Adieu

Laying down and propped up at an uncomfortable angle, his shoulders would shrug and his chin would sink down touching the top of his chest as he exhaled the smoke on his mattress. Silence. His lips we’re stone, and his eyes we’re heavily loaded with the burden sobriety brought forth since his lifestyle began to consume him. His left hand traced the indentations on the wall delicately, and it was second nature for him now to bring the habit back and forth from his right hand, to his mouth, to the ashtray and back to his mouth once more.
“Is everything okay?” I nearly sneezed the question.
His delayed response was no hesitation or misunderstanding, it was a dull, dark stare that spoke for itself. He adjusted his navy blue tee shirt, lifting himself to straighten the creases,
“Huh?” He flicked the decaying paper into the turtle tray, and then pinched the pieces of ash that drifted onto his stomach and placed them there as well.
“I mean, are you okay? You seem… different.” The thick black eyelashes that hovered over these once lively brown eyes had become something they never intended to be. I suppose when you live your life according to an unwritten anarchist code of morals, the ignorance of “not giving a shit” is bound to catch up to a person at some point.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Just tired. What do you mean by different?” A hollowed expression turned its attention towards me, and for the first time I’d looked him directly in the eyes since my visit. My tear docks began to tingle, and my insides felt as though they’d shifted as a cold sense of realization shivered down my spine. This was not the boy I knew, this was not the boy I fell in love with many years ago; this was not a boy at all. His unshaven face made him look a little more sophisticated, and with his hair messily flipped over left and right, I stared and the creature that set the standards for every failed relationship I had since him. His tattoos peered through little sections of skin left uncovered: a puzzle piece between his cotton shirt and black denim pants, multiple childish cacti branded on the inside of his arm, and a prowling panther somewhere crawling on his skin. I used to always love how dirty he was, probably because there we’re not many people socially acceptably dirtier than I was, (a virtue understood only by myself).
His presence screamed trouble the moment I met him, but the forbidden apple once studied and examined isn’t so bad tasting, once you get past the bitterness, right? Wrong. The years that followed consisted of a tragically heartbreaking high-school love novel that wasn’t well written enough to get published and had a really shitty ending. The one who you share the firsts of many things with will always have a dear place in your heart, had it not been for him I wouldn’t have my first show booked, nor would I be as in tuned with the local music scene, and on a more internal level, I wouldn’t be so strong from all of the concrete-impact I received while knowing him. I’ve got to hand it to him, he absolutely influenced who I am today, and I thank-as well as resent- him for that.
I specifically remember a day where he promised to stick around; we made plans to plant a garden below a rusted bridge that trailed off of an old unoccupied road. The town creek ran beneath it and cattails ran along the edge of the water. Sticks gathered and formed a dam a little ways down, allowing any trash to be seized before our sight. A steep climb was in order before you reached level ground, but once we looked up and saw the towering, green plants, illuminated by the sun, we knew it was going to be a spot we declared our own.
“I’ve been reading about this thing called ‘Gorilla Gardening” The words trickled off of his lips like the stream flowing beside us. His pitch was higher then, it was after puberty of course, but looking back I realize why he’d developed the nickname, “Squeaks”. His eyes peered up from the water, now looking at me, “It’s when people in cities get all of these fucking plants and they just plant them all over, anywhere. Just because. They get rid of weeds in those crappy plant boxes that industries try and decorate with and they plant these extravagant gardens full of flowers illegally.”
Illegally was the key word, it always was for him. He’d read about this beneficial act of rebellion in a magazine on his way home from Paris a few weeks earlier.
It was a week before he returned home from Europe, I remember finally feeling strong again. I felt independent and empowered by creativity and the idea of being alone… until, I read 1 New Message. I stared at the e-mail for about 10 minutes, biting my thumb, playing with a Rubix cube and weighing out the pros and cons.

Pros: He is the one making the effort. Not you. You have the power to either reply or ignore it.

Cons: If you read this, you might want to consider the definition of insanity, doing the same thing repetitively and expecting different results. He wants you back? Great, He will also want you GONE sooner or later as well. DO NOT READ THIS!!.

I wrote a quick e-mail to my psyche:

Dear Self,
I apologize beforehand for any physical recklessness this decision may evoke in the future. Keep in mind, (pun intended) you can still be just as strong with or without him.

Love,
Us

Click. Four page scrolls worth of writing, telling me about Europe, himself and how much he wanted to see me.
After the day beneath the bridge, I went back, planted the first fern and didn’t hear from him for about three months. This pattern happened for three consecutive years until finally I had enough. I was sick of lowering myself to his pathetic level and at last we established friendship. Although our adventures lacked the romantic sense of love and wonder they once had, we still managed to journey through endless days of painting, playing music and casual intimacy without hesitation.
It had been years since we talked about the object of, “us”. Which is why I was so surprised to hear the tone of his voice when he called me asking me to talk. Keep in mind, we always talk, it’s what consumes most of our time, but somehow when I heard his voice I knew what this rendezvous was going to consist of.
We climbed an old leafless tree with thick branches one hot summer day, and I listened as he told me stories of the thunderstorm he once watched there, and how strikingly beautiful the world seems when threatened.
“I didn’t come here to talk about all of this. I was talking to my friend the other day because I had this dream about you. It was a still framed, black and white image.. It was clearly you, and it was clearly me- but we were old, on some cluttered, wooden porch.”
“….” My response.
“You can’t tell me that you don’t have a doubt in your mind that we we’re supposed to be together. I mean I know we’re both in relationships but it doesn’t even matter. We both know that whatever bullshit people come in and out of our lives were the only constant each other has and, I love you. I’ve seen you grow into a woman, and I’ve grown up a lot. We both have, together, and I’m just really proud to be a part of your life and to be able to have seen you grow into this beautiful person you’ve become.” I looked at him speechless for a moment. Shocked.
“I don’t know what to say… These things have been unspoken for years. And now you say this to me when I’m finally happy? I’m flattered, and you know that I’ll always have a spot in my heart for you, but I don’t really know how to respond. Haha..” It was a happy speechless though, at the time I would have liked to believe it was true, but I kept my response ambiguous enough so he could be satisfied but contained to the extent that I knew I couldn’t marry someone lacking the persistency that I needed. Marriage was far fetched, and to be honest I was perfectly content and happy with whom I was with. I had the most incredible girlfriend at the time, she proved to me through her actions and reaction alone that it is possible for a human to perfectly imperfect, and to be able love unconditionally. It was effortless being with her, so I was careful with my words, but at the same time I agreed with him. It was an incredible feeling seeing someone progress so much over the years, going from a boy to a man. I was proud as well; he was handsome, compassionate, talented, and a joy to be around, he had a wonderful mind that kept me on my toes and always listening.
Months had passed, and I watched as his bright eyes became glossed with the overwhelming confrontation of reality.
“So… what’s going on?”
“Nothings wrong, music is going good, moving out to Berkeley next month, recording soon, things are alright.” My eyes skimmed the room and I couldn’t help but notice the books he wasted his time with; all focused on the corruption of the world and counterculture activism, and underground punk music, etc.. etc.. I missed my friend, whose tender heart radiated through is eager mind.
He lit another cigarette, “ I guess nothings right either… I dunno. It whatever. I just need some weed and I’m sure I’ll be more happy.” He chuckled to himself, revealing a stunning white smile.
My heart broke for the last time. “Trevor, you take care of yourself okay?”
“What do you mean? I am..”
“I mean, take it easy.. okay? I care about you, and I just think you owe it to your body to take-it-easy. Your burning yourself out. You’re gone. I can’t even look at you.”
“I’m just gonna smoke a bowl.” Responding to my reaction with more sympathy, “I’ll smoke it in here, don’t worry.”
“No,” I put on my coat, and gathered my things. “I’m going to head out.”
He looked up and we stared at each other for a long period of time, his face hindering misunderstanding behind his mask, and mine fluttered with emotion and pity.
“We’ll come here then.” He opened his arms on his bed for a hug, and I caved. This is the last time, I’m too late, he’s gone… I thought to myself and I walked out of the house unnoticed by some other friends. I stepped out of the house, examined the packed boxes and stacked chairs around the porch and composed myself.
I said the last goodbye to my huckleberry friend, and waved goodbye to the past as I rode away on my bike in state of absolute mourning. No person should lose their soul to their art, or to their mind, or to anything for that matter.
I wept through the park on my way home and began writing down the experience that just happened to me, but it was too much to scribble down, so I simply wrote,

“When the grim of innocence comes and steals the people you love, you cant help but stare…. with the same sunken expression they’ve brought upon themselves...”

A morning in my shoes

I woke up this morning, drooling on my friends living room pillows. My back was positioned in an arch between a stiff reading chair, and an even stiffer leather footrest. The first thought I had was not, "Sleep," and considering how late I was up, its surprising to me that I was able to open my eyes so early. Since this friend of mine lives in a gated community, its necessary to call the gate for any expected guests. Fortunately for me, I didn't have the number and I didn't feel like waking up anybody and dealing with the groggily stink eye. The next, and most reasonable alternative was to text my mother and tell her I would meet her at the Apple Hill community gate in approximately 20 minutes. As I tip toed over to my bag, threw it over my shoulder, I began to look for my little brown flip flops. Apparently, throwing random articles of clothing in the living room into the air, lifting up bags, peering under furniture and retracing my steps didn't exactly help me find the golden ticket. I checked the kitchen, stole a Popsicle while I was in there, (why not?) and left.

I know what you may be thinking, "I thought this was called A Morning In Abby's Shoes" Which is true yes, but in all actuality I was completely shoe-less for the entirety of the story.


At the time, in my early stages of consciousness this morning, I didn't consider the fact that its more socially unacceptable to posses the characteristics of a Wookie than to walk barefoot for an extended amount of time; however more so than the strangeness each possessed, the two combined left me feeling like a homeless lurker, roaming the streets in a very well established gated community. Besides every body knows that the only thing worse than a drunk hobo, is a sober one- those are the real crazies.
With the occasional rock stabbing my foot between crosswalks- which didn't bother me as much as you may think it would- I managed to continue making my way towards the gate. I decided to give my girlfriend a wake up call and tell her about my already odd morning and suggest we meet for coffee soon. I don't blame her for not answering; given her circumstances, having the luxury of her own bed to sleep in, I probably wouldn't have picked up either.
"Hey, this is Tayler's cell phone, leave a message and I'll call you back."
As tempted as I was to simply say, "Hey this is Taylers cell phone, I'll leave you a message and you'll call me back." I actually ended up leaving a very long and in depth voice mail for her to wake up to. It consisted of a brief introduction to my morning, probably a lot less brief than it seemed at the time, and my current state of balancing on the edge of the sidewalk as I continue my journey.
"Haha So, here I am walking baref-" .....
I look to my left and entering the gate I am now approaching, is a familiar face pulling into the development. She glances at me with the same expression of disgust and keeps driving. Incidentally, I managed to get distracted from the cliff of a sidewalk I was balancing on and my left foot slips from under me, adjusting my destination straight for the ground. Allowing me to do what most people would call, "Eating Shit." Yes, I figuratively sat down to a nice table, gently used my fork and knife to cut a slice of shit for myself to chew on and swallow... But not literally. No, literally, I fell off of the sidewalk and scraped my knee, but the way I fell reminded me of those old people infomercials, where they wear a special ring with a special button to press in case they've, "fallen and can't get up!" It was THAT kind of fall, a sort of slow, pathetic, collapse.
The remainder of the voice mail was me narrating my commentary on falling, and the humiliation that followed. After a few moments of awkwardness, I concluded the message by saying, "Good morning."

Pause.

Every so often, time appears to drag at the perfect place in time. For instance at the top of a ferris wheel, right before you know your the next person getting off of the ride, because only one other cart was occupied and they're exiting while you- the fortunate of the two passengers- gets to sit on top of the world for a few brief moments, and admire the less superior below you. Not that your boasting, you just make a conscious decision right then and there, as you feel the wheel come to a halt and your cart is rocking slightly enough to make you nervous, but it's the best kind of exhilaration one can get while riding a small towns ferris wheel.. Anyway, you make the decision on the spot to examine everything your feeling at that exact moment, you choose to not rush through that minute, and to soak it in, to appreciate it, and in return, because you were so observant and tuned into the world right then and there, the memory becomes vivid, and sticks out in the thousands of files labeled, "Good Moments" in your lifetime.
The fun thing about instances, is that there cannot and will never be two perspectives that are the same. Our eyes move quickly, and each sight, smell, or sound wave can trigger a different memory that reminds us of a time we felt a certain way, and then instantly we feel the way we did in the little movie clip projecting in our subconscious.
CAUTION: I advise you to press pause if the clip lasts longer than 1 minute
At that point, your probably zoning out.


The worst thing a person can do is close their eyes to a moment in the past to miss the beauty of the right now. Don't get me wrong, its absolutely wonderful to reminisce, to be nostalgic sometimes... heck, its even okay to mourn when need be, but if your anything like me, sometimes my visual memory distracts me from whats right in front of me.

Im probably making no sense.
O well.
:)

(worlds tallest file cabinet)

Sand in my buns

After a stressful move in the blistering heat, I sat on the same crappy mattress I've slept on for years and looked around at my new room. Everyone kept telling me, once you get all of your things unpacked you will feel settled; I had the same cluttered stuff in my old room, only now it was closer together and the only thing I could feel was claustrophobia. There was no sense of comfort. What an appropriate time to move, a point in life where discomfort has corrupted my mind. Maybe I'm spending too much time looking down, at my hideously shaped feet, my bulging skin, and shrinking cloths. I need to start looking up, at the vast open sky, my beautiful girlfriend, and everything else outside of what I am. I am weak, I am feeling broken, yet masochistically breaking myself for no valid reason.

Almost exactly twenty-four hours ago I wrote something so uplifting, so beyond this disgusting state of mind, and it puzzles me how drastic time can sculpt who you are. Last night I was a hopeless romantic, lingering on the beauty in life, and now here I am a self-conscious teenager with a one way ticket to "OB-city".

I wrote:

A world without love is like a world without color. In the ecstasy of salvation that bliss thrusts upon the once heavy heart, we are finally able to lift ourselves above the situational troubles that root us into this earth, and when finally the hands of our lover appear like shovels to dig us out of the ground, alas we float into a spiraling lift.

Even so, tragedy will find us, reoccurring in disguises that remind us of our solitude. It will tug on your shirt, and rob you of your sanity, but much like an unwelcomed guest, it too will go. Leaving you lost in your own mind. However, it's okay for a mind to be misplaced; the only thing that will keep you alive is your pulsating heart. So welcome the heart-aching love, it will exercise your muscles for the strength of another days surrender.

Orange Juice

An echoing silence bounces from wall to wall above me, and as the wind passes through my ears, drumming the beat of loneliness, I allow the liquid to drip down my throat like medicine, hoping to rescue me from this slumberous state. My eyes slowly begin to sink, and while the liquid from my gaze is lost, I climb back into the nook in my mind, where I sit and peer into the window of my soul. I've been here many times before, when I am lost, when I am empty, when life becomes far to loud, and the sounds carried by optimism become screeching tires, skidding past my driveway.

The room is dimly lit, and I appear as no more than a hunched silhouette in front of the window. I squint my eyes to adjust my vision, but like a broken focus on a crappy video camera, I am unable to see beyond the glare. The walls are green and aged, the ground is made of concrete and is stained with the same foul color.

"You must be envious." Says the fly, incapable of staying still. His twitching limbs disturb my eyes and I look away feeling defeated. "The things you do are meaningless, the words you speak are but decaying air, and every moment you feel more alive, you are a day closer to your death. Fear not, people will come and go like seasons, dismissing themselves when necessary but the colors you feel and the unfinished thoughts you possess are what define who you are."

"Go away." I lunged for his wings and slapped the wall with my palm, however there was no squish, nor was there a fallen creature. All that was left was the worlds that lingered inside of the room, painted into the motionless air.

I tried to cry, having chased away my only company but as my own thoughts began repainting the room, his were covered and after a few brief moments, I was unsure weather this had actually happened or not. I forgot why I wanted so badly to cry, and I distracted myself by the unorganized words that left me feeling oddly claustrophobic.

"Do you think anything lasts?" I realized the window I was looking out of was actually a projector, and as I scooted aside to see what it was playing, I saw a flickering version of my childhood self, looking up into my mothers eyes.

"Well..." She said..

Abruptly, it shut off, and the street outside became visible.

I don't like it here anymore, I thought to myself. I squeezed between the "t" of it and "h" of here, and made my way out of the door.

Take a nap, you shouldn't have done that..

Okay..

A Summer Funk

Seeing as 75% of my year is spent contemplating, analyzing and somehow managing to get my brain caught in the most tangled webs; you'd think once summer rolls around I'd be happy to take a break. There is a certain amount of mental preparation one usually decides to let go of once the final bell rings or once your last test is complete. Maybe my problem is holding on too much. I'm not talking about holding on to school, heavens no.. I'm talking about holding on to the luggage on my shoulders and carrying it with me.. It's what I'm craving anyway. So right now, while the temperatures are rising, my skin is cooking and I sit here and write this, I am painfully trying to teach myself to let go, because I rejected the carefree mentality before it was able to soak inside of me. I hate feeling unproductive.

Analogy of the day:

Holding a seashell; what a miraculous find, someone else's' old home washing up a shore and into my possession. The texture is soft and colored with deep coral blues. I took it home and set it on my shelf so that one day when I am feeling down, all i have to do is put the shell to my ear and hear the crashing waves once again. Well, I stubbed my toe, I got a terrible haircut, my dog is ill and I was rejected twice, I was feeling depressed so I listened.. and listened... and all it sounded like was emptiness. A shell with a hole, and wind blowing through. Thanks seashell, I'm glad I decided to save you...

(and no that was not supposed to rhyme lol)


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There will be times..

"There will be times to get dry, to get by...There will be times to cry and wonder why it didn't work out."
There will be times for ultimately everything. Through our unfamiliar stages of bliss and confusion, when you see the world below the peak of your happiness... there will times to look down and smile and times to cry out to the same you above, wishing it were still you up there... Ahh, the beauty of ambiguity. and blogs that no one follows. the truth is, these are all just letters to myself in the overwhelming stages of every feeling.



Dear Abby,

Today was strange. Where has it gone? It's nearly 6:30 and yet, here you sit having accomplished nothing. No, I take that back- first, turn off your music, your being influenced too heavily by the lyrics being sung to you.. now pause.. breathe in the empty noise.. and sing through your mind.. Continue..
The first silence of the day. The first time no one is here to distract my thoughts and direct them into their own direction; I am in control. I am writing at this hour, for the sake of pulling myself together.

Where to begin? What to touch upon..?
Well, it just so happens that sadness is much easier to express than happiness.
Maybe thats why I come off as such a cynic most of the time.

LIVE THE HAPPINESS
EXPRESS THE SORROW.

Words to live my life by.

My goal is to successfully paint a scene that I can't quite get out of my mind. Of course, I should probably inform you that this situation, and moment has never once occurred.. still, I like to decribe each feeling I have as a scene. Although the setting is fictional, during these past few days, the feeling has proven to be very much real and alive inside of me.


There is an empty apartment on 5th and California Street near the shores of Ocean Beach, San Francisco. It was left with stained walls, and rusted pipes that gave the room a charmingly aged sense of character. I walked into the room, picking up the last of my packaged belongings. All of the important stuff was gone; the old green couch, the antique coffee table between the fireplace and armrest, the old record player, our stacks of shelf-less books and of course the paintings that covered the wall separating the kitchen and living room.
It was once a dark winter evening, around 8 o'clock when the screeching breaks of the busses below came and went as we sat across from each other, staring attentively into the eyes of the other. "We made it" She spoke with an even tone, and eyes that lit my gasoline drenched heart. The match was struck, the fireplace crackled and as the old news papers crumpled away with the flying embers, the log began to catch the dancing flames. Nothing but the gentle glow escaping the wood, and the white christmas lights hanging above the perimeter of the ceiling gave us vision. Most of what were seeing was covered in flickering shadows, and between every blink we watched a moment of sorrow being paid of for this one simple moment of victory. "We finally made it." Tears streamed down your face, our breathing became heavy sighs of relief, and while the vibrant log became scattered ashes, we laughed and waited for the new day to come. "Let's not go to sleep." I couldn't think of anything I'd love to do more. We have every night ahead of us to collapse into ourselves, but for now.. the only thing I wanted to see was her, in the comfort of our shitty new home. It was perfect.

Time escapes us before we're able to react. Luckily, that last box hasn't even been packed yet. The silly trinkets overflowing the top haven't been bought. And while I watch time happen all at once from a perspective of what will soon be the "past" I wait, and admire the days that might... someday.. come. Like the time we first met for the second time.

One too many waffles.

Practicing the Rule of Right Now:

My favorite time of day is when the world is still, and the loudest sounds come from inanimate things, such as the humming refrigerator, or a ticking clock. Usually these sounds go unnoticed and become secondary to our active ears while we fill the air with our dominant presence during the day; Morning is the exception. When a simple sneeze is equivalent to an echoing firework, bouncing off the walls and disturbing the final chapters of the rest of the worlds dreams. I suppose being the early bird that I am, I'm expected to get my worm quietly and allow the others to wake up one by one.

Awake.. There are periods in my life when I no longer feel awake- for whatever reason. Overwhelmed by indifferent stages of nothingness, body aching, attention wondering, and all the while my eyes are closed. I lay down for bed at the end of the day, and if someone asked me an easy question like, "What did you have for lunch yesterday?" I couldn't even tell them, because the details become burdens unworthy of my thoughts, so I keeps myself shut and blindfold my eyes each morning before I wake up, to prepare them once again for sleep.

On the contrary- and there is always a bright side- the stages in which I am awake make up for my mental hibernation. Take the sky for instance: a storm will enter, the thunderous roars will boom their way to the next few towns over, and eventually all thats left is a colorless ceiling and melancholy ground below. BUT! (yes, there is an up side) If you pay close attention to the separating sky, the fragments of blue that peek their way through the cracks throughout the day begin to change colors. As the sun begins to set, the silver lining clouds become gold and each undefined shape is illuminated through the horizon. Blue becomes purple, then pink, then red, then orange, and the sun in all its glory, sits like a king on a throne of majesty and color. I'll scream inside of myself Welcome back light! I can see from the silhouetted mountain tops to the passing cars nearby. And in those few brief moments of admiration, I am awake. How long will the sunset last? Until the sun is set. How long until sunrise? Until it comes back around again. It is imperative that we sleep. It is necessary that we lost sight of ourselves, or the world around us, because our subconscious mind is merely

preparing us for the new day.

A little more elaboration behind my bowl of symbolism cereal:

I sat beneath my bedroom window with a blank piece of paper and a pen in hand. I looked up, and staring back at me was a set of curious brown eyes, one beaming with indescribable beauty, and the other half hidden behind a layer of hair falling forward. There are people you meet in life that see inside of themselves, and there are people that seek to see even further than that simultaneously.

"The eyes indicate the antiquity of the soul."

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

A Love Note:

You leer me in, into the depths to which your mind escapes and out the same way I feel your soul expanding. Your soft eyes, coated with compassion have a structured shield that allows us to take our steps carefully. I've broken the first window, and for once your beginning to see outside, even if it is through a shattered perspective, with edges of glass poking your view. I'm calling out, I'm inviting you to stumble down those stairs, to take my hand and walk with me on the dirty ground, towards a place that may or may not even exist. You don't have to leave your luggage, bring it with you, and when the time is right you'll have forgotten it someplace a long the way. Your going to get sick of it, and if it means that much to you, I'll hold it every once in a while so your mind can have a break, and your muscles can recover. But anyway, besides that... the road ahead is only lit as far as our buses headlights, I don't know where we're going; We both have the ability to pull the "Next Stop" cue, and get off individually, but to tell you the truth I like the tacky lighting in here, I like the uncomfortable plastic seats, and all the people staring from across the floor; something about it's unwelcoming appearance, makes it feel a little more like home next to you.

Falling through disappointment, and shattering into wonder..

There is something beautiful about the vulnerability that sadness brings upon us; the shattered structure of our hearts crack, and although the pain is distracting, it is in this period of time, when the open wounds bleed without covering that our souls appear to be welcoming to any kind of growth. Of course, it feels as though we have lost ourselves, and while we struggle to obtain the security of structure, and reach to cling onto something substantial- we forget to change the lens of our perspective. Empty? No, not at all. You are spread across the world around you, you are becoming one with the people around you, because you realize it's too hard to do it on your own, and for a series of brief moments, the sun's consistency is all you need to lean on. The simplest of things supply for you wholesome moments of satisfaction.

Even so, you cry out for justice, to be able to rise "above" this state of mind. Yet the minute your last toe lifts from the ground, you're stuck rising, and this bothers you. Me. If there is anything in this world I hate most, it's feeling STUCK. I need space, and distance from myself. I don't want to know just who I am yet, it takes the fun out of living. So when I'm screaming at the edge of a bridge for a sign, or drinking myself numb, or sneaking onto the top of a movie theaters roof just to feel the current against me, I'm okay. I'm alive. I don't necessarily need anything, but the open spirit that comes and goes inside of me. Much like happiness, sadness is a passing feeling, along with recklessness, instability, invincibility.. You have to hit rock bottom, in order to find a reason to climb back to the top.

Jumping Bones

Relax, I told myself. It was practically the middle of the day, yet the clock on the wall to my right only read 8:25a.m. The murmering class continued their early morning conversations as I stumbled into the room, probably with a whimsical expression. My muscles refused to listen, and while I tried my best to remain composed- or at least appear seem so- I couldn't help but notice my figeting fingers shake. My eyes were sinking, and my posture completely alert. There must be some sort of switch inside of my brain that can allow me to transition more easily.

I have to pee now.

refreshed.

I regret to inform you blog, that I am in a state of very little progression.

Nothing is making sense, my words, my blogs, my actions, and the concepts I am struggling to re-obtain in my mind are slipping, and I feel as though I am waving goodbye, as I enter a state of contentment.

Backwards progression; the writters, and artists own personal hell.

I feed off of my mind, and I collect my thoughts from absract details that catch my eye.

Where do I stand? You ask (probably not though)

And I reply with an ambiguous description:

I am of a very strange species, where in my habitual self I am forever unsatisfied. In my puddles of sorrow, I drink to quench the dried out happiness. And when I am on the verge of insanity, I contrast my uncollected self by delivering my overwhelming thoughts with words, with sounds, with images, and ideas that give me purpose and something to aim for. On the contrary, once this thirst is quenched, and I am finally able to recognize the passing of time and welcome carelessness back into my life. What's the problem then? (and still, probably not)

I crave suffering, I crave isolation, I long to be unembraced and broken and have something to pour myself into, in order to release my soul from its misery. Thats living- for the artist at least. I cannot write, I cannot speak, and I cannot explain to any of my readers the misery to which happiness is capable of bringing.

My mind when I am a mess:

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and i find the words to pull from the batch..

My mind when I am artificially "happy":

It's not enough yet. To soon it was then now overthere you are here sky floor smile and greet write it down OH! look at it go wave goodbye time sucess structureless emotionless meaningless powerless...... numb. You but space are a bar words line speaking between sentaces. STOP. Keep smiling. STOP. Write about your day. STOP. What are you talking about? No, that doesn't make sense at all. No ones going to enjoy that, what good will that do.

yet, in social situations I am talkative and can carry on a casual conversation for hours.

Break your own heart now.

Rob yourself.

..What?

I go through stages, and here comes a visual stage, because as you can see, writing is no longer coming naturally.

sdxrcftgyvbhujinmk,l

The Sinking Tug Boat

It's interesting to examine the hovering neighbor ships that sail among the same brutal waves we all seem to struggle in. The tempest inside of our souls travels through our bloodstream a follows the same inconsistent path of the wind. When, in this state of isolation we find ourselves screaming out to an empty horizon, and the irony of it all is that most of us prefer the surrounding water to be empty. Perhaps it is in our own self-righteous nature to skim past the beckoning light that others present to us in such brutal conditions. For me at least, it's never really hope I'm searching for, its resurrection.


For instance, if some sort of prized possession of mine breaks, I have to be the one to fix it, or else the object loses its charm. Fortunately for me, every christmas since I was old enough to write a list for santa, has consisted of at least one electronic gadget, or a gift that still needs to be assembled after the box is ripped open. I've always had bad luck with objects, or gifts; I never seem to get one that functions properly. I specifically remember one time in particular , saving up to get a Game-Cube; I was about eleven, and I'd spend months saving up for the stupid thing. The best feeling an unspoiled child could ever have is not having the strength to clip your hello-kitty wallet shut on the way to splurging all your hard work. I practically danced my way into the Circuit-City checkout line. Then, after a 30 minute drive home with sore cheeks and muscle spasms every stop light, I ran into my room to set it up only to find out that the game I bought, wouldn't start without first recognizing a memory card. Oh the agony and frustration, and amount of disappointment I felt. I'll never forget sitting on my bed, arms crossed, with the blaring sound of static on the TV and no way of putting my new toy to use. Of course, my loving father eventually picked up an old memory card for me use, but the bitterness I had towards the thing never really went away.

The contrast between those two paragraphs made me giggle. I guess the point I'm trying to make is that in these stages of disappointment, when the world robs you of your hand crafted happiness, theres nothing anyone else can really do to satisfy you, until you yourself can come out of the storm with some sort of wound to prove your success. I'm not sure if that exmple has ANYTHING to do with the kind of inner sinking I was originally intending to elaborate on, but I suppose that short memoir will do for now.

Tra-la-la...

Blogology: The Study of Blogging

Justification:

In an effort to make an appearance in the blogging community, I decided to no longer remain maladjusted in the small town of "Tumblr." If it we're up to me there wouldn't be a thousand different websites to sell my soul to; as it is, I am here simply to translate my unfiltered thoughts and feels into little black pixels to make myself feel more welcomed, or alive.. haha. Excuse my tone of mockery, but as more and more of my friends began blog-spotting, I realized it was time for me to convert..

For starters.. here are some of my favorite quotes. Quotes that have helped shape me into the person I've become..

“It seems to me that almost all our sadnesses are moments of tension, which we feel as paralysis because we no longer hear our astonished emotions living. Because we are alone with the unfamiliar presence that has entered us; because everything we trust and are used to is for a moment taken away from us; because we stand in the midst of a transition where we cannot remain standing. That is why the sadness passes: the new presence inside us, the presence that has been added, has entered our heart, has gone into its innermost chamber and is no longer even there, - is already in our bloodstream. And we don’t know what it was. We could easily be made to believe that nothing happened, and yet we have changed, as a house that a guest has entered changes. We can’t say who has come, perhaps we will never know, but many signs indicate that the future enters us in this way in order to be transformed in us, long before it happens. And that is why it is so important to be solitary and attentive when one is sad: because the seemingly uneventful and motionless moment when our future steps into us is so much closer to life than that other loud and accidental point of time when it happens to us as if from outside. The quieter we are, the more patient and open we are in our sadnesses, the more deeply and serenely the new presence can enter us, and the more we can make it our own, the more it becomes our fate.”

—

Rainer Maria Rilke “The truth is that our finest moments are most likely to occur when we are feeling deeply uncomfortable, unhappy, or unfulfilled. For it is only in such moments, propelled by our discomfort, that we are likely to step out of our ruts and start searching for different ways or truer answers.” — M. Scott Peck "Writing and reading decrease our sense of isolation. They depen and widen and expand our sense of life: they feed the soul. When writers make us shake our heads with the exactness of their prose and their truths, and even make us laugh about ourselves or life, our buoyancy is restored. We are given a shot at dancing with, or at least clapping along with, the absurdity of life, instead of being squashed by it over and over again. It's like singing on a boat during a terrible storm at sea. You can't stop the raging storm, but singing can change the hearts and spirits of the people who are together on that ship." -Anne Lamott