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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kjnfgkjdfnkgjnfkdjngkfjdgnkreoiurenvnmcmunderstandjnfgkjnfoveranalyzekjnlnfgdevelopkfjnkcomposeklnflgcreatenlk

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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.

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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