Two Cubs

I don't really mind if we haven't talked in two weeks. I see that if we don't talk, problems won't happen. It's for the best it seems. In just a few days, I will be gone and you'll soon forget about me. I never thought we'd end up like the siblings on TV who haven't spoken for years. It makes me feel quite miserable, but just like you, I will soon forget about you.

A New Nest

The week couldn't possibly go any slower. I am sad while I pack up my things, but I try to subside it with excitement. I will miss this place, but I am tired of it. These walls hold nothing but lies and anger and good but fading memories for me. But there are so many risks and possible complications moving into my new home. I hope with all my heart, and I will even pray to God if I have to, that it will all work out. If not, I wouldn't know what to do from there. It'd be catastrophic.

Warmth

When things are wonderful, I always wonder if they will last. Because they never do. They are short and brilliant, like a little lighted candle. I want the warmth that is so hard to achieve to linger, for just another moment. The warmth is supposed to stay all of the time. That's how normal families are.

The Hen

Of the three, she is the one I will always love the most. And yet I am hurting her. But it's time to give someone eyes for the others. It has to be this way as much as I hate it. I'm done talking, done making amends. No one ever sees what I'm saying with calm words. Pain may work. But her tears are stinging, but I know that I must press on. Just know that I care for you more than you know.

Havoc's Form is a Mole

Not only are you no longer blood to me, it is impossible to even see you as a human being. I wish you were a bug or a mole that lived underground where no one could feel ashamed of looking at you, where the sun couldn't shine it's radiant light on you. You're that minuscule bit of slime that worms shit out and gets stuck under rocks. I'm a pain in the ass he says? You're too blind and even more stupid to see the form of destruction that is wreaking havoc on our family. I give up on all of you.

Good-for-Nothing

I am way beyond tired of being victimized left and right. It is literally exhausting and it's come to the point where I just don't really care anymore. I live there for free, I get in the way for .5 seconds, I'm around too much, her mistakes are my fault, I'm a pain in the ass. It's just wearing me out so much that I feel aged. A person can only take so much criticism in their life until it finally breaks them. And I'm quite close. I suppose all I'll ever be is a good-for-nothing.

Divorce Please

If there's a way to divorce a sibling, sign me up.

Yes, I am writing. I like writing. This is how I vent, while you just be a psychotic mental patient. So fuck you.

And I said, "You can't make everybody happy."

He said, "You'd like to at least make yourself happy though."

I am a person who will always seek to make others happy before myself. I deny myself happiness, I disbelieve in my possible happiness. I shield myself from it because I truly believe that I don't deserve it. Others deserve it before myself. But what I'm figuring out is that if I am unhappy, it's near to impossible to achieve my goal of making others happy. Sure, I can fake it any chance that is easy enough, but sometimes it isn't so easy. It's so clear that my happiness will bring others happiness- it's a natural chain. But I am determined to overlook this simple fact because any pure happiness that touches me, I feel, is taint. And that's so messed up to think that way, but I can't stop myself. I see the way your lips move to the word "love" but I make myself deaf to your voice. I can't believe you because it's not true, I can't believe you because it's true. I am realizing that maybe I am genetically unable to receive love. This scares me, because it jeopardizes so much potential for us.

The Art of Loving

We are happy, but submerged. Not completely, about halfway. And decisions and choices determine how far we sink or how far we elevate. How did we come to be submerged anyway? Was it carelessness? Was it comfort? We may never trace the origins of this calamity. But we know now that it is apparent. It is real. And if we simply overlook this problem with more misunderstanding and less care, we will be head under, dear. And there's no going back from that. Not easily anyway.

What Was

Sometimes I wish I didn't feel so much. Feelings get hurt too easily and they just get in the way of something bad or something good. And then sometimes they control you and you forget how good you've got it. I wish we were like how we used to be. I wish I was like how I used to be. I try to bring back the beginning but only see my folly. I'm a fool, the jester of this life's party.

A Curse?

I have this tendency where I intend on laying my head down for a while and I find myself being grasped by my own thoughts. They pull me in, and an hour goes by and sometimes two. This happens also when I just sit somewhere comfortably. I don't realize that I just sit so still like a statue just thinking until someone shakes me or I snap out of it myself. I figure that 80% of my daily activities consists of thinking. I often wonder if I'm the only one who experiences these weird spells. I know that Greg doesn't really understand them because he doesn't see the sense in sitting for so long. He needs to get up and get things done. But I don't think I do this because I don't want to get things done. It's just something that I do. Probably something worry warts do. My thoughts usually are about the future, my regrets, my goals, my fears, something that I am upset about, something that I wish for in someone, or things that have changed. And because I think so much, I have this crazy belief that if someone else doesn't do this, then they must not care about me or about anything. It's a ridiculous idea, but I still half believe it.

Turkey Day

Firstly, I would like to make a request that the Universe stop thrashing on my car. It's a good car, I promise. I pay for it monthly. Secondly, Turkey Day was delicious. I spent it with a bunch of my favorite people, but I only wish that I could have done so with ALL my favorite people. This was the first Thanksgiving where I didn't spend it with my family. I didn't think it would affect me that much, but it turns out that I have a bit of a heavy heart over it. Of course it will pass, but still. I tried to work it out, but timing wasn't right. I was speaking to my Dad on the phone about all the timing, trying to figure something out. Before we got off, he said, "Hey." I said, "What?" He replied with, "Happy Thanksgiving." That's when the twinge came and the pressure in my eyes rose. "Happy Thanksgiving, Dad." I told him.

Insight

I'm not able to harness creativity anymore, I've noticed. It's quite sad to realize that I may not be able to force out any decent poems or stories anymore. I feel blank, and that's just it- I feel. That's all I have to work with. Feeling. That's all I've always had to work with. I am not blessed with effortless creativity and an interesting imagination. I am not blessed with any raw talent other than expressing my feelings, and really, what good is that anyway? I feel zombified. I'm a boring old corpse that walks around with no interest or talent in anything. I can't prove my worth to this world and it disturbs me. Everywhere I look everyone seems to be the perfectly shaped puzzle piece to this world, and I look at myself and see augmented sides and distorted angles. I don't fit anywhere.

A Room Worth a Thousand Words

This room aged with me. It underwent changes as I changed. The walls listened to my cries in the night of troubles only a lone soul would know. The old bulletin board above my computer is odd. The transition of who I was to who I am clashes like two wild cats competing for game. There hadn't been open space on this ancient board for years and I imagine now that I naturally just layered on memories with the point of a tack. It frightens me that the majority of these memories above my head feel much more distant than they should- I can hardly remember most of them. However, the recent rekindling of a broken friendship aids in the remembrance of these lost memories. They bring a smile to my face as I allow them to rush back to my frontal lobe, out from the deepest and most forgotten parts of my mind. I have finally found an inkling of who I might be, but I am not what you remember. And I'm not entirely sure if you will accept this.

The Truth About Fortune Cookies is...

While they are more than often just a string of mystical words no one may ever comprehend, sometimes the phrases inscribed on those little rectangle pieces of paper can prove to be the revelation that you were looking for all along. You just needed the odd way of discovering it. The one that brings smile creases to your face.

Seams

You're short tempered
Hostile
And ungrateful-
But I am forced to love you anyway

Unpeel flesh
Pick at bones;
Leaving only red behind
And see that we are so similar

Treat yourself well and do so to me
We are born of the same tree

"Lover, can you help me? I'm a child lost in the woods. A lit path eludes me."

I was so immensely broken to a point where I had made myself physically ill. I felt so much that I made myself ill. If that isn't love then I don't know what is. I was astray. I was abashed. I had forgotten what it felt like to experience dry eyes. I breathe in the fall on this Sunday morning, but I am unable to discern it's coolness in my lungs. It is not relieving like it used to be, it is added strain on my heart. What great agony it is to breathe. So I do so slowly and more drawn out, so as to minimize the misery. Yesterday lingers in my skin and I let it numb me. I am empty of life and impassive; blank. I am as cold and heavy as marble. I cannot distinguish, I cannot think, I cannot heal. I am a walking shell of a hindrance, a catalyst, an aboriginal.

Untitled

Grayed vision
I am comatose
Gravity had never felt so heavy
Perfection is a mere memory
Frosty tongues
Unspoken words spoken
They ring
And I can still hear the sting
My ears run red
Words had never felt so agonizing
These hands,
These fingers,
This face,
I loath it all
Even though the fault was ours
Selfishly, I snatch all fault and make it mine
I want you untouched by my taint
You deserve better, dear

Think of Me

I wonder if you realize how much I think of you. Not just know, but really sit for a moment and wonder about it. When I am away from you during your free time, I wait hours for your voice, virtual words. Sometimes you leave me waiting ever so patiently for too long, and thats when assumptions grow and sadness sets in. I often cannot bring myself to be the one to contact you because my words will be frosty and frustrated. I know that you wouldn't ever avoid me, but the time you leave me waiting for you to contact me makes this idea true to me. I know that you're busy...but I'm important too. Wouldn't you try to contact me any chance you get, because you love me? Aren't I the first thing on your mind?

Presque vu

There it goes, did you see it?
An idea true that came and went
Born from me but never mine to keep
Fleeting as can be
It comes to me, great potential in hand
Only to be twiddled and flicked
mused and poked
Until, finally,
I cast it off with frustration
The words I want to mold
Are never the ones intended
I dream of glorious sentences
Strung together with fine craft
But instead, I receive,
No reverie, but
Depth-less lines of words
With lacking allure

Things Lost

I enter through the metal, white garage door tinged with rust, bags in both hands. My feet stop briefly and I stand in the only unoccupied area of the garage, breathing in dust as I scan the room. For years the garage had never housed the things it was built for. As a matter of fact, there was all sorts of lost items in the garage, everything except for it's purpose of holding two vehicles. My eyes fall on an ancient ATV, something we declared two summers ago that we would rebuild and take to the cabin in Wisconsin. How exciting it was to have a project we could all work on together, and how even more exciting and laughable when we finally got it running and he drove it down the driveway and the street with four flat tires. It stands untouched since that summer of declaration. There were assorted items from a lost business of hers. Plans, plans, and more plans for the largest garage sale of the century never executed. Old toys strewn on the farthest wall like childhood memories. Distant and intangible. An old entertainment center the same age as me. New street bike tires destined for the rebuild of his old street bike thrown against the nearest wall like a pair of old sneakers. The glory days of his marathons cast aside and forgotten. I make my way through the old white door and push the garage button for it's closure. I stand, a heavy weight holding my body down. To my left, a flimsy wooden door to a basement with the intent for it's reorganization and contribution to a garage sale. Started and unfinished. On the glass kitchen table I see two days worth of mail rifled through by somebody I know. A full sink of dishes. A half full cup of cold coffee. To my far right, a couch with snuggled-in blankets. I feel a twinge in my heart that I cannot ignore. All these day to day things gone by without my knowing. Who had drank the coffee? Did someone make it for someone else? Who got cozy in those blankets? Who had gotten the mail? What was for breakfast, lunch, and dinner? Who had made it? Who had eaten it? Was it eaten without me? This place is a fortress of unpursued and lost dreams, and forgotten memories. It is also no longer a home to me because I know nothing of what happens inside these walls any longer. My distance, my lack of presence. I feel the onset of adulthood, the onset of individuality. All these things wanted but now resented, but still unable to avoid. Nothing is constant anymore and it frightens me.

My Little Monsters

My thought process is riddled with tiny, biting monsters. Little creatures with snouts and pointed ears, gnarled claws and flashing eyes. Their jobs are to contaminate- like a contagion in a lab experiment. They creep and climb on the inside walls of my skull, snatching my thoughts and biting them and ripping them- turning these treasured things into blackened, empty blotches floating around in my head. What good thoughts I manage to make, their birth is usually cut short by death. Everything that happens within affects the out, and I see how it hurts my outside world. This catastrophe that no soul knows about me is mine to bear alone unfortunately. I just wish that people understood my restless head, my tired mind.

"I see the way the moon plays this tune though our lights died."

There is a sadness in me that I have realized recently and has been growing with time- and I see now how apparent this calamity is. I don't understand why you aim and pinpoint endless rage in my direction. It rips caverns and craters in my chest and it takes time for me to patch them up. Our short time that we do bond well is only a blink. And then you reopen these ruptures in my heart again and I feel the distress growing each time I have to take your anger at me and re-patch them. I try for you because I care for you much more than you care to see . . . Don't falter, don't shun me, don't hate my existence, just love me, because we're sisters. And when you've figured out who you are, I'll be around the corner waiting for you to come back.

Impostor

She stands, an impostor, in front of me and utters ugly nothings at the people we confront. I observe the way she treats others and strains my relationships. I yell and kick and struggle but it is silence and nothing changes. I cringe with the creeping thought that I cannot control the impostor posing as me, so I let her rage her fury and feel the stab of each word she lets loose at the ones I care about, useless to stop it until I can regain control again soon.

Terror

There is a heightened frequency in the night terrors I have been experiencing. They have no sense and they seriously frighten me. I am usually trying to escape something. My reveries are no different than reality it seems.

"It's the sound of the unlocking, the lift away. Your love will be safe with me."

Ah, glory is the day of the birth of my happiness. I hope for more birthdays like this and that my happiness shall never fade. Many a day had passed until I had finally achieved it. I recall a rainy night and the dim glow of lanterns under the gazebo a year ago. His words gripped my troubles in the tightest of grasps and set them free to the atmosphere, leaving only the flutter of birds and warm palpitations of life reviving my battered and chilled chamber.

Keepsake

It was but moments ago that I had purchased a quaint little book with a black spine and light brown cover with the words "Journal" etched into it. Behind it's cover the book contains pages upon pages of blank lines hungry for phrases, ideas, thoughts- anything that can grow within the mind and be able to be spewed onto white, crisp paper. I've taken to a goal that I set for myself at this minute- that I create words from my own understanding and thoughts while out and about the streets of this world and record them into this little notebook. All I can do is hope that by recording my findings that I will better comprehend the world and myself.

Seasons

Frost draws closer each coming day. I do not regret the summer's passing and I embrace the cold, but only for a time. Months line up and there is only grey skies and the death of hues, chilled winds and particles of falling ice. I predict that in the most frigid hour that I will yearn for radiant suns and parted skies once again. And then the cycle goes.

September

It was at around this time that I had fallen with an illness of the heart. Ambient and sorrow filled lyrics filled my ear waves so that I could drown out the truth on the outside. I had recoiled to myself and only myself- it was indeed such a physical pain. I couldn't find my appetite, so I watched my form shrink dangerously and quickly in just a matter of weeks. Fatigue and lying about the house filled my days as forgotten school work piled in a messy corner of the room in which I confined myself to solitude. Looking back now, I scoff at that pitiful image of myself because what I had been tormented over amounted to nothing. He is faceless and the things we shared were insignificant and small. My distress was based on the fact that there would never be a possible nother. And that thought is what ate me from the inside out. I struck fright in people by the enormous shift in energy, my family specifically. I had no longer been the first born child or the older sibling, I was a mere nameless ghost walking the halls of this house. Ah, but what great timing that a foreign hand should reach out and rescue me from my demons. With eyes bluest and bright. I had begun to feel again, and I found that the numbness of the emotional pain was beginning to subside slowly. Still being in that negative state of mind, I thought that the convenience of it was too good to be true, that it wouldn't last. Nothing good ever lasted for me for as far back as I can remember, so why should this? Ah, but such glory. It has lasted for nearly 365 days. Now fattened up and high on happiness like never before, I will never forget the month of September. I will always remember it as one of metamorphosis and transition.

These Bonds

I've been thinking about old bonds. Ones still whole, others artificial, and others severed. Some distant, some new. It's been a heavy load to carry- all these changes in my bonds with other people, whether good or bad. It's really exactly what all the middle aged people say when you graduate High School. "I don't really talk to friends I had in High School anymore." "I lost contact with a lot of my friends from High School when I started college." And so it goes. Garbage, I thought. I could never see such things happening to me. But they did. In ways I am glad that this common thing occurred. Yes, I had lost many people I knew and cared for but I met new people too. And I'm beginning to see just how much the influence of people with different lifestyles and personalities have on me. I feel my fibers mixing and twisting in new ways, shaping a much different person. I have always changed, unbeknownst to myself and though not necessarily a bad thing, to fit in and find my little nitch in groups that I meet.

The Enlightenment

Eyes still with the grasp of the illusion, mind blurry with the lie I feed myself daily. I see now that all I needed was your voice to wake me from myself. I had let corruption taint me like a cure-less poison flowing through my paper veins. The ill reverie now wiped, I am enlightened with the possibilities. There is much more for me than I had realized. Blue-eyed angel, reincarnated like I had decided because of your touching shoulder blades, the things I owe you will never lessen- there is not enough time in my short life to pay you back for what you have done and still do for me always.

Facades, Facades

Living with my head in the clouds. Concentrating but scattered. Calm but restless. Free falling into the past momentarily, but I'm always shaken awake with the gentle hand. I need the shake much more than you know. Please save me from glazed eyes and heavy thoughts. Past hurt brought back to the surface, but I'm an expert at subsiding pain on my front. But other times I wear it like show and tell on my shirt. It isn't always the easiest to mask it. But I'm learning. And this skill will be better for the both of us, because with my happiness brings your happiness. And that's all that really matters to me. So I will fake and mask and hide as much as I can for your happiness to remain.

Sundays

Back to the decade old pink brick house with it's clones stationed up and down streets in this generic suburban neighborhood. This place is so ridiculously dedicated to being noisy twenty fours hours, six times a week. Yes, every single day except for Sundays. Don't ask me why they choose to hold their tongues on this particular day, because I'll never know. I just love the fact that they do. A couple Sundays ago, I dubbed this my mental healing and cleansing day. A day for writing, relaxing, and catching up with family. It does me a good deed because I don't think anyone really knows just how much my mind is thinking in overdrive all week. It's exhausting and my thoughts usually get me down. Coming to this familiar pink house covered with flowers of all kinds of hues on all sides- it's an enormous relief for some reason. The weather is exceptionally perfect for sitting here writing with an old canine friend on my lap. I breathe this place into jagged lungs and let the weights lift. This place, despite the hardships endured here in the past, is one of healing now.

Riddle Me This

I have a question. Why is it that things that are perfect gradually change? There's no reason to veer off track if things are so wonderful. So then why does it happen? Is it comfort? Security? I don't think I will ever understand.

"Aren't we the same, you and I? All our love gathers the storm."

From bliss to this. I wear semblance on my skin.

Home

And of course, here's the swing of the the cycle. I need to reevaluate. Things have never been so wrong in my finally right world. There's a war inside myself that I'm losing. My stomach twists and makes me ill. I carry a lead heart. I feel confined in an open space. And I found that the only way to ease the pain is temporary distance- home. The familiar aroma of this place fills my head like the cure I need and tames the beast. The familiar faces, the interactions and conversations, the "old times"- are the perfect ploy to distract a distressed mind. But as the day ends I grow so unbearably fearful of the truth I had momentarily forgot. So much so that it creeps back in, tainting the tainted. Lets go back to the beginning.

The Present at Hand

You must understand that my ramblings are usually random and consist of either good days or bad days. It's always changing for me, every day, every minute. Sadly, nothing is ever solid. It's just how things have always gone for myself.

Things are happening all at once . . . and they're finally good. After I had shunned the corporate giant months ago, I now have finally found a replacement income. It was something that sprung at me at the perfect moment. I was beginning to think that I would have to put my dreams in a drawer for a while until I figured everything out. But I'm okay. And this new income has brightened my future goals with a beautiful glow. I can have a home now. It might be strange to hear something like that from me, but I feel like I don't have a home anymore. For almost eleven months now I endlessly drive back and forth from two buildings. It's tiring, yes, but I do it just to see him as much as I can. The thought of having a place to call my own with him warms my heart. And also my education begins in nearly two weeks. I'm shaky thinking about returning to school since I haven't attended in a while, but I'm also excited. All these things happening for me so suddenly- it's a bit overwhelming. I just hope that I can juggle all these new experiences at once.

Doubt

And maybe this hobby isn't for me. I start strong then fade. I never have enough confidence in myself to continue anything. That's all I'll ever be- the girl with all the interests but without the courage.

Walking Catalyst

The swing of things seem to be unbalanced once again. It teeters and veers in all directions, and the thread keeps slipping through my fingers. What joy it was to have the balance. I should have known it was only momentary. I've grown used to this, like the ocean in my ears. I know I will find the sweet balance again, I always seem to stumble upon it. But as always in a perpetual cycle, I will lose it once more. I'm beginning to realize that this is just the way it works, something definite; hardware: each corresponding piece has a specific function. But I feel that all this can be repaired with a more trying heart, a patient one too. I'm the catalyst in this.

Caravan

Newborns
sealed eyes
and putty minds
trapped sand in glass
liquid gold droplets
leaps and merriment
unbeknownst of time
wisps, vines
the mass entangled
"society"
acceptable is fraud
searching for solidity
in this stolen ground
we lay way ashes
battered by falsity
over time
bones wither
and the countryside
oh, the countryside
we all find homes
under daisies

"And in this moment, I am happy."

Constance at last. A fine hum. Touch is soft like spring petals. Nervous spaces like fuzzy televisions. The haze is most beautiful and I only wish that this state can last. I will make it so because I've found this graceful medium among the spikey brambles. I had trudged through the acid foliage to find what I now know.

I am, I was.

It's a startling feeling when adulthood gets a grasp on you. I can only describe it as waking up from a very deep illusion. I look back on my youth and do not regret leaving it behind. I only regret losing the childish spirit- so free and alive. I am at the start of my adulthood climb and I am content with its hold. These memories that I create with the people I now know are the ones that I will keep dearest to me. I tied a balloon on those adolescent memories and set them free to the bluey skies- for I have finally found happiness.

Lost Muse *Reward if found*

I'm finding it difficult to come up with something to write on these blank pages. I've noticed that most of my writing comes from raw emotion. That is when my fingers fly and words come easy. Could it be that everything is going so right that the turmoil I need to fuel my words is no longer available? Bittersweet, I'd say. I am the student and the teacher now. It is necessary to teach myself how to create without that turmoil. A very possible task, but one not so effortless.

Transition

I loved the days lost in the wild. A wooden sanctuary: opened up it's glorious gates for the temporary escape from a trivial life. My animated acrylic painting. Green parcels with historic faces amounted to the bark on the pine trees. No government tyrants breathing down necks as check after endless check was written. That suburbia wasteland . . . what a headache it is. Minnesota: there is only song. From the whistle of the trees to the hum of the earth. Boundless freedom. The feel of it in my fibers. Thrown back into civilization- cast into the same ridiculous routine. I look through enlightened vision and see the sad blindness of others. Though highly advanced, we still think with barbaric thoughts. If it's not wealth, it's fame or beauty. Greed is the perpetual force that fuels any action or thought. There will come a day when it will finally consume us. My presence will be gone before that happens.

Homebound

Forlorn in a space

people all 'round
no idioms on your tongue
and loneliness remains
idioms on your tongue
and loneliness still
it's home my head
now moved back
setting in for comfort
pollution again
poison riddled in the nervous
the missing cure
afraid to return and discover
same love
unchanged by the events
I poured my heart
no blood left
and received sameness
hollow heart crumbles
perhaps this is truth
I know what lies ahead.

Strings

Baby, somethin's got a hold
I'm astray
lost in suspended animation
I've misplaced my strings
and memory serves no aid
this wooden body
sways on its own
I own tears
but marionettes don't lament

Tunnels

Sometimes I envision myself in another's shoes, just someone walking down the street or someone working behind a counter trying to make a living. I pretend to watch things from their point of view, like jumping behind their eyes. I imagine myself living their story. And I haven't figured out yet if it's curiosity or envy. This had a point somewhere.

Not Nevermore

Gaze through crystals
Flashes of green
passing in this sullen ride
Plastic eyes
not mine but another's
Separation
Frost grows on joy
but not nevermore
Mind weary from plight
Climbing up into the rocks
to the destination
Body:
You're here but your spirit is not
You left it behind in the creases
of his hands
Heart with stones
smooth and piled high
fills to throat
I stopped breathing after the leave
Recoiled back to shade
Body animated by demons
until we meet again

A Brief Explanation of the Puzzle that is My Mind

You're a bit oblivious but it's okay. Everyone unfortunately is but I feel as though I'm the only one who isn't. Because when I see something I see all of it for what it is. I observe the things that aren't typically blatantly shown. Most people live only viewing the surface. Every action or word, the various ways things can be said, subtle body language- are all caught by the few analysts like myself. And when we've reached a hypothesis about the actual feelings you possess we assume that it is truth. In this world of simple people it is difficult for us to relate to others because of this strange and sometimes absurd way of thinking. It explains my heavy mind overflowing with thoughts, my quick mood changes that change with each thought that changes. And sometimes we use this thought process too much and over think things. And it often causes misunderstandings between people when really us analysts are only trying to understand. So I write this explanation of the strange way that I think in hopes that you will understand that when I mumble confusing sentences that make no sense that you may have the patience to let me figure out my puzzling thoughts. And that you may in turn assist me in figuring out my jumbled mind.

Only Clay

Walking deviant steps heavy. Her knees dirty from prayer. She longingly calls for her soul's return but the response is never given. So she shuffles and stumbles over endless dirt searching for the soul of hers she won't find. That pure and spirited energy that will revive her clay molded shell, her disintegrating bones. And so it be this cycle for however long it may take to find herself lost so long ago in this world. Given a journey taken alone quick as frost. Visionless to the helping hand which had walked alongside at the start. Blind, but beginning to see the aid.

Splitting of the Tide

There is a point at which vast blueness, churning and spewing salt, collides with ground and makes it shudder from its blow. Ground recoils only for the next lash of azure, only for separation to occur once again. It is easy to guess that this perpetual cycle of fellowship and separation between ocean and land has been occurring for centuries and probably will be occurring for centuries more. It is also easy to observe how these simple actions of nature are related to people. Though as a society we are all seemingly united, we actually stand alone. Stereotypes, beauty, racism, wealth, personality, greed: these and more are all the commonplace things that keep ourselves apart from one another. The typical saying "every man for himself" is undoubtedly applied in our society and sometimes even inside our homes. It is never a simple task nowadays to exchange words with someone without being judged or criticized, or to perhaps create new relationships or for once exercise trust with another. Trust doesn't even exist between strangers because strangers have taken it upon themselves to ruin this lost characteristic. We are all at fault because we are all strangers alike. And if the common idea is to be judgmental upon meeting anyone, that's all we'll ever be is strangers.

Fine Lines

Observation: Only man too preoccupied with the trivial aspects of life are too blind to see that our world is made up of much more than just stone and wood. We live in invisible lines that cross and twist through our homes, our streets, our bodies. They are constant and flowing with energy- it doesn't matter whether you're a murderer or teacher, every single conscious person has them. And they can be very sensitive to the actions and choices that a person makes.

Each line forms off my person and links to the general areas of my life. I am a pillar with boundless energy feeding these precious lines. Recent events have caused turbulence in this constant state of flow, weakening the core and thus weakening the lines to frailty. Some now temporarily lay in shambles within the dull areas crowded with cobwebs in my mind. I witness the fall but am ongoing; snow blind. I see through grain, eyes heavy and gray. I imagine myself walking through a murky plain with lines all around. Some glow brightly like fireflies while others are at the end of their wick. Some already fallen to dust. At this point in my life I worry most that the events which affect me affect the familiar line of love I currently search for. I am an often visitor only because I wish to see if it is still strong. When I find it I reach out to touch it's warmth. Still connected and flowing but I tell myself that the line is damaged. I tell myself all the time that there is a piece in the line that is missing. It isn't enough to see the line surviving on it's own. Outside my head I try to find ways of fixing what isn't broken. And when I can't make repairs I slide back into grief and confusion once again. I need something to prove that it's the same. Actions unfortunately speak louder than words.

Out of Body

We are gathered around the familiar rectangular table with the same dice for the 800th time. We sit here mimicking every other weekend. I'm feeling no different than I did without the liquid chemicals that dull the mind. It's strange this time. I still feel the gross agitation, irritation, distance. Everyone around this table is tipsy and loud and social. I'm the same and don't want to be. I'm out of place here, just like everywhere else. I feel the numb but nothing has changed about myself. I wonder to myself in this stupid form where my old self has gone. I search my mind for where I have locked it away and find nothing. I am like Peter Pan, searching for my silhouette. It's the most important part of you you shouldn't lose. But it's gone now in the pool of emptiness that every person contributes to. It's possible that I'm becoming something I've always detested. Stress has turned me into a bitter adult and not even mead can bring that happy, carefree spirit back. I'm afraid because this has never happened before. Even if something had been bothering me, mead always had it's way of turning it into something to muse at or completely ignore. I want so much to be part of this loud gathering but I feel excluded. It's my fault because I'm prohibiting inclusion- mentally and physically. I am my own witness at this act and I can't stop myself. An out of body experience. I want to tell that person I watch from the atmosphere to stop being so foolish. I scream at her silently to return to her old self but she doesn't hear me. If I refuse to listen to myself than who can I listen to?

Penniless

Shunned the corporate giant.
Battered and penniless.
Searching for something new.

A Different Life

As much as I wanted the shower to finally smell normal again, I really didn't want to leave the wilderness. I had begun to form a bond with its ways and it pains me now to return back to a life shortened by stress. It's a fake reality we live in unfortunately. We all were tricked into being weaned on this sort of life that just doesn't make sense. Obligations, responsibility, decisions, money- all these things are actually pointless choices. You should be able to feel constantly at ease in life and I'm afraid that just isn't possible with all these empty words hovering in the atmosphere. Everyone should try living in the wild at least once to know what I'm talking about. Because the wild, when properly prepared for it, is a forgiving and cleansing thing. Once you spend a few days out there you begin to hear it breathe and speak as you do. It's a very interesting experience. I long to return there, now as we rubber tramp our way home, to regain the piece of me that was forcefully left behind. The missing piece of me that will forever stay locked within the wooden confines of the wild.

 

Bullets & Headlights

I am one of many. The two-legs believe that the numbers of our kind should be controlled so that we don't overpopulate the land they believe is rightfully theirs. Laws have been implemented to control our increasing numbers. The two-legs come at a specific season, stalking us with their shiny machines. We're just a waste of space- or perhaps tasty meals for their greedy bellies. Some of us are lucky though. A common death among my species is not only by a bullet but also surprisingly by a pair of headlights. I say that they are lucky only because they don't have to fear being hunted any longer. Their end is usually swift if they collide at the right point of their body. I know a few who have purposefully chose this as their end. Like little insects to a bug zapper. Only they sorrowfully know what to expect. I weep for my kind because we are always thought of inconsiderably. We are insignificant. They don't understand the fear we feel hiding with our young, always keeping our ears to the skies. We used to roam free without worry. I suppose times have changed and this is the life we must live now. Priorities first, right? I guess we fall very low on their list.

Leather Tramping

I'm getting lost in the wild of Minnesota. I'll be traveling on my own two feet with nothing but the supplies on my back, a canoe, and two other souls. This is the closest I'll get to experiencing what it's like to be a leather tramp. I'll be MIA for about a week. So until then, I leave you with this famous quote from Christopher McCandless.

"Two years he walks the earth. No phone, no pool, no pets, no cigarettes. Ultimate freedom. An extremist. An aesthetic voyager whose home is the road. Escaped from Atlanta. Thou shalt not return, 'cause "the West is the best." And now after two rambling years comes the final and greatest adventure. The climactic battle to kill the false being within and victoriously conclude the spiritual pilgrimage. Ten days and nights of freight trains and hitchhiking bring him to the Great White North. No longer to be poisoned by civilization he flees, and walks alone upon the land to become lost in the wild." 

-Alexander Supertramp, May 1992

Daydream

I'm counting down the final hours of the trip to Minnesota. Brutality greeted me today with a teasing smile. It's sad to witness apathy as a common trait among people and I often feel sympathy for them for carrying this characteristic. I imagine to myself what would happen if I just let the wild take me as it's own. I would blend green with nature and be freed of obligations, society, and the meanness of others. The sweet imagery makes me smile. It would be such a great way to escape it all, to turn my back on what society feels is acceptable and open my arms to what is solid.

"Don't wake me, I plan on sleeping in."

There's just something about rainy mornings that make me feel at ease. It might be the gray haze cast against closed blinds making the atmosphere so completely perfect for napping. It could be the sound of gentle pitter patters of water droplets hitting the concrete through an open patio door. Or perhaps the distant rumbling of thunder. Whatever it may be, it brings a sort of heaviness to my body. A cozy heaviness that just successfully persuades you to stay in bed all day. And then when the pattering and rumbling ends, and the sun reaches its dimmed, yellow hand through the blinds- I suddenly feel energized, ready for the day. I am whatever the weather brings me.

A World Worn

Radiant seas salty and pure
tainted with night-
hug the fine edges of the earth
expanding from Her tears
And crisp air is a ghoul-
and he gobbles it up with greed
leaving soot in our mouths
Pain: sawing, metal pain She feels
All Her fallen children lay
in the back of a rusty old truck
And Her poor, precious creatures:
live in plastic packages
and run to continue existing
She holds an anguish unbearable to carry-
a rage as dangerous as a lightning storm-
and regret as deep as a wound
We were given a beloved gift
Entrusted with a glorious privilege
But we utilized it's properties
for our own gain
And now our world is worn and dying
Every minute it ages a decade
And when Her realm finally collapses-
It will be Mother Nature
to pick up the pieces once again

Pothole

I've gotten this far and my writer's block is beginning to push me back into doubting my writing skills once again. I need something. Anything. Anything at all that will enable me to spew ink on a blank page.

Breathing Again

I'm feeling content in this nap hazed room. Finally content with where my life is choosing to go. Though not completely at peace with where every aspect of it is going, but appeased enough to breathe that enormous sigh of relief. I sit and wonder to myself how much things will change for us when August rolls around. I've forgotten how it used to be long ago. Perhaps it won't be so terrible since we've experienced it before- the distance, the less time we can share together. But it's just something that I'll have to cope with. It will be difficult, like pulling apart two leeches accidently stuck together, but it will be possible. I just hope that where everything is going now leads to something good. I don't think I can take the weight of any more discouragement. It had once piled on so much that I was almost immobile.

This Here is My Bucket List

I'll be adding.


[ ] Figure out what you want to do with your life.
[x] Get your own apartment.
[x] Find a job where you're not treated like a retard.
[x] Visit the Beer Nuts Factory
[ ] Get a dog for said apartment.
[ ] Get married and have an outdoor wedding with a zombie wedding cake.
[ ] Go to Ireland with some really cool people.
[x] Smoke a cigar with my Dad.
[ ] Visit the House on the Rock.
[x] Go to a Bon Iver concert.
[x] Experience actual happiness.
[ ] Travel a lot.
[x] Go hardcore camping.
[ ] Pay off my Cobalt.
[x] Find and experience love.
[x] Become a good writer.
[x] Drink with my Mom.
[ ] Get over my fear of public speaking.
[ ] Visit the "Magic Bus" in Alaska.
[ ] Eventually own a house with vines growing on it.
[ ] Go camping frequently.
[ ] Go hiking frequently.
[ ] Figure out who you are.
[ ] Become a mother.
[ ] Go to an Antlers concert.
[ ] Learn how to tie shoes correctly.
[ ] Publish one of my poems.
[ ] Read more often.
[ ] Lose 15 pounds.

Gray Areas

Searching high and low for the right words but always finding the wrong ones. I speak in riddles and I over analyze everything. And as every syllable leaves my lips- I regret it all again. This is just my way of getting your attention, so please don't take it the wrong way. You need to know that I, more than often, surrender to my thoughts. It's usually a strange, jumbled place pondering about the possibilities. If you try to invade this world, use caution. It's a delicate little place I only know. It's precious and easily harmed due to past occurrences. I am a wounded songbird slowly recovering for flight and song once again. I need a patient and trying heart. I'm so certain that it's you.

Untitled

I'm sitting on an island surrounded by the new summer, under the fresh pine trees. The pond encircles, smelling green. And the geese and their goslings all nod a hello as they pass. I sit and wait for him.

Reality At Its Finest

I don't believe the sun had ever shined brighter. We endured ongoing waves of rain and bouts of cold weather for weeks, but on this particular day the sun decided to make an appearance. It's glow was kind and welcoming, like an old friend popping in for a visit. I had the windows rolled down in my car and my favorite CD playing in the stereo. My music danced with the music of passing cars, and I knew that everyone around me was in tremendously good spirits as I was because of the beautiful weather. I thought it was the perfect day for the sun to drop by, for it being Mother's Day. The sun might as well be the mother of this world, looking after the natural beauty she had given us. 

I made my way down probably the largest hill in Lemont, passing by the many tall churches. I had only just started driving up the bridge on my way to Woodridge when it happened. I didn't witness it myself, but I didn't need to. The sounds themselves were enough to tell me exactly what I could have seen just moments earlier. The screeching of rubber against concrete. The piercing sound that reminded me of a train colliding with something. Then the eternal caterwaul of a car alarm. The cars in front of me rolled to a dead stop and immediately a double line was forming. A few people who had their cars stopped on the bridge in the left lane exited them and ran toward the scene. On the other side of the bridge, I saw a young girl in a red dress with black tights on and no shoes on her feet clamber out of her destroyed vehicle. It looked like some kind of beast had taken its giant, clawed hand and ripped off the entire left side of her car. She was shuffling very slowly towards the center of the bridge, to what I wasn't sure, with both hands shakily covering her mouth in shock. I could hear her sorrowful cries over her ongoing car alarm. Occasionally the cars in front of me would move inch by inch to move into the right lane. I was on the lowest part of the bridge, and as I inched forward, part of the scene that had just happened was coming into view from underneath a parked van in front of me. I put a lead foot on the brake immediately. My stomach began churning in all kinds of ways- and I began to feel ill. 

The only thing I could see was a single mangled, booted leg lying on the concrete. The van blocked whoever the leg belonged to. As I grew nearer and nearer to the scene, I saw a woman civilian jump out of her car on the other side of the bridge and run over to the hysterical girl in the red dress and put an arm around her shoulder, leading her away from her scrapped car for safety reasons. I could see a pink fluid running from the car down the bridge. The man the woman civilian was driving with carried a navy blue sweater and I thought to myself for a moment that maybe it was going to be used to cover the possible corpse that was lying on the concrete. I felt my heart dive into my stomach and it took every ounce of strength I had to force my foot on the gas pedal to keep moving slowly with traffic, all the while getting closer to the scene. 

The pile of shredded motorcycle was the next picture that came into view. It occurred to me now just how fresh this calamity was. There were no sounds of sirens emitting from any direction. No police cars. No ambulances. There were just the spectators and the helpful civilians. They were the ones taking care of the scene. I swear there was a bird fluttering its wings in my chest, and my anxiety was at an all time high. I didn't want to see what came around the bend. But I knew I had no choice. My eyes were fixed on what was before the van in front of me even though I didn't want to look. I moved forward the last few inches, passing the van and moving very slowly until I rolled to a complete stop. Only five feet away, I set my wide eyes on a conscious young man lying on his right side and holding completely still. He wore a black leather jacket and faded old blue jeans- and looked remarkably fine except for his mangled right leg.

"Hey man, can you come over here?" I heard him call one of the civilians at the scene. There was a huge wave of relief that came over me. The boy was awake and talking. He was fine and I didn't have to worry anymore. I was completely overjoyed, but I couldn't shake the adrenaline running through my veins, making my whole body shake. I put on my blinker and made my slow merge into the right lane to bypass all the parked cars. I stopped suddenly next to two middle-aged men climbing back into their silver corvette.

"Is he okay?" I asked them, the obvious worry littering my face. I already knew their answer because I had already seen it for myself. Something in me just had to ask.

"He's fine, we just called 911." The driver replied. I sighed.

"Good, that's great. I'm so glad." I told them. They nodded and I proceeded to drive away down the bridge. All the way on my sunny drive to Woodridge, I could only think about what I had just witnessed. I wondered to myself just how come things like that happen on such good days. A beautiful Mother's Day. Then I thought about the young man's mother and how worried sick she must feel. I picked out the silver lining in this somehow. I'm just glad that a mother didn't lose her son on this gorgeous Mother's Day.

"Now I'm riding all over this island looking for something to open my eyes."

And I found it! The clouds have parted, birds are singing, music is sweet, the violent hurricane within my head has quit its raging, I have been lifted for all the world to see that I am not a failure, I do not give up, and I have a plan! I have a future! It's as crystal clear as my vision was as I was a child, near and reachable, plausible, and exciting! There is hope, the sweet dream is there. Come August, I begin the part of my life that died and is now renewed.

For The Sake of Cheesecake

So a few days ago, I asked Greg what I should write about next. Judging by the title of this post, you can probably guess what he said. Just a few minutes ago, I asked my sister what I should write about next. She said the same thing, probably just to be hilarious. Which it was. So here's my first ever writing about food.

"We had lived in an old country house on the top of a hill surrounded by blankets of wildflowers." The old woman began. She shifted in that newly furnished rocking chair, trying to find a comfortable position. It just wasn't the same as her rickety one. The ancient quilted blanket her mother had made her long ago covered her bony legs. A child who looked about seven or eight years old sat Indian style in front of the woman, listening intently. Her long, ebony hair stuck out in every direction and fell over her large green eyes.

"In the days when I was a young girl, my brothers and I knew very little of the reality that went on outside our childish games. My mother was especially keen on making sure that our childhood stayed as pure as it could with what was going on in the world. When we couldn't have dinner some nights or when she and father often argued about financial budgets, she usually came up with some witty and exciting reasoning behind our troubles. Or she would focus our minds on something else, like a game. But anyway," the wrinkly woman said, shifting yet again in that rocking chair, "That is not what this story is about. That's what every story from old people like me is always about. Their past struggles. No, this story is about cheesecake. The best cheesecake ever created." At the sound of the word, the little girl's eyes widened to two great green pools and she licked her lips.

"Ah yes, the best cheesecake ever created." The woman reiterated, sitting back now in her rocking chair as she pulled out those filed memories. "Every Sunday after church, my family would go the food market to pick up as many supplies as they could with six dollars. My two brothers always went with my father with half of the six dollars to pick up either dog food for our border collie or feed for the cow or the chickens. My mother and I usually went to buy canned goods or meat for this week’s meals. One particular Sunday, my mother noticed that she had some extra money after buying our food for the week. She told me to wait with the groceries at the front of the market while she went to browse the aisles once again. She came back with two plastic bags filled with ingredients I had never seen before. She told me it was a surprise. I shrugged and so we were on our way. When we got back home, greeted by a yipping Bentley, my brothers and father went out to the barn to feed the animals while my mother and I unloaded the groceries. Then mother began to make something with the mysterious ingredients. I snuck a peek around her arm but she caught me. She gave me a sunny smile and told me to go help my brothers. I pouted and ventured out into the blankets of flowers barefoot like always and met up with them halfway to the barn. Somewhere in the distance I could hear father chopping firewood. I told them what mother was up to and they couldn't guess what it was she was making. So the three of us tip-"

"BINGOOOO!" A shaky, pruny-sounding voice called only a few feet away. The boring room with its plain mint green walls came back into view, closing in fast. The old woman, dismayed that her reverie had been broken, glared over at the multiple circle tables with elderly people around them.

"You mind keeping it down, Clark? I'm trying to tell a story here. It's normally quiet in these nursing homes, in case your Alzheimer's made you forget." The old man chuckled.

"Sorry Charlotte, I'll keep it down."

"What happened next, Granny?" The little girl asked quietly, fidgeting from anticipation.

"Oh yes," Charlotte continued, "The three of us tip toed back to the country house and peered into the kitchen window. Mother glanced over at us and raised an eyebrow so we ducked our heads as quickly as we could. We sat on the worn wooden porch, discussing in whispers of what mother could be making. Walter, the youngest, had jokingly suggested 'brraaainnnnsss' because our mother was secretly a zombie. Jebb, the oldest, didn't suggest anything because he thought it was going to be like every other normal dish we've received. And I, the middle child, knew it was going to be something marvelous. Time had passed quicker than we had realized. The sun reached the tops of the forest's tree line when mother called us in for dinner. We all sat at our appropriate seats around the table with Bentley beginning to scavenge at our feet before we even started eating. Dinner was our normal feast of bread and butter, slices of ham, and corn with peas. My brothers and I scarfed down our food lightning fast. Father only commented on our strange behavior while mother smiled sweetly to herself. When we all had finished, mother cleared off the table and replaced our dinner with a single white china plate with a metal lid on top. My brothers and I leaned in towards the plate with our mouths watering and our eyes buggy, waiting for the unveiling. I looked across the table at Walter, who was half closing his eyes just in case it really was brains. With one fell swoop, mother revealed the most perfect pastry that ever existed. It was circular and had a light yellow crème color to it. On top, there were slices of strawberries all over, like lights on a Christmas tree. But nothing was more breath taking than the smell. All I could come up with at the time to describe it was sweet smelling cheese, with a milky scent thrown in, combined with the aroma of the freshest strawberries my nose had ever experienced. Mother suddenly broke our lust for the strange pastry and told us to sit back in our chairs because our faces were nearly buried in it. We asked her what it was and she called it cheesecake. She explained how easy it was to make and I could hear the happiness ringing in her voice as she spoke." The old woman sighed at her memories replaying through her mind like a grainy film.

"Did it taste good?" The little girl asked.

"It tasted wonderful." Charlotte said, grinning to herself, "But the story doesn't end there." The old woman began rocking slowly in her rocking chair, no creaking sounds emitting from it like it should. She gave a small chuckle.

"Well, my mother made cheesecake every Sunday after dinner from then on. It became sort of a family tradition. Walter, Jebb, and I . . . mischievous in our young ages, made a game out of trying to swipe the cheesecake before dinner and gobbling it all up. We would try everything to get our hands on that beautiful pastry. It ranged from things like distracting our mother to creating some wacky diversion. Our mother was always one step ahead of us though, catching us before we could take it. She never got upset with us; she thought our futile attempts were humorous. But one day we actually did it. Walter ran inside the kitchen one Sunday afternoon with waterfalls running down his cheeks. He told mother how Jebb had pushed him into a bush and he had cut a single finger. Mother took him into the bathroom to clean him up just as Jebb and I flew into the kitchen like ghosts and stole the cheesecake from its usual spot on the counter. We sprinted through the flower blankets, Jebb holding onto the plate for dear life until his foot suddenly caught a tree root and the plate went soaring into the air. I ran with all my might to try and catch it, but when I turned and reached my arms out, the plate no longer had its metal lid and it was inches from my face. It was a direct hit, and I plopped on a flower bed. Bentley came out of nowhere and proceeded to licking the remains of our fallen cheesecake off the china plate. I wasn't upset that I was covered head to toe in cheesecake. I just did what Bentley did and grabbed globs of it off my face and stuffed it into my mouth happily. Jebb was crushing flowers as he rolled around over taken by laughter. Mother stood out on the porch smiling with a gaping Walter standing beside her. That night, we thought maybe it was better to bear the anticipation and just wait for the greatness that was my mother's famous cheesecake."

Apathetic = Pathetic

People are really quite apathetic. It's not like I want people to feel sorry for me all the time. I actually don't want that at all. But come on. We're both human beings. I don't mean for these things to happen and you look at me as if I always do it on purpose, just to bug you. You're pathetic.

In Motion

Moments ago I had just opened this blog to the world. It was probably one of the hardest things I have ever done because my writing has always been for me and critiqued by only me. The only person I had shown this to up until now is my sister- she's the only one I have shown any of my writing to. But I love writing and I will do anything to progress at it. I figured the only option left for me to do was to leave it out there for the world to critique. From their feedback, I can grow as a writer. I wouldn't doubt if people grew tired of my sullen posts. But this is a place where I can tell the truth, where I can speak through writing honestly. These aren't fabrications, but realizations. No, I'm not the most unfortunate person on this planet. I haven't experienced something traumatizing that has changed my life. I have only experienced the things I feel have made me who I am. As I log these written experiences and how I feel about them, I hope that maybe I will find others out there who know exactly what I'm talking about.

"I think I was blind before I met you."

"This is the first day of my life. I'm glad I didn't die before I met you. But now I don't care, I could go anywhere with you and I'd probably be happy."

The other day, I laughed. There was a lift and a flutter and it sort of just came out. I'm sure I had the widest of widest grins on my face too, I could feel its giant tugs. I was driving home from Woodridge when it happened. And it's funny, because what brought it on I can't remember. All I know is that it was one of those quirky, cute memories that you keep forever. I probably recalled something funny Greg had said, followed by one of those goofy facial expressions he always does. In response to that, I usually laugh at his complete dorkiness. And then those baby blue eyes lighten and the most perfect smile I had ever witnessed in my life appears. That's when I experience raw happiness coursing through every molecule in my body. It's an emotion that you can't mistake or question- you have to know that it is what it is. Outwardly, I'm gushing at his off-the-charts cuteness level of course. Inwardly, I'm smiling again at where I've been and where I am now. I'm smiling at my past woes because they're meaningless to me now. The insignificant things I thought that mattered don't matter anymore because of that great smile that brings me home.

Applause From Loneliness

That blurry childhood

that I can't recall
Flipping through old calendars
wondering where the time went
Every photograph
in my mother's book
I always looked the same
The same damn facade
Just a little yellow songbird
in disguise
All those years
My greatest friend
was named Loneliness
He applauds me now
because I've made it through this life
Found the hidden finish line
His arms open wide
Those baby blue eyes
Green pools glistening
No more sad lines
in that songbird's face
The sound of happiness
ringing loud and clear
How I love it's tune
Stay with me this time

Plea

And discouraging things keep piling up. It seems that I won't ever catch a break or a tiny glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, there will be that cliche light at the end of the tunnel. Hope is fleeting now, as much as I don't want to admit it. It always has this witty way of slipping right through my finger tips. Lost with no where to turn now, I drag my carcass through this life searching for the answer I know I won't find. Please, someone guide me. Because being my own guide has proven to get me where I always have been going: nowhere.

These Things

Good things are good. So if good things are good, then there's nothing to worry about. Worrying is useless when it comes to good things. It only makes things complicated when really it should be the easiest thing in the world. If everyone worried about good things, there wouldn't be much room to live. But you can't be careless. If you always think that a good thing is good when really it isn't, the people around you might notice your blindness and grow angry with you. You just need to be intelligent when it comes to observing good things as good. Once you know, everything is good and everything will continue to be.

More Ordeals

Blockage. There needs to be a push to the flow, so that the water can continue to perpetuate down the stream. Everything is cyclic and ever-moving. Any pauses or interruptions may prove to be mistakes that will be difficult to deal with in the future. My future. Grim and foggy as it looks currently, there are light areas populated with love and happiness. But beyond that there is nothing. And if there is nothing, I won't be anything. Useless. Dead weight. The strive for nothing. Desperation: a toothy, snarling creature with it's gangly, razor claws gingerly clamped around my brain. Corrupting it and taking it over, leaving no other room for other more important emotions that would enable me to decide. Decisions, decisions. Choices. Too great an obstacle to gather my frantic and terrified self to choose. More waiting makes the creature impatient, so it holds its grip tighter sometimes to remind me of what I'm supposed to do. I fear and fear and fear. I just need something to lift the spell that has been placed. I need a clear head and guidance.

"Careers are a 20th century invention and I don't want one."

How I wish that it was as easy as that. As much as I want to, I can't just up and disappear, become a leather tramp hippie and depend on nature and a single backpack filled with essentials. It'd be a comfortable, peaceful life, but society these days frowns upon outrageous or spontaneous dreams like that. And as much as I absolutely hate society's take on anything, it isn't a sensible lifestyle. You need guts and strong will to be able to live that way. And I just don't have that. I'd much rather spend my time appreciating the natural beauty of this world, but I know that I wouldn't have the courage to do what the late Christopher McCandless did. I'll just have to be an odd songbird in a city of fools, finding my way through this corrupt ridden society.

My View

I linger in the doorway when you're not looking, when you're too preoccupied by the waves of anguish that come over you. Your heartache becomes mine, and it consumes me. I only wish that I could cleanse you of it so that it can only be mine. I draw near, wanting so much to comfort you in your downfall. When you don't notice me, I make you notice. I push my face into yours, silently telling you that it's alright. When you look up with your glistening face, I sink. You acknowledge my existence and reach for me, holding me tightly. In that moment, I feel your muscles relax and your whimpering end. In that moment, I know that I have done what I was always meant to do.

Ten years I have walked the earth. And in my travels I have experienced all sides of human capacity, emotion, and tendencies that I have become somewhat of an expert on the subjects. The unfortunate part is that I wish so much that I wasn't. The human mind is such a fragile and complex system susceptible to hurtful things. I have seen immense pain and suffering by people I love the most. I would trade anything to gain the ability to lift this pain and suffering from their shoulders, to purge them of all the dilemmas in their lives. It would be so much easier for them if this were possible. I would be nothing more than a parasite feeding off their negative energy. I wouldn't mind a life like that.

Don't hurt too hard, don't hurt too long. It hurts me too. I am the dog.

Goose Feathers

A single goose slumbers in a dead, cold patch of grass next to a parking lot, directly in front of me. Her plume of gray-scaled feathers shimmer in the fluorescent lights. When I flash my car lights, she uncurls her head and looks around frantically for danger. I wish I could tell her that I won't harm her, that the animal instincts for self preservation can be tucked away in the back of her mind because they weren't needed with me near. Then I wonder why she's alone and where the rest of her flock is. Geese aren't usually seen alone, nor should they ever be allowed to be. It just isn't right. I feel sorry for the goose and I wish so much that I could welcome her to the comfort of my car so that she wouldn't have to be alone anymore. But I'm just a human. And she's a goose. Though we may look so different, we are actually just the same. We share the same goals and principles, and even the same situation. The only difference I see between us is that she carries the will and courage to pursue anything her heart desires. I re-think my beginning thoughts about this "lonely" goose. What if I have it all wrong? What if the goose is thinking exactly what I had initially thought about her, but about me? I realize that perhaps she had just stopped there on that frigid grass knowing that I would arrive there at the parking lot. I realize now that it is all reverse. She looks at me and sees the tuneless songbird who needs saving.

Lonely Tuesdays

I dread Tuesdays. Just when I get through one and continue through the week content as ever, another one likes to spring on me ready to attack. They should be permanently removed from the week. Who's going to miss them anyway? It's a day more insignificant than a Wednesday. Well, at least to me. I don't mean to sound selfish, but the only reason why I detest Tuesdays is because this is the only day out of the week when I'm away from the person that means everything to me. I'm sure he doesn't feel the same way about Tuesdays, he has this great feature in his mind that allows him to keep his head up no matter what's happening that day. I wish I had that. It'd be great to be able to appreciate free time rather than resent it. But I resent it because I can't stand being alone. I hate the feeling more than most other things. And I know exactly when it creeps up on me too. It's the quietness and the no signs of life around me that stirs it up. There's this heavy feeling in my heart and eyes. The ample step to my walk. And worst of all, the dazing. I sometimes sit and just stare. Daze. Thinking about nothing, thinking about everything. Thinking about how much I wish I had some sort of human companionship right there next to me. But I know all this could be much more difficult if I didn't have my trusty chihuahua with me. She's actually curled up next to me as I write, twitching in her slumber. I don't know where I'd be without this dog. She's been there for me when no human being could. In my darkest, loneliest times, she's been there. I owe her everything for that.

[Picture taken by my sister]

On Tuesdays such as this one, I try reasonably hard to find something to keep myself busy with. I mostly end up failing at this, but I've been successful on a few occasions when my mind didn't drift on something or when my eyes didn't begin to stare at something imaginary. Reading, watching a movie or t.v., facebook, surfing the web, and now recently, blogging. I tolerated Tuesdays a little better when I worked in the evenings. That way I only had to go half a day thinking about how much I missed my baby. I wonder if he misses me on these days as intensely as I miss him. He has things to keep him busy so I'm sure it's not as extreme. I'm not sure why I'm so dependent on human companionship now, I never was before. In my younger years, all I knew was loneliness. I had "friends" who enjoyed using me to benefit themselves, people who found it entertaining to taunt me, and only a couple people I could actually call friends. I'm guessing now that I finally have someone stable in my life, someone who isn't going to go anywhere or use me for his gain, I know that I'm not alone anymore. I'm finally not alone anymore. So it's only natural when these lonely Tuesdays come around and dig up that familiar feeling I had always known before, that I feel this way.

Bloom

Kindred, small, fleeting
pulse under the surface
A petty flicker surviving
Gray, frigid matter
creating the wall-
it wants it extinguished.
Weary of the gloom
and itching for the warmth
Sun kissed shriveled skin
soaking and melting
The smell of bitter grass
The cozy breeze dancing
The easy atmosphere
It's been a long winter.

Inspiration

"The second most important thing a passionate person can do to further their passion into a career is do that 'something.' For example, if you want to be a writer, write. If you want to be an artist, draw. If you want to be a game developer, develop a game." Funny how just the simple act of surfing the web for career help can lead you to articles such as this one. So this is where the article brought me. I'm not a very confident person, and I've come to accept that. Especially after my horrific failure in the attempt to become a Veterinary Technician at Joliet Junior College. But that's a long story I don't really feel like reliving just yet. Anyway, my lack of confidence is basically a ball and chain attached to my ankle all the time. It stops me from doing things that I want to do. Or maybe I start doing something and begin to doubt my skill and quit. Frankly, I'm tired of it. Stumbling upon this eye opening quote inspired me enough to get the hell out of the hole I always pre-dig for myself and start getting serious. I honestly have no idea what I want to do in the future, and it scares the crap out of me. Right now I have no future as far as I'm concerned. I'm a part-time working, college drop out. And while I do like to be spontaneous most of the time, having no map, no plan, no freaking blue prints to my future is probably the most frightening thing that's ever happened to me. I can never see past the day I'm living in. It's all consistent and gray. 

I've always liked two general topics- writing and art. If I am to get serious about finding the career for me, I might as well start there, right? So I'll be blogging for god knows how long. As for art, I'll probably doodle now and then. I've always done the bare minimum of the things I like to do because I always end up beating myself up for my lack of skill I thought I had. I never let myself believe that I could possibly be good at what I was doing. Maybe I was afraid to admit it, who knows. But I'm going to try to change that now.