Mind?

My Usher like mind is falling
I'm trying to live in the cracks.
I hate that I've realized the foundation
but I'm constantly being told to hammer it out.
Break



Break.

What if it all turns to pebbles?
Maybe I should play in it like a child.

And you have no idea what I'm talking about.

Let me back up,
back to a backstory.
Should I leave out certain scenes,
because they are the important ones.

Review:
We have all been hurt.
We are all haunted by our hurts.
Let's not let them get the better of our hearts, as we give ourselves over to apathy.
Like the children. They know better than to get hurt.
Life is superficial.


And I am lost.

Invade

Thoughts seem to be invading my mind.
I am sick of it.
We are supposed to be okay with being alone,
and being solitary for a time is fine.

I know not what to think.
Perhaps I should include you in my memories?
Would you be my amulet?

"Die Wahrheit ist grausam, drum shenck mir einen Traum"

I am a fortune teller
for children and myself.
I make the myths of maybes
in my mind
for you to kill.

And I don't know what I am saying anymore.
And I need your guidance.

Night

Writing

I am told to write
by my friends and professors
by all the institutions I find myself bound to
but I write for the child in me still playing barbies.

Sorry if you take part in my stories. Aliases will ensue.
I'm not asking for a how or a why, but a simple what.
I understand some detachment but
not speaking without talking.
What happened to conversations?
Maybe they are just toxic.

Perhaps I'll run away to Canada to work as a late night cook in some town.
That would make me happy for a week or two.
Travel is strange; I always take too much baggage.

I may look back and laugh, but I doubt my parody of life is that comical.
Too much time alone with only a digital friendship is probably worse than cabin fever.

You told me to write for others, but perhaps this blog is free therapy.
I suppose that makes you my lab rats?

I was never good at science, pardon theoretical physics.

I want to write to make sense
to include others in a private life, getting out of a modern mindset
to fill a void made in humanity
understanding my prayers to symbols


Perhaps next time we will dance, but for now I have stare at the future in the splinters of my bed.

And here we go...

Let's detach for a moment.
I wish it was that easy.
Perhaps, I come off as too personal. And maybe we don't really want to know one another.
Another modernist flaw.

I spend my nights staring at the bed above me, trying to find the future in the grains. My evenings are spent trying to force thoughts through motions.
How about you?
Am I being too personal?

Maybe we'll wait another day to say words as dissociated as possible.
Maybe you'll see through the words and truly understand the book.

Detach.

It is the beginning of the last chapter of this book. This series feels like it can fill a book-shelve.
I dislike books that make you cry, but goodbyes are always hard.
It may even be a farewell.

And I sing
I just want to swim.

She Wants Revenge

"She Will Always Be A Broken Girl" by She Wants Revenge


She buys a new dress for the party,
She always looks good in red.
Turns around in front of the mirror
And disappears inside of her head.
She wonders if he'll even remember,
She asked him in a casual way.
Just in case he didn't want to go with her,
In that event she knew just what she would say.

She thought of maybe asking a girlfriend,
Even though she only has one or two.
She's always done much better with boys anyway,
So who needs girlfriends?
Pacing nervous across the floor of her bedroom,
Gripping tight the phone in her hand.
Fighting back the rush of emotions,
And dreaming of just having a man..

It's a long walk,
And the music is loud.
She sees an old friend,
And she walks through the crowd.
Puts on her best smile,
But underneath it she's a broken girl.

But it's a long walk,
And the music is loud.
She sees an old friend,
As she walks through the crowd.
Puts on her best smile,
But she will always be a broken girl.

She struggles with an awful decision,
Stay at home or walk in alone.
Her mother does her best to console her,
Her father doesn't know what to say.

Puts on her makeup,
Puts on the new dress.
Holds her head high then gets in the car.
Tells herself that no one will notice,
Assuming she can make it that far.

On the way she imagines reactions.
Cupped hands whispering into ears.
Secretly hoping that he'll be there watching,
And she's also hoping he won't.

Walking tentative alone up the driveway,
Sees some people smoking off to the side.
She stops and waits until they go back in,
Crosses her fingers and follows behind.

It's a long walk,
And the music is loud.
She sees an old friend,
And she walks through the crowd.
Puts on her best smile,
But underneath it she's a broken girl.

It's a long walk,
And the music is loud.
She sees an old friend,
As she walks through he crowd.
Puts on her best smile,
But she will always be a broken girl.

He'll never get you, he will never understand.
He'll never get you, you can find a better man.
He'll never get you, he will never understand.
He'll never get you, you can find a better man.
He'll never get you, he will never understand.
He'll never get you, you can find a better man.
He'll never get you, he will never understand.
He'll never get you, you can find a better man.

He'll never get you, he will never understand.
He'll never get you, you can find a better man.
He'll never get you, he will never understand.
He'll never get you, you can find a better man.

He'll never get you, he will never understand.
He'll never get you, you can find a better man.
He'll never get you, he will never understand.
He'll never get you, you can find a better man.
He'll never get you, he will never understand.
He'll never get you, you can find a better man.

This might be the time to break down.
This might be the time to break down.
This might be the time to break down.
This might be the time to break down.
This might be the time to break down.

Hush child, don't make a sound.























Thank you She Wants Revenge. I wonder how long 'always' is, and if I will always be a broken girl.
These thoughts have been plaguing me recently. I thought it was just because of my sleeping situation, but I ran and still cannot sleep.
Damn.

Happy New Year.
(For more music and word choices, look up Motion City Soundtrack's "Together We'll Ring In The New Year")

The Future is Scary

It seems that this time of the year people begin to plan for the future. Another ten years has gone by and we are still here.
Graduation is more terrifying than it was four years ago. We knew we didn't have wings, and we were so sure of ourselves. We knew what the future held. After plans fell through and life changed, we are not sure of anything.
Where to go next year? Shall I begin my life professionally? Continue as a student of words? Both?
This is far too personal.

What grounds you to the world? Why do you not pick up and fly away? Is it your own basis towards the home you have made? Your friends and family? Are you happy where you are?
Where would you be if you had a chance?

A friend once told me that we should be like turtles, going wherever we want and have the home on our backs. We should be okay with ourselves wherever we go.
Be okay to retreat from the world.

RETREAT! RETREAT!
The world is scary.

The comfort of our minds is only so safe. We have our own haunts and demons that are just waiting for us to give up on reality.

I am okay with being a turtle. Going around the world slowly, interacting as little possible, feeling secure in oneself. That is fine. But the whole conversation, I thought of one page in Small Gods by Terry Pratchett.

Now consider the tortoise and the eagle.

The tortoise is a ground-living creature. It is impossible to live nearer the ground without being under it. Its horizons are a few inches away. It has about as good a turn of speed as you need to hunt down a lettuce. It has survived while the rest of evolution flowed past it by being, on the whole, no threat to anyone and too much trouble to eat.

And then there is the eagle. A creature of the air and high places, whose horizons go all the way to the edge of the world. Eyesight keen enough to spot the rustle of some small and squeaky creature half a mile away. All power, all control. Lightning death on wings. Talons and claws enough to make a meal of anything smaller than it is and at least take a hurried snack out of anything bigger.

And yet the eagle will sit for hours on the crag and survey the kingdoms of the world until it spots a distant movement and then it will focus, focus, focus on the small shell wobbling among the bushes down there on the desert. And it will leap . ..

And a minute later the tortoise finds the world dropping away from it. And it sees the world for the first time, no longer one inch from the ground but five hundred feet above it, and it thinks: what a great friend I have in the eagle.

And then the eagle lets go.

And almost always the tortoise plunges to its death. Everyone knows why the tortoise does this. Gravity is a habit that is hard to shake off. No one knows why the eagle does this. There's good eating on a tortoise but, considering the effort involved, there's much better eating on practically anything else. It's simply the delight of eagles to torment tortoises.

But of course, what the eagle does not realize is that it is participating in a very crude form of natural selection.

One day a tortoise will learn how to fly.

I am afraid of being the flying tortoise. How do you know where to live?
I do not know how to ground myself to myself and to one location. Location is everything. Imagine Huck Finn in Egypt or Greece. Imagine Great Gatsby in 1500s Britain.
What makes you stay in one place or leave it? How do you choose a location to live in for a time.

The future is freaking me out. Damn New Years.

For the first time

To write without an audience in mind. You could be friends, strangers, or my future self reading this. How interesting.

Students are taught to analyze their audience before they put words on a screen or page.
Writers are labeled as selling out if they write for their audience.
I
I am just writing. Opening up a conversation with you, with words, with the other personae in my mind.
So Wilkommen.

I suppose introductions are in order.
I am.
You are.

But to be more concrete--
I am wearing pajama pants, a black button down with a red silk tie, and a fauxhawk.
I am female.
I use words when they don't escape me.
I am listening to Oomph!
I took a break from reading Winesburg, Ohio when I saw a note to myself to start a blog.

What about you?
What do you want as a reader? What am I supposed to blog about.
I blog. You blog. He/She/It blogs.
What a funny word. Say it out loud, externalize it.
I am not quite sure what a blog is, but this is mine and input is welcome.