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.