fly, we're too weighed down. By shame and want and expectations. But birds can. Their forms are light and agile. They evolved that way because they have no reason to stay landlocked."

My name is Yon Yonson...

I work in Wisconsin,
I work in a lumbermill there.
The people I meet when I walk down the street,
They say, "What's your name?"
And I say,
My name is Yon Yonsin,
I work in Wisconsin...

Why do I feel so compelled to read that damned book again?? Again and again and again and again. It doesn't make me feel clever or uplifted, it makes me feel dull. I feel dull, I feel like a sea creature shuffling along a murky sandbar, never finding anything, only becoming more and more covered with sand. Then I think about sand, every grain is ground from a slightly larger grain, and that from one slightly larger, whole cliff faces ground to grit by wind and water and surf. But I'm avoiding the point. None of this is about sea creatures or sand, that's all trite. What am I even doing here?

This college which I so coveted, and worked so hard to attain. What the fuck am I doing here, really? I'm in a battle of head versus heart on so many levels. What do I want out of life, and am I even worth my salt enough to do it? Draw a pretty picture, write a quirky poem, mill around the library. Spend hours upon hours just staring at the dusty spines of poetry books, text books, art books, fiction, non fiction. I can't even think straight, my thought process has fallen into dyslexia again. I can hardly even speak, all the words come out jumbled, tangled together, incoherent. Speaker's block. Writer's block. Like I wasn't awkward enough already.

College is just like fucking high school.

I didn't want to admit it, I had so many immense expectations. The people are the same, still the same judgemental, unfocused, dishonest always trying to cover their ass lot. Sure they have passion, but they veil it with nonchalance. Oh that, oh, well, I didn't really care about that project, I didn't really try. Why the fuck not? You're paying to be here, everything is available, anything is possible, and you're all fucking nonchalant??

I'm guilty too. I'm a hypocrite. I spew all this self righteous prattle about carpe diem and I never really do. I'm afraid to, I'm afraid of what will come of it, so I do it in secret, in little ways that nobody pays any mind to. People make me nervous sometimes. It's moment by moment. Sometimes I feel capable, social, articulate, and the next it falls to hell. I'm stuttering and my words are all mixed up and I just end up making a complete ass of myself.

Especially when I genuinely think that I have a lot in common with someone. That's probably a left over from high school, where I had hardly anything in common with anyone, so anything that I might have in common with anyone seemed so very remarkable, and I held onto it for dear life, if just to rationalise my existence. I thought college would be different, and it is to a point. I get along fine, I fall into my work, I have friends here. But I still feel so isolated. Does everyone feel this isolated? It's like laying in bed waiting for sleep to come, and it just doesn't come, you just stare at the ceiling, wanting so badly just dream for a while.

I hate sleeping alone.

Not always, just most of the time. I go to great lengths to avoid this bed. I sleep on floors and rock hard sofas, I ride my bike until 3am. It doesn't really matter, I still end up staring at the ceiling, or the sky, because sleep won't come. Just this dreadful half sleep, which causes me to wake up in a daze rather than rested.

My throat hurts. My stomach hurts too. It's all in knots. My mind is all knotted up too, like a can phone string, and I can't figure how I'm supposed to untie it. It's too tangled, too jumbled, so I'm pouring it all out here in a giant mess. I feel like I did when I was a kid and I broke this rasp tool my dad had lent to me, and I didn't know how to fix it. I was a kid, I didn't have the means nor the expertise to weld it back together. I tried really hard, with everything I could think of, and it was just hopeless, I ended up burying it by a tree. It's still there actually, I still can't fix the damned thing, and now it's all rusted to hell. I feel like that, about college. All the optimism that I had initially is teetering precariously on the edge of abyss.

Maybe I should let it fall??

Let myself fall. Forget dignity and grace and get to the fucking point, get to the core of the matter. Throw the negative in too, throw it all in and start fresh.

Didn't I say I was going to do that anyway? I did actually. I was supposed to be precisely who I wanted to be here, a true version of myself, nothing omitted. But then I got here. I made mistakes from the very start. I fell back on my past, in fact, I slept with it. Him, more specifically. I only added to his pomposity and conceit. I encouraged it. I gave him everything on a false hope.

Why can't I find a nice boy? One who doesn't wear goofy ass nautical themed jackets in seriousness, or idolise Hunter S. Thompson for aesthetics, or deny his actuality in order to be accepted, so that his existence might be justified, or just acknowledged.

Whenever I put myself out there I just feel awkward. Awkward, shy, and terrified.

My legs feel all wobbly. I slept on a damned sofa. All I really remember other than falling asleep and waking up again is that I got really angry at the television and got up to turn it off. I don't even know why I was angry at it. When I fell asleep I didn't have a blanket, and when I woke up I did, which I found somewhat bizarre, maybe I woke up at some point and got it?

Ramble ramble ramble.

My mind is starting to become coherent again. Good, but now I'm just tired. Finally tired.

Why aren't there fireflies in this state? I want to see fireflies, and catch them in a jar. Try to read by the light, try to write by it, have a conversation by it, then let them go. There is something so intriguing about fireflies.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Amadeus

Amazing how so much white hair
could fit into one room.

What happened to all
of those powdered wigs?
Do they lay dormant
in European attics
like dusty Persian cats?