Timeless

To me, it is simply astonishing what events can unfold in the course of a night. Unrepeatable, I embarked on escapades that were not thought feasible just twenty minutes earlier. I'm glad I decided to put myself on the back burner and take others advice. I do feel like I'm some what using you, dear friend of mine, to escape the everyday troubles that I experience. I feel guilt. Let me make it up to you (even though you say I need not do so) and let me take you on an adventure that you may not see the likes of ever again. I let my tongue go loose and lose my control, but isn't that what you asked me to do? So why do I feel so guilty? Why do I care where you end up if it so you that gets hurt, not me? I can't help but think that deep down, hidden like that of an ice burg who hides his body bellow the ocean' surface, that I might actually care. It scares me. Despite this, I think I am only trying to be unbiased, taking the view of an onlooker. I don't feel that way! That is why this is so confusing. Hear me through, I still remain steadfast to my original goals, as much of a curse as that is, and I denounce any internal feelings I may have.

Most recently, I see myself, my life, the events of my existence, as being a book. Though the chapters are not numbered, I see the plot unraveling to reveal a story webbed together with irony and pattern. How cliche would it be for me, ME, to write a book about myself. I just can't see that ever happening. It's not that I don't think it would interesting, I just feel that having the urge to write an autobiography at such an age is preposterous. I don't think I am going anywhere soon, as in I doubt I will die in the near future. I'm simply terrified I am losing my thoughts and memories to the clock. What a way that would be to suffer.

A Moment We Store Away

I am weak. These days seem so long and then they pass by without a remembrance. I don't remember what happened a week ago today, or what I ate for lunch on Monday, but that doesn't mean those things don't matter. They matter to me. Some how I feel my grip slowly slip away. I wish it wasn't there to begin with. It is better to not know so that this frustration would be avoided.

I am not losing my mind. I am not losing my mind. I am not losing my mind. I have only found it.

It's strange to think a week ago I was ready to pack up and leave. As easy as that sounds, and as if I could really do that. But, I thought I could and that's all that mattered. I scrutinize others and discover myself a hypocrite. I offer advice, but I do not accept it. I just want so badly to be better off on my own. I doubt I will ever be on my own, fore, "No matter how far you travel... to whatever reaches of this limitless universe...you will never be...ALONE!" -The Watcher, Fantastic Four #13, May 1963

Nothingness Is Everything And More

I would rather read than do anything else. Today was not great. Tomorrow will be not great. So why do I long so much for the weekend when I am most alone then? I love being alone; I hate it. It is a blessing and a curse all rolled up in one, only to be as simple as it is; not having anyone. As bleak as it sounds, as sad and malignant as it may be, I want this lack of presence to embrace me. I want to walk as a ghost through crowded halls and hellish homes. I can see it now: a gray blip on the radar of hundreds as they scurry around in search of knowledge. Just a faint outline walking nonchalant with both the worriers and the worrisome. I know this is not realistic. That is why I return to my dreams once again tonight. Goodnight.

Amour

You are my beloved, my most trusted.
And every time you look my way you push me further from your day.
But truly, most desperately, I need you in a way that I could never say.
When you enter a room, the smile that loomed, fades away.
The more I think about you the more I cry. I fear I may need to die.
If I am every to catch your sparking eye. If I am to ever been in your life.
So say not that I need to stop this absurd business, because it's listless, my feeling for you, the Only person who can wipe the smile from my face when I see you.
You too may feel blue, but it is nothing compared to what I have experienced in my troubled days.
Where I may have lay in my bed and said, "Please take me away."
I need you to know, I still like the way you walk, the way you talk.
The way you say every little thing in the most peculiar way.
But this day is not the day to tell you because on this day, like the rest.
You are happy and I am sad.
I dare not reverse that.

Sunny Delight!

Every time you get near me, you push me away. I like you, but you are going to need to clarify on what is supposed to happen when, well, you know. And when, that too. See it's all a bunch of inconsistent, no that's not the right word. It's like when your frien

I'll leave it at that.

Predictability

Purely from an objective view, I look back on the the greater area that we inhabit and, to my surprise, I find that we seek the most complexity possible. How can someone so intricate and detailed in every way, shape, form, and fashion, discover the next person. Is it not a formidable task to discover oneself? Must we seek to interact with those who we encounter in a day to day setting? I think NOT! But we do. We are sometimes more interested in others that ourselves, or even vice-versa. How do we find this middle, because I am struggling, inverting from one to another. I'm finding it difficult to concentrate on the world and still find times to explore myself. I think, though I have never gone through this before, that I am at a point where self exploration is inexhaustible and better yet, designed to be explored now. Although I have these notions, it doesn't appear they are right. Stop pushing me to explore the world when for the last decade I have been accomplishing that very feat (with limited success). I just want a break, possibly long enough to determine what and who I am/ who I want to be. It's as simple as that. Change is coming. I can feel it.

Hall

Conform if you must. I refuse to follow the crowd. I only hope someone notices me for doing so. Not only notices me, admires my noble cause. I loath those who take it sitting down and complain of being wronged. Not I. As proactive as I can be, I will hold steadfast to my cause. As worthy as I seem, I am not as strong as you. I have waited over two years for this one moment, the brief seconds measured in steps, words, and breaths. You are more breath taking than I could have ever imagined, and yet, I know this will surmount to nothing. Unlike me, you have someone to hold you through these cold winter months. It saddens me though to think if this were not true, if you would truly wonder into my arms, because I doubt it. Our brier encounter is nothing compared to the years accumulated by others. I simply took in your beauty as you watched. I don't know what you know any more, but I'm sure you are just as scared as I am, not because we share common feelings, but because you don't and I still do. I feel pathetic holding on for all this time. I only wish you the best, and me not to get hurt.

I don't know!

Sometimes I feel that every thing is only a figment of my own thought. How preposterous you say? What's to say that I am not in such a deep sleep, such a deep trance that I cannot break. I look at the world in the present, but one can only see so much. I mean the present is only a few seconds long, long enough to remember somethings and forget others. For the most part I reside in the past. Although it is easy to seek refuge in what is certain, I do so not for the safety but the comfort it brings half knowing what is about to happen. For certain the course has run it's cycle and all that we experience are the tiny deviations and the occasional absurdity. I'm not crazy when I say this. It is just in our best nature. I thrive on those wakeful nights in which my dreams get jumbled with reality. When it has come to this point, it's about time to stay awake, and awake I stay tonight.

I wouldn't mind if someone came out of the wood-work and told me I am special. I like to think that I don't care what people think about me, but the truth is I have forgot my old ideals. I think that in some way shape or form everybody is like this. With everyone urning for this, no one can seem to find relieve. All hope is lost. It's a tragedy if you think about it. Our selfish, juvenile world has no reciprocation.

I loath you. You fooled me. You bamboozled me! It is so true that you were too good for me. Somehow I deceived myself to think that it was possible. I am just really sad about it all. The least you could have done was tell me. The most considerate thing you could have done was give me a chance. I weep in your memories. Thanks.

Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat...

As of this far life had been a let down. We grow up thinking our parents are some clairvoyant, magical people when they are not. We are led to believe that we are unique and special only to find out there are a million other people just as gifted and "special" as us. It is astonishing how we manage to get out of bed everyday knowing we are repeating the same vicious cycle that has stolen our childhood. The day seem shorter now, but then again, there are less of them than there were before. They are numbered in some leather-bound book along with everyone' s date of departure. Some how people get past this and make it though the perforated barrier to the other side. Not I! For reasons that I do not know, I cannot. It's like a skipping CD that can't get past the first song. By playing the system, the system has played me. It's like I wasn't supposed to follow the rules and be good and all that shit. No, it wasn't.

Raining Sunshine

You lead me down the path that goes through a meadow filled with wild grasses. Green and yellow litter the land that we meander through. Your footsteps sound confident and calculated the longer we walk. As a gentle breeze sweeps up the fragrance of the red wild flowers that dot the land scape, you put your hand on the small of my back, half smiling as you do so, and give me a nudge in the right direction. I go left, accompanied shortly by you. Whether an hour or a month pass, I fatigue not. We pick us a steady pace and walk with our heads down, eyes on our feet. I am barefoot, you are not. The further we go, the more the path narrows with foliage. First the supple touch of juniper bushes, but this quickly dissipates and is replaced with pyracanthas. Their berries tempt me. They taste so satisfying, yet are poison to me and me journey, possibly a delay if not a shortcoming to this new adventure. "I seek their forbidden fruit no more!", I say and continue on. They pierce my soul, claw away at my delicate skin until I scar and the pain is too much to bare. At this point I am shuffling sideways with my arms high above my armpits in an effort to avoid the inevitable. And still I move on without question. I dare not question. You take me to this extravagant perch located at the edge of a cliff; red rocks scatter the land scape and envelop my senses. You put your hand on the small of my back, just as you have a dozen times, only this time with a grin; more or less a smirk. I think nothing of it. You insure that I go over. I look up only to find that I have been bamboozled! Walk away as should. You turn your back and retreat in search of another.

Coloring Book

We are entitled to our own flaws. That which set us apart from the rest unite us in the most wholesome and beautiful way. For those who make a conscious choice and commit to being the most anomalous person they can, I commend you. I could not express greater loath toward those who think it shameful to be different. Break out that box of crayons, color the day in the most vibrant hues of gray.

Now I speak to you, phonies, impostors, and pseudos, you are not fooling anyone the way you idolize those who are the most pure definition of different. I see through you like a window. I'm not saying you can't pull inspiration from others around you, just do it in a way that creates a unique musical anecdote worthy of telling the world.

One Dozen. No More, No Less

I guess somethings weren't meant to be. The evidence is so overwhelming, I fear I am naïve for believing otherwise. My only flaw was not lying, for a fake is more redeemable than a failure. I was not anticipating this acrimonious taste of defeat. Chewing on wormwood would only make this feeling mellifluous. I have serious doubts of myself. I don't think I am just being critical or caustic. I admit to the world at large that I am flawed in more ways than one. If this is the epiphany I reach tonight next to my alky, so be it. Bring delirium to me fast so that I may sleep the night away peacefully. These dreams seem so vivid, and yet, even they don't take me away from the lingering pain that festers in daily routine.

Death In the Afternoon

All I can taste is that familiar pungent feeling. It's like if I had never tried it I would never walk through life knowing or regretting it. I'm not sure I regret it yet, but I do wish I had weighed the consequences. I am tainted. Or at least I feel tainted. I am not alone in this spoiling of spirit, and yet that does not comfort me in the least bit. Everywhere I go I can help think of it and its distinct characteristics. Although it is constantly on my mind, I don't yearn for it as others do. This possession prized by some, hoarded by others, is scaring me in ways I never thought imaginable when I was naïve. It has distorted my vision of the world so that I can not fathom minute fragrances. It is hard to picture a world without such corruption, but I wouldn't know. I never try.

People, Places, Percolating

Sometimes I feel like I can be someone else. I feel like I can see what they see. Feel how they feel, if only for a moment. It's as if I can imagine what conflicts, internal and external, are existing at this very moment for someone else. This people watching has become people being. Simply being someone else as far as my vivid imagination can conjure. For some it just brushes the surface to obvious characteristics, but for others, it involves going deeper into the unknown. I travel to past memories that although made up, seem oh so real to me. I develop a plot equipped with a setting, characters, and morals, just like that of a bestseller straight from my thought to the shelves of the nearest book store. These tales are anything but gruesome. Everyone has problems, big or benign, so they too possess such marred qualities. Everyone is trying to catch a break and leave a namesake. All matters are taken into account in my dark and sinister tales. I leave nothing to the imagination, but some thoughts are so vague that ten become impossible to count how many possible outcomes there are. I will let you into on a little secret; they are all bad. I do not foresee a positive outcome for the lost and downtrodden. As far as a pessimist goes, I am generous as I annotate their ever move and counter with reaction. If I am the only one who does this, call me crazy. Call me what ever brings a smirk to you face and a skip to your step because when you are not brooding, I will.

These Sunny Nights

I guess happiness is just unreachable. That self-awareness that we seek is just as fake as my friendships. No doubt about it, people are nice when they need something and quickly ditch the act as soon as they get it. They for get where they came from. I'm not sure if this is because these very same people are competing with me for attention, or superiority. You know, I really don't really have any ambitions of being superior. Isn't it the struggle that is more fun than the accomplishment. And even when you get there, it's nerve-racking to keep it because you always know that there is someone else who is striving for the same thing. I just want to be the quiet one in the back plotting their demise. I just want to taste advantage. All of this normality is sickening. I know you might say I could be worse off, but I'm sure as the morning will come that I could be in better standing. I don't really care where I stand with my friends, or rather the people who care about me. I just sometimes wish I was friends with a less intellectual crowd. I feel so inferior. I know I am. It sickens me to admit it, but I'm not as intelligent as them. If only they could come out of the woodwork and tell me it doesn't matter to them, that they like me the way I am and that they wouldn't trade me for the world. It's because I feel that way about them. They deserve to know that. Although I try to inform them on every occasion, I fear that it doesn't get through for some reason or another. They should know that I envy their ease of thought and their seemingly mundane lives. If I can't manage to find a certain someone to share this with, I think I should share this with one who I know cares. It's not like I could walk down the hall and tell my family. That implied love is deceiving. I know they care, but you wouldn't tell you mother that you are so deep in the hole that it make you nauseous every day you wake up knowing that you must endure the inevitable condemnation. I just makes me sad. Sad as the sea.

Apparently Transparent

I want to know what makes you click. I want to know what makes you tick. If it be these poetic harmonies that I compose while I sing in the shower, so be it. Just let me know. I think I am getting better at this, this superego thing. It just is so difficult when we seem so compatible. So much the same. I guess that is what I am looking for. When people say they are looking for someone completely different than them, I think they don't know what they are saying. Maybe it's that they want to be a different person and they can't stand to change who they are. I myself am beyond this. I think that I can be who ever I want. Maybe it's because I'm young, or maybe I'm right. All this goes back to free will, but I think we all know how I feel about that. There are just too many things to take into account. And even if you said that I was wrong, I wouldn't argue. I would just want you to appeal to my reason. It is not often I can say that.

I am becoming more and more fascinated in the uncertain. Things that cannot necessarily be proven, yet can't be disproved. Things like the thought process or the way I can tell where someone will look first when they enter a room. You may say it's ambiguous. I think it's chaos.

My Id

I think I am understanding that I have less and less freewill than I originally thought. Although fascinating and not surprising, I am somewhat disturbed. But who wouldn't be thinking that they have no control. Loss of control is only nice when you can put yourself back in gear; when you can regain that which you have thrown away for just a night. Somehow I just feel wronged thinking that no matter what, my previous experiences have already set a path for me that I must hold fast to. There is no way to know if I have adhered to this predetermined destiny, but I think I have. I just really want to meet a person that tells me different. That gives me power again, because isn't that what we all seek? I am not content with myself or the life I am living. I just want something to give and for me to feel that I am on the ascend. This stagnant, stale water is almost as bad as what lies beneath it. Despite this, the more I change to what I want to be, the more I become what I don't want. Maybe it's just adjusting to this transformation, or maybe I should not be repressing this, but I am not comfortable in my own skin.

A parallel theme to this is that maybe they know how I really am. They don't know me well at all, but maybe it's like that feeling that someone else knows what you are thinking. And if that is so it must be extremely obvious that I am not my self lately. I just want an opportunity to explain myself. The force I am reckoning with will not even give me that. So these open words continue night after night and I lose sleep over this while they rest comfortably in their humble abyss.

3412 Kafka

Uncertainty is a certainty if you ask me. I hardly know where I am going, let alone where I am. Please believe me when I say this. I think that dreams are an escape from reality. For me, they are a necessity. They are a place where I can let my grasp on control slip. They are a refuge from the draining of thinking. I can believe anything there without consequences. I actually feel safe... for once. Don't get me wrong. There are some good things here and there in consciousness, but as a pessimist, I naturally look through the glass walls people put in place for me. I see all that is sad. All that is terrible in people. I am finding it harder and harder to make it though the day, and I mean who would if they found yourself in my position. I do believe I'm ill. That I'm going mad and no one even realizes it because they are too caught up in themselves. How sad is that. Now what I don't understand is am I really if I am aware of it. Do the insane know when they are beyond comprehension of the pristine world? I have always found a fascination with those who live on another level of consciousness; maybe because I too am not far from them. I guess I just have to wait for the opportunity to ask someone colloquially. I think I now know how K. feels.

Pathos

I can't figure out why I feel so much guilt. It doesn't seem beneficial to myself or the people around me. This guilt seems to ooze out of every orifice and engulf my thoughts. This brings about regret, sadness, and more guilt. Why can't I be allowed to be happy, even if it's only for a second? Now I know I often get caught-up in comparing, but am I the only one who feels this way? I mustn't be.
Now this guilt is not over ordinary things. Extraordinary guilt is all that overwhelms me because everyone who is sane would feel bad if they opened their door into another's and didn't tell them. Or if they forgot to feed their pets one night. These things are far from the truth. The ground I shuffle my feet on evokes a burden on my conscious. The little pleasure I live for day to day, things that don't affect anyone but myself are my poison.

Lie. Lie to me, if only I need to hear the answer. Strangely I don't feel the same about lies. I think they are essential to, well, everything. A lie hurts only if the truth is revealed. A rarity in my world. A lie is a way to escape, not the grasps of work, but the straight world in which everyone believes everything and everyone. Such blatant ignorance deserves only the most flagrant lies. I don't lie to hurt, but I hurt to lie. I feel this compulsion to see what I can make people believe. I know there is a word for this, but I don't consider myself one of these. I look at it like hunting; the hunt is exhilarating and pure euphoria, but once you go to claim your kill, the rush diminishes. Although my armory consists of mostly little "white lies", I don't hesitate if the occasion beckons otherwise. Lie if you have to, lie if you need to, but I can honestly say I lie because I like it.

Mountain

Why do we all focus on the top, the peak, the climax. There is so much bellow this unreachable point, no matter how you look at it. Bellow the surface or simply on the path to get up there, or to get down. I fear that this highly desireable position is full, as not two objects can take up the same space. So where does this leave us, the outcast? Among the ledges and plateaus? Do we reach the bottom in an avalanche or in a rock slide? Which is worse? Now back to those ledges. There must be people at varying degrees or levels I mean. Those closer to the top. Those on the ascend and those on the descend. Tell me who is which. Tally them and get back to me. I'm quite tired of having to differentiate between the two because I need to know those who are on the way down, either so I can save them or so I can join them and finally reach the very bottom, that which is shared with so many before me. For now I think I should try to reach the top, if only for a little while. Maybe get a little momentum going so to push me up the shear cliffs that await. I have no clue the altitude, but this doesn't matter. It's easier to breath up there anyways.

Last Call For Drinks

I am not used to being awestruck. It's funny how time can seem so slow at times and others, pass by without even warning us. I sit down for a minute and it becomes an hour. This translucent, effervescent barrier that I linger on beckons me to continue, and yet, I don't want to. Please tell me I have, and am making, the right decision. For an eternity I have peered out my window into the calm summer nights and the cold winter down pours, hopeless of all that lay before me and as I suddenly poke my head over the crest of this hill, I find myself wondering the same thing; will I become what I have feared the most? Become a wash-up, obsessive, failure of a person, of a man? Or should I pursue the same goal of one day waking up side by side with that of which I have dreamed of? I half enjoy this taste of bitterness. It makes me feel that all that I have wanted has not been put in-front of me. That I have had to work for something to call it my own, but this struggle, both internal and external do not show any signs of changing seasons. Let all of the world stand still, even if it just be for a moment, to recognize that I have tried my best. Although this alone would not satisfy my desire for the only thing I have clung onto over these long nights, the idea of the most sophomoric of interaction with that one person. And I do this for you I think, but you will never see. You will never know. So I think these things done in vain because I know that I will never be able to impress you. I cannot sway your affection. And as I drink in this sorrow until delirium, I know that I will not stop pursuing, not mulling what I have done and not done, and not stop dreaming of the day when you will give me a chance to look you clear in the eye and say what I have been wanting to say for such a long long time.

A Magnitude of Misguidance

Oh how I do adore you. How I know that this will never be and yet I don't forget. I doubt I will ever forget. Because true beauty is easily remembered like that of a song that tugs on all the right strings. If we are flawed, then flawed is what we are. How come you refuse to show yours when mine are in plain view. Is it not these little quarks that make us distinct and different than the rest? I can only think that fear is what's stopping this. Excuse my perception that anything is possible because I am wrong. No matter how positive I remain, the negativity festers in my words and in my thoughts. I know you will never read this, and for that I am sorry - nothing else, just that.

Clique

Past this prosthetic exterior, I am genuinely sad. Wither it be knowing that I am behind in a never-ending race or simply the fact that I am not up to my own standards, even if those same standards are based off my close-nit bubble of a world I live. The same old things are not getting me by and I hesitate to venture in to uncharted waters. For one I am ashamed of being in such a state when I know that I am doing fine, as unrevealing as that is, and the other I feel maybe my shell of accomplishments are meager and unfulfilling. Do correct me if you see me for it is far more than difficult to gain an outside-view of myself. This is not a pity letter. This is not written to allow myself to sulk in my own depravity. I am looking for answers to those questions I dare not ask. I cannot ask.

I am ashamed of how I heard it. I am disgruntled that she did nothing. I am furious that he... well... enough said. Don't get me wrong, I am not jealous or tear-stricken, I just feel wronged as a friend and as a secret bearer in that THEIR words are more important than mine. I don't care if you are ashamed or embarrassed. I took on your friendship knowingly expecting something of this magnitude. Please, I not going anywhere. As vexed as I am, I will never turn down a conversation.

Pachelbel

How do I explain the cosmos; go so far as to define what I don't actually know. A lot of people have tried. People like Bowie, people who I look up to. I see a great black existence, one that is booming with light, one that stretches the confounds of the human mind. There is little we can do to describe it, so isn't it funny how we try so hard? It's expanses reach further than you or I can fathom. Further than a thousand fathoms. And yet even the littlest of suddleties matter to us. At my desk, in the luminescence of my lamp, I think to the fullest of my abilities to comprehend what can be out there. Although I try my best to live out others reactions or actions before they even happen, with varying success I might add, I do the same to this matter and come up blank. Not even my most abstract dreams allude to this. Not even my inebriated thoughts, as lucid as they my be, can shed some light on this darkness in the sky. I fear that I may never really know what is up there or its mysteries or its beauty. Oh the beauty. It is probably the most desired thing to know at this time. I could care less for those who seek a claim to the riches that obviously lye beyond this desolate and dilapidated world. I just want to see those rainbows of supernovas and the and feel the sudden tingle of a quasar as it emerges eons away. A single point in time, that is what I am. And if I don't see all these things I have spoke of, I blame not myself, but inner clock-work of the universe that has set my destiny, no matter how many times I have changed it, not to be satisfied with this mundane life.

I may return to this and if I do, don't be surprised.

The Divine Comedy

It is quite possible that writers are my obsession. The right words at the right time can be powerful enough to move mountains, or stop your breath. Regardless of wither it is their first draft or their twenty-sixth, those words mean something; they mean what you want them to mean, what the author wants them to mean, or both; that is, when a passage becomes more than ink and paper, more than a story, but a reality. Words are what we make of them; they have no meaning unless they are understood. Is that why there is so much confusion when people speak rather than when they just look at each other? Those wordless moments can say more about passion than Aphrodite can. Those same words have no meaning until you give them that power over your will to think. Think of them as sounds instead of words now. How bizarre we are, simply mocking each other to communicate. How outlandish. How I wish I could simply seclude myself in books and return only for the necessities of life. I have found more truth in fiction than I will ever find in a thousand lifetimes. These goddamn phonies, these awful liars are all around me and what can I do but blend in with them.

Caustic Play

Could it be that a cloudy day brings the best out of me? Despite all the nonsense I have put up with the last few days, I'm happy to say that this chapter is coming to a close. It's that feeling you get when you finish a good book and you can sit back and immerse yourself in the dream world that the author created just for you. Because when it all comes down to it, who do you look out for? Your friends, when it's convenient. Your family, when it suits you. I'm am looking for someone. I don't know who they are, the names they go by, or even what they look like. All the easy indicators of a familiar face are not present or important at this time. I am looking not just to look, but because it's the only thing I am sure I can do. Now how do you find someone who you don't know anything about or encountered before? All I can say is that I am doing the best I can to find you, my friend or my lover, I am.

As I have said earlier, this masterpiece of mine, this book of my existence, wither it be a novel or a novella, is not ending but simply pausing on a page in order for the writer to continue with a new thought, a short break from the tyrants and tricksters of this season: the sowing season. I do not wish for this book to be read by anyone and in the event that they could decipher this enigma, what they would see would be enough to dethrone and demolish all that I have put into play. All the half-hatched and cold-hearted schemes would be exposed to an ignorant viewer, one who I wish I could say would be more disturbed then I am by possessing these vivid and egotist memories. As this is a diary of sorts, I am putting in to writing that I don't wish to be figured out. And to make it worse, I intend to be hypocritical in saying that I do intend to so to others, more-so for personal pleasure rather than sinister wants and desires. I respect those who open up, but I envy those who don't. Where do I stand? Who knows if I have really achieved what I have set out to do or if I have played you there.

Hearth Minus the 'h'

It's been apparent to me that people do not change. For the better or for the worse, they are who they have always been. Wither they remain that old reliable friend or that person who you could see yourself with but you know halfheartedly that you couldn't do that to them, if that makes sense. Plagued with knowing people too well, I find myself drifting away from those who might actually care about me and into the arms of the unknown. I don't know where I'm going or where I want to be. I just know where I want to be night after night, regardless of how my day went, beyond where I must be in the morning. I just would like to be home.

Stars and Shine

My troubles emerge only in the isolated catacomb that is my room. Maybe that's why no one truly knows who I am. Faced with the option of a quite evening alone or a gathering with those I call my friends, I always chose the latter even though I regret missing a night of recollection. I just started looking back at last winter, the winter of my discontent, and realized that I will have to do it all over again. Maybe the names will changes and the dates will blur together, but it will all be the same. I simply cannot avoid those who I fear; those who evoke raw emotion in me. I find them in ordinary places where I expect and extraordinary ones that I never would dream of seeing them in a million years. Quit dabbling with me and say something. At least acknowledge me, because not doing so hurts more then the harshest words a sailor could think of. And to those who know of my situation or at least understand, only you can change this for people are ignorant and thrive in this oblivious undertaking. Though it is not my darkest hour, I would rather not relive the grotesque past.

I think I live in two seasons: the winter and the summer. Hot and cold. I'm not sure I want to be in either of them. I just feel out of sync with my surroundings. The patterns are not appearing like they used to. Bring me out of this monsoon, push away the clouds, and show me the sunshine. Show me what I used to love and loath to do. Right now there is no defiant line between the two. I can hardly remember when I was happy with what I was doing.

Oddity

The world never stops, not even for a moment. Regardless of circumstance, something is always in motion. It is this constant forward process that sparks reverse motion. For every event created, one disappears, but not disappears but simply changes into different form. Although matter can not be lost, the abstract can. Those electrons and neurons that hold our thoughts and feelings can be destroyed or worse, changed. Although we rely on memory and take for granted the fact that such large vasts of space are available to us, we are constantly waging war against this unseen, unheard of phenomenon. We punish ourselves by skewing perception and stooping so low as to skew others. It is hard not to when everyone seems to be striving to the same goal; the goal that no one knows where the red tape of the finish line is. So when someone says to live in the present, is that possible? How can you look to the future when it doesn't exist. There is no future, only the past is known and even then, this is mostly false.

Measure up to this hidden standard. Live it. Breath it. Cherish it. For in order to succeed, you must fallow no one but yourself, as you alone share the same perception with no one but yourself. I think I now understand that I can't. I can't know what others are feeling or seeing and I'm sure that what they are seeing is absolutely different than what I see. I'm not just talking about how shapes and colors look, but their stance on the world. You can surround yourself as I had with people who see similarly and share near identical stances, but this will eventually leave you feeling empty. I have often found that those who I least suspected have become my most respected peers. It's that quiet girl in the back of the room that ends up being the interesting one rather than those talking of last nights party. The guy keeping to himself that has an ever burning love of explosives rather than sports. Someone who's pure dedication motivates others to reapply themselves to self betterment. These people are the ones who I would place before myself for the rest of, well, my short time in this generation. Haste to conform to these flecks of gold in the river of our civilization because you yourself may be one of them for someone else.

Torporific Summer

I sit here writing at this very moment, struggling to find the words to say what I really mean, like an Alzheimer's patient in the first stages of his incurable disease. I am forgetful of names and places, whither it be from arising from a deep slumber or from the weeks of study-less nights. I can't help but think it will last forever and all that I have worked for will be gone, erased from the depths of intellectual thoughts. I still notice discrepancies in the present and familiar faces, but my thoughts have been troubled and lethargic while the rest of the world has seemed to continued operating like clockwork. These days have become blurred together and I am finding it hard to see past the work-week, just like a mindless drone. I just hope that that little spark inside of me has went dormant rather that died altogether.

Konfusion

How come there are those who simply shine while other strive? It always seems to be those who are privileged or problematic; the extremes. Those who lack both never see the lime light, never experience a confidence that can only be achieved through raw failure. I can't help but wonder if those lucky stars lay in their beds and think about what the other not so lucky people are thinking about. I find myself drifting into and out of other people's worlds. The only thing that I have found is that I am not satisfied, nor do I have the means to reach what I want in life. At the moment I find myself struggling to complete rather than perfect. I am spacey and in a sort of trance. I feel clouded of thought and hazed in vision. The extraordinary has become a norm and I dread this pattern of normalcy. Show me something new and different. I'm not afraid to try it, what ever it is. I can only think that if I go out of my comfort bubble, but others do not, it is pointless. How come the the beautiful people are so isolated and shallow? Am I so oblivious to myself that I don't realize such a gruesome problem that I posses that makes me so unappealing?

I'm not asking for love, for it is such a strong and unsparingly used word. I simply want acknowledgment for individuality.

Chaos

Have you ever just sat and watched someone? Have you ever observed a body of people? There is absolutely no difference. Inside that group of chaotic people are individuals who are running like clockwork. It is crazy how much entropy is festering around us. How does it all come together so smoothly? If everyone is doing their own thing, how can they interweave for form such an orderly environment? It plagues me to know the intricacies of what make these people who they are. I want to know what they have in store and where they are going. I want to feel as they feel and see as they perceive just to make a comparison. This organized chaos of sorts is my current enigma. I don't care if I break this code.

For those who have not noticed this strange phenomenon, you are a part of it; so deeply entangled in it for it seems so obvious to see. I ask you just once to look and see and observe the big picture, that in which you have unwillingly become a part of.

Creativity

I've been thinking a lot. It's quite a rarity nowadays, which sickens me because it seems that everyone simply goes with the flow rather than stagger down their own path. It's righteous to obey what is asked of you, but naive not to explore for yourself. Think big. Ignore the norm. Dream in sounds and colors. Those who tell you otherwise are far from the creativity that lurks in lucid places. I seek refuge in the calm sanctity of my thoughts; thoughts that are mine and will remain exclusively mine. Someone I once knew asked to share my thoughts and feelings with them. How can such a task be accomplished? The scale would be grandiose and despite that, I would much rather save them from the raw, diamonds in the rough if I may say so myself, thoughts that I cherish. For originality can not be purchased or even bartered for. For when it is struck, it is struck blindly and in its most pure from, unlike anything else in the world.

Untitled

It is clear to me that we don't care what other people have to say. No matter how important it is, there is always some sort of self indulgent task that the other person must complete that very instant. How can one expect to be heard in such a oblivious, negligent world when all we do is dismiss notions as nonexistent or pertaining to one's self? If you have a problem, and you take the time to explain the situation to someone, shouldn't they at least pretend to listen rather than think that it's not their issue? It just seems that with so many people with so many problems, others would be compassionate enough to listen.

Now if this doesn't strike you right away, think of this: If you go up to a person to ask an opinion of some thing and they don't agree with you, do you take their suggestion into consideration or do you simply remain biased to your own idea? That question can go unanswered. Now why in the first place would you take, or even waste the time of the other person if you knew that you were going to remain steadfast to your opinion? Despite it being reassuring to hear someone agree with you, it is a complete waste to do so. I'm not saying that I haven't done this; I'm just looking for some open-minded people to surround myself with.