A dream-beautiful scream

Time for the obvious.
I do not handle goodbyes well.

There are too many awkward allusions around my mind that completely make sense to no one.

Jobs are just paying books. A way to escape.

Escapism.

What is the reality that we try so desperately to escape from? The one thing that eats away at us until we make the final escape?

Escapism is all that matters.

Can i escape into words
because images are too much like dreams of infinites that never could be
and there is nowhere to call a rooted home
with ties so easily severed and awkwardly forgotten

T.S. Eliot

and coffeespoons.

Are these the best way to measure out one's life?

I have read Eliot, Pound, Woolf, Joyce, Yeats, Austen, Brontes, Hesse, Hemmingway, Hawthorne, Poe, Plath, Dickenson, Walker, Milton, Shakespeare, Conrad, Ginsburg, Dickens, Fitzgerald, Ibsen, Carter, and the ilk.
I have graduated from college and a prep high school.
I go to coffeehouses, attend poetry readings, and enjoy chess games with discussion of philosophy in the background.

Why am I not happy with this knowledge?
It takes roleplaying in my friend's basement, jamming out to a mix cd, and late night waffle house visits to make me pleased.
It is all about connection. My connections are put on hold, perhaps indefinitely.
How do you make conversation?

When the story ends

I am decaying away.
Trapped in a castle of anxiety, social expectations, and words. I try to run away, but it is difficult when there are no spoken ties to happiness and blood ties to responsibility.

Now, I feel like I'm 18 again. Bumming around.
I want to smell the freedom of failure and a smile on my cheek. I want to hear broken and tainted words because we are all broken and tainted.

I want to find a job and live on my own and complete what is deemed necessary for happiness.
Where are you truly happy?

I feel like I'm crumbling.

Let me try again

I want to take this hammer,
break the walls of reality.
to fantasy.


I don't know what I'm doing. Years of preparation for being treated like I'm a little girl again.

I will make some difference. I have to. I can't sit still.

I, I, I, I, I
Dumb. Let's try not saying that letter outside of words or narcissism and crazy will ensue.

Let's make you matter, or him, or her. Let's make people matter.

There was a she once. She was a friend, a great friend, but left for the flute section and we parted. No good words were had ever. Nothing mattered. We faded. We were mortal.

Then there was a they. Eleven. No power to be had. It is why we disbanded. "What do you think of Elder?"
"It was supposed to be funny."
"You bitch"
Fade. Fade. Fade, but a return later.
"You don't like this store. Wait out here."
"You don't like him."
"You chose his side."
"Love, Best Friend."


Words are eternal.
Make them matter, make you matter.


Let's start new words, enough to be told no.

Day Five

I graduated five days ago.
I suppose that's it for a town I never loved until the end.
Hopefully, not of people.

I was a nomad living off of kindness and a debit card.
Not to be remembered for that, hopefully.

Oh, we sing for memories, but what do they do for us?
Coming home, I have to merge two rooms into one clean one.
What do we throw away? What memories are important enough to keep?

The second grade poem about a red tail hawk?
The quarter aliens that used to have a society, stories, in my mind?
The written note from a friend saying, you keep us together. no one gives you credit. i love you.
The candles won from a silly contest?

Where do we put the stuffed animals fictitious children will not care about?


What do we count as important?
The bad memories are in a box in the attic.
Don't remember the dog, the futon, the manatee bracelet.

I suppose the walking across a deafened stage passed me into adulthood.
Childhood memories, storylines, and hopes can be forgotten.
Time to grow up.
Find a job
any job
except THAT job.

Stand in line. Smile. Cry.
Walk with dignity because of course you are special.
Now live without any knowledge of how to breathe.

Das Ende

Not of this
or of you
Not of what I've become.

The end, which is just a beginning as I'm constantly reminded.
I should just be happy. Take horns in the ribs.
Ignore the blood it spills and look forward to riding this bull

til the end?

It doesn't quite feel like a chapter. If it is, then my book isn't balanced.
It has to be a novella at least. I don't want that much more horrific conflict.
Adulthood.
Time to leave being a young adult at 20. Why did I ask for this?
Did I?

How do you leave a place, people, a life, that you were so recently given? Appreciated.
This question makes me feel self depreciating. I wasted years in a Syndrome (Stockholm style).

How do you mount a new life if you are not sure what size large animal you are trying to tame?

Answers would be nice, but they don't know their budget.
Ridiculous.

[end of silliness]

How are you?

Nothing to talk about

Sorry if I have been elusive.

I am trying to be teacher and student. Adult and young adult. Living in reality and trying to escape it whenever possible.
It leads to misanthropy. I really do not think it is too much to ask people to respond to me. Maybe it is. My students did it pretty well yesterday.
I was preached to. If I told them my thoughts, I would be asked not to come back. But they fall in line well.

Does other religions upset you? Would you have had the balls enough to tell your high school teacher that they were going to hell unless they found God?

My time as an undergraduate is coming to an end, and I don't know how to handle it.
I cannot handle people who do not listen to advise.
I cannot handle people act like I am a burden.
I cannot handle the sky blue question mark with gray and green fog.
Nope.
This isn't happening.

Let me run.