You

are a non-issue.

Remember

this moment.

I can never seem to fall asleep at a reasonable hour anymore. I spend so much time thinking that nothing ever gets accomplished.

I wish I had someone to balance me out, but I'm all alone. I'm picking my best friend up from the airport tomorrow night. She's visiting for a few days - she always brings me back down to a reasonable level of sanity. Through all the laughing, there's always the fact that she will have to leave after a few short days. There's always the knowing that everyone has to leave. Everyone always leaves.

I never know how I feel about anything anymore. I've lost touch with myself. Am I happy? Am I sad? And that's why I write. Everyone's a writer nowadays, aren't they? Everyone's an artist. Everyone has the desire to be "deep", to be "thoughtful." But for me, writing is a way to try, and try again to understand myself. Like so many attempts to get in touch with an old childhood friend, wondering where they are in their life and how they're feeling - what they're thinking. I constantly write these awkward, somewhat forced letters to myself, but I never get an answer. It's sad. Makes me wanna cry, but what's the point if she doesn't care enough to reply.

I always thought

you couldn't help the way you feel, up until a certain point. You can. Delusion can turn into reality, as long as you don't let anyone in.

I wish I were indifferent enough to stop caring so much about the fact that I don't fucking care.

Somebody

fucking fix my head.
Fix my head fix my head fix my head fix my head fix my head fix my head fix my head.

she covered her mouth when she smiled.
watched her feet as she walked.

she seemed like such a good girl
until she stole my heart.

I'm only dancing to this song because you're painted on every note of the music. My feet are tied together and my arms are broken - it will never stop me.

Makeshift Love Letter

What scares me the most is the possibility that once you finally realize we're perfect for each other, it'll be too late. I'll bet you didn't know that the thought of you being with another girl makes me cringe. I'll bet you didn't know that frankly, I desperately hope that it makes you sick to picture me with anyone other than you. It should. I've scanned the skies above me, and searched the ground beneath me (without fruition) for a cheapened version of you and it should make you sick. Your words: always without pretense - always with a subtle tone of affection hidden in between the lines like small whispers tying my head into knots. No, I don't believe in "love at first sight" and I refuse to over-exaggerate for the sake of "writing" by implying that I'm in love with you. Would it make a difference if I admitted that from the moment I laid eyes on you, I believed that I would fall in love with you one day - that you should fall in love with me?

But you're so far. So out of reach, in the fact that the nights when I shuddered underneath your fingertips or secretly smiled into your shoulder as you held me, silently making notes on how good you smell, and how I just wish this would last - they're so far away.

One of the problems I've always struggled with while writing is the issue of lacking the ego to constantly humiliate myself like this. And how I do it anyway.

I think what I hate the most about you is seeing all of the things I try so hard to hide about myself written on your hands, and every time you touch me, the more real it all becomes.



Just let me hide.

I never loved you, but you didn't care. You wanted to hear it anyway. You'd breathe your desperate "I love you"s into my mouth with each kiss - brush them across my skin with every touch. It broke my heart. I'd press my fingers hard against your neck so I would feel more human. I caught your words with my hands and strangled them before they could do real harm. You hung yourself on my ceiling and sang to me, but I didn't hear you.

I'll never hear you.

I'm in love.

This fit will be mine.

I'm preparing myself for change.

Love and Thickness

*Tribute poem to e.e. cummings

"Stars are the thesis of the soul"
Bright shining, never-ending---
The surrounding darkness
which will never cease to be envious
of the luminosity.
Figuratively speaking, life---
Paled in comparison by the cosmos.
And then literary highs. Literary highs?
But there will always be the literary lows
When sometimes, doesn't it feel like
it could go on forever?
That we could go on forever?
To tap, to type letters into your heart.
That's all I will ever want,
darling.
That's all I will ever want.

Avoidance

Food. Sex. Sleep. Food. Sex. Sleep. Food. Sex. Sleep. Food. Sex. Sleep.

Food
Sex
Sleep

Food.
Sex.
Sleep.

Why do I bother writing? Why do I bother trying to evaluate and/or empathize with people and their misdirected feelings (for want of a better word)? It can all be summarized with three simple words. And no, they aren’t “I love you”. Eating too much. Doing all you can to avoid it. Sleeping too much. Doing all you can to avoid it. Sex-addict? Doing all you can to avoid it. Addict? Doing all you can to avoid it. Doing all you can not to avoid it. Doing all you can to find it. Doing all you can not to lose it. Misdirected. I am so misdirected. Money is not the root of all evil. Humans are the root of all evil. Your lives are made up of greed and avoidance. My life is made up of hiding and seeking. Our lives are made up of interest and apathy.

I care because I care because I care because I care because (It’s funny how words lose their meaning once you repeat them over and over again) I care because I care because I care because I care because I don’t have any other fucking option.

I can practically feel my desperation materializing into a tangible object, clawing and clawing and ripping me apart. Everything is exploding around me. Expanding. And things become clear. Then it shrinks. And shrinks. And was it ever clear to begin with? This is life. It comes, it goes.

Food. Sex. Sleep. Sex. Sleep. Sleep. Sex. Food. Sex. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Nothing exists the way it should anymore. I do not exist, but I can't stop trying. No. Wait. I mean. I won't.

Human nature. It's just so goddamned predictable.

The only person I lie to is myself.



Alone With Everybody

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.


Anonymous submission.

-Charles Bukowski

I just want

to see you eat your words. Emotions are a funny thing. So fickle.

10 Minute

Free-Write I was assigned to do for English class. Kinda like stream of consciousness. Kinda not. Whatever. Here it is:

Free-Write #2
Topic: What do you want to get out of college?

I suppose this is where I begin my rant of sorts of what I'd like to get out of college. As far as I'm concerned, the real question should be "What can you get out of college, exactly?" It's a bit inconsequential, isn't it? What are we really working towards? What am I really working towards? The purpose of highschool is to prepare for four years of college. The purpose of college is to prepare for an average paying job (sometimes not even that). The purpose of having a job is to earn a promotion. It just goes on and on. How fucking boring, really. On a side-note, I hate this free-writing bullshit. Not being able to correct unsatisfactory statements that I write drives me half-way insane (so I'm pretty much completely insane now, seeing as how I'm already half-way insane to begin with). And so the rant continues. As I was saying, I sit here half the time wondering what the point of doing anything is. How existential of me. Life revolves around materialistic gain and materialistic losses. As awesome as that sounds, I'd rather not. Then, the other half of me (yes, I have two halves) protests. It is essential to go to college. It is essential to acquire a high-paying career. You can't accomplish anything you really want to do if you have no funds to support it. And God knows my folks won't comply. But within the time that you work, and work, and work, and work work work to finally be ready to fulfill all those petty ambitions you yearned for in your golden years, you've already given up. You've become comfortable with living in this robotic, (and as much as I hate people who rant about capitalism) capitalist society that chews up and spits out every innocent passersby and their broken dreams. It sounds depressing, and you know what? It is. And you know what's even more gloomy? I don't know what the hell to do about it. I don't agree with the things society tells me I should agree with, yet I'm still along for the ride. Let's see where this gets me. Don't get me wrong, I value education. It's important. Without the education that I've recieved I wouldn't have ever become acquainted with some of my favorite writers. Some of my favorite directors. But the whole university system is fucked up, in my humble opinion. I want to major in Creative Writing, right? And to get where I want to be, I'm required to take a bunch of completely unrelated general education/language (I hate Japanese) classes that have nothing to do with my aspirations. Why? Money. Money money money. It's always about the money. We need to stay in a university as long as we can. We need to take a bunch of pointless fucking classes like Japanese when we have no interest in that subject at all. Two reasons. Like I said, the first is money. The second? To prove to society that we will do pointless shit that makes no sense, just to show that WE ARE WILLING. We are willing to do senseless work that really impacts our own goals in no way at all. We are even willing to pay to do this. Hell, what am I saying? I'm willing, too! Because I can't figure out a way to get out of it yet. And there probably isn't. There will always be the minimum requirements for everything you do in life. We just need to accept it. Ideally, I'd like to write for a magazine. I'd just like to write. A book, maybe? Something. The only people that really get what they want out of life are those who throw everything away to do exactly what it is that they want. And even then, only a fraction of those people achieve their untainted dreams. Everybody else? All of us? We're just along for the ride, always waiting for the next promotion. Always numbing ourselves to the fact that we're not really happy. Either that or you're in a constant state of panic, never knowing what to do with yourself but always feeling trapped inside your own body. Hating yourself for being here. Hating yourself for not even being able to do that properly. So go cry about it. God knows I do. Love yourself if, at least, you realize things for what they are. It might mean your soul isn't completely dead yet. My 10 minutes is up. In conclusion, COLLEGE RULES AND LIFE IS AWESOME.

I can hardly breathe.

Sometimes I feel like I am split down the middle and the two halves of my being are somehow able to function together physically.








I might fall apart one of these days.

I'm fucking sick of self-proclaimed assholes who are constantly at a never-ending battle with the world. The goal? To prove how goddamn intellectual and well-spoken they are. Shut the fuck up, and get over yourselves please. Where are the "happy mediums" in life hiding?

Fuck your plaid shirts.
Fuck your obscure MySpace photographs.
Fuck you and the fact that you'll always be a hypocritical cunt.

Yeah, you're well-read. Yeah, you're eloquent. But all those books and clever remarks will never make you any less of a piece of shit.

Shove your pointless verbal backlashes up your ass, to keep company with the stick that's been lodged up there for the greater portion of your existence.

Dick.

On a lighter note, here's a picture of the man of my dreams:

I am so uncomfortable.

Only I would voluntarily wear a black leather jacket in this sweltering heat. Perhaps I secretly enjoy the sensation of subtle asphyxiation.

In my second week of college, I'm quickly realizing that I need to stop being such a pessimistic asshole.

On second thought, I don't. What I need to stop being is FUCKING LAZY. I'm just trying to make excuses for myself - my "pessimism" is usually what gets me up in the morning.

I desperately need to start blogging more often, and get a sliver of my thoughts in written form. Usually when I have an excess of thought I am mentally and physically immobile.

God, I need motivation.

Music helps.
Albums of the day below.


The Buzzcocks - Singles Going Steady

I'm particularly fond of "Everybody's Happy Nowadays".

Cake - Fashion Nugget

Every song on this album is remarkable. Today, I think "Friend Is A Four Letter Word" deserves special recognition.

On a completely random side-note, I think people throw the term "I'm bored" around much too loosely. Even when I'm sitting down, staring at a blank wall it takes a while for me to get bored. Blank walls can be really beautiful. They're one of my personal symbols of hope. How can that be boring? I've discovered that people who get bored easily are usually boring ass people to begin with.

Another concept I can't fully grasp are people saying that they "want a boyfriend/girlfriend". Maybe you want some real companionship with another human being whose clothes you're allowed to take off, but fulfilling that desire simply by acquiring an equally confused person to call your boyfriend or girlfriend just complicates things if you don't know the first thing about what it means to be in a healthy, compassionate relationship. (ie: Companionship does NOT mean spending every fucking waking moment together, and basically being stuck up the others asshole. That's called torture/an early death and/or incarceration).

*Those who are desperate to be in a smothering excuse for a relationship are usually bored, aren't they? Yeah, that's right. Go fuck yourself.

I mean, I guess I want a boyfriend who would be just as amused as I am by virtually nothing. Don't get me wrong, embarking on fanciful adventures with your significant other would be ideal too, but I'm waiting for someone who would occasionally sit down with me and hold my hand while we gaze at the aforementioned wall together.

Love is not just looking at each other, it's looking in the same direction.
Antoine de Saint-Exupery

It's too bad that such a person doesn't exist.

The Believer

It gets better each and every time I watch it.






I guess I should return the disc to Netflix sometime or another, though.

I refuse to accept this.

His Suicide Note

"The only thing that I hate more than what the world has made me, is what I have made of the world. It's like we were in constant battle. And it won. After the many blisters on my hands and the sores upon my feet, it has finally won and I have no more left to give. I have nothing left to struggle for. And even if I did, it's just too late. It's just too late. I'm sorry."

I hate loopholes. All that uncertainty drives me mad.

Existence:

The life you live.
The life you want to live,

and everything in between.

The Death of Michael Jackson.

It's a dark day. Rest in peace, beautiful.

The Sleeps - No More

Director - Matt Pacar
Co-Director - Christine Suk
Drums_Percussion - Ricky Fiske
Vox_Keys_Guitar_Bass - David Sprock
Vox_Keys_Guitar_Bass - Andrew Matko
Editor - Christine Suk
Extra #1 - Christine Suk
Extra #2 - Andrew Matko
Extra #3 - David Sprock
Extra #4 - David Novak

La Dama Blanca

Everything is always falling apart, and what else can you do but try all that you can to keep from feeling like you're melting away into nothing, until nothing is left to break? I haven't a heart left to break, and there are no more expectations left for me to fail to fulfill. Maybe it's better this way. Maybe I'm just selfish. Maybe I've given up on trying to save myself, and I'm left with nothing but the feeble desire to save everyone else, and I am equipped with nothing but the innate, desperate awareness that I am incapable of doing so--- crouched beside me like a sickly shadow, taunting me, and taunting me, and taunting me. Because I choose to sink. I choose my own fate. I am self-centered and yet I feel the pain of others so much more than my own dull wounds. My empathy is as great as my loathing, my self-loathing. And yet I still choose to shy away from progress. After all is said, my pretty words mean nothing. They fall apart just like everything else, and disappear. A constant state of destruction, of self-destruction. Maybe the only change I desire is tearing myself to pieces, and maybe that's good enough for now. Maybe, maybe, maybe. All I know are the different ways I will rip myself apart, and for some reason this fact brings me great contentment. It's sick. It's just sick. Change is happiness. Change is despair. It all depends on which way you want to look at it. I'm trapped in a beehive, but all I recognize is the buzzing. It sounds like music. It feels like poetry. It stings. It stings, but I can't stop dancing. Or maybe I simply refuse to, until the bruises swallow me alive. I won't stop dancing until the bruises swallow me alive. I could finally live.

I could finally breathe.

I halfway speak all that is on my mind. I halfway act out all that I would like to do, and all that I would like for myself. Communication seems almost meaningless to me at times. Every word, phrase, thought, and idea is nothing but a reiteration of another word, phrase, thought, or idea. And with each repetition, everything just becomes more and more vague. More and more inconsequential. I am lonely. I am so fucking lonely, but I just want to be left alone. I have a habit of surrounding myself with shadow puppets that are supposed to resemble human beings. Breathing, laughter, witty joke here, clever punch line there, more laughter, more breathing. And perhaps this constitutes as legitimate interactions for some, but for me it's just another way to feel alone, yet numb myself to the very same sensation.

I feel like everyone has an addiction that they struggle with throughout their lives, whether it be a drug of choice, alcohol, maintaining a weight, or a certain look. There's always the addiction to power and money, or basically anything else. The most recognized form of addiction is drugs and alcohol, obviously but I think that addiction comes in all forms, and many can be as lethal as drugs and alcohol. If anything, the addictions that are far less controversial usually lead to the drugs and alcohol. Everything always goes hand in hand. It's incredible, but equally as frightening if you really think about it.

My addiction would definitely have to be control. Not of others, but of myself. I obsess over setting goals, reaching goals. I obsess with planning things. I'm so unhealthy in the way that if I don't constantly clarify the things I want for myself, I just fall apart--- both physically and emotionally. I realize that nothing is for certain, but I am constantly making plans for the future, and pretending that they are unchangeable-- set in stone forever. When I don't create my own future, nothing seems relevant. The present seems pointless, because I have no idea what's going to happen next, so I just sink. And sink. I hate myself for not being able to "roll with the punches." I hate how everything I do reaches the extremes. Everything I do is in excess, both the good and the bad. I wish I could just live for the "here and now" but sometimes (most of the time) the "here and now" doesn't seem good enough, so I plan ways I could make things better, just so i'll feel better. It's pretty selfish, but what addictions aren't in the end?

It's so strange how when it comes down to it, everything has the root of selfishness. My compulsion to want to make my loved ones happy in any way that I can is selfish in the fact that it satisfies me beyond measure. Keyword: me. Always: I. It's inescapable. Maybe I don't make sense, but it's the way I see things. If people were entirely selfless, they would have no need to do anything. We wouldn't need to love, learn, listen, speak. We'd be mute, immobile, and blankly staring into space without thought until we died haha.

I believe that most addictions are so hard to break because while you're feeling the "high" of it all, for a moment, or maybe even two if you're lucky, you feel like you're not alone. You almost believe it, and when you come down it hits so much harder, which I suppose is why addictions are named as such. Chasing that fleeting feeling forever, just trying to get it to stick.

Seriously, though. Why are most people so devoid of meaningful thought? Is it a defense mechanism, to disassociate from reality? Granted, it's easier. I've tried being apart of this world of numbed people, but in the end I want to feel everything the way it really feels... whether it hurts that much more, or not. I suppose constantly fighting for control, and searching for "answers" goes hand in hand, and it's hard to search, and think, and think, and think for the perfect solution without realizing that there is no perfect solution. There's probably no solution at all. But the thoughts never stop, and when you've almost got the truths you never wanted to know buried, it always comes back. After a while, you begin to embrace it when it does. I guess that's where i'm at now.

I've realized that without a plan, I fall apart. I need to begin thinking clearly again, which means...

You make me sick, you trendy hipster fuck.

Nobody cares about your boyfriend's/ex-boyfriend's various piercings and distasteful tattoos. And anybody who does should be shot in the foot.

"Every form of addiction is bad." - Carl Jung (Part 4)

I found a set of stories I had written a while ago which were all inspired by a quote from one of my favorite psychologists, Carl Jung. If anyone is actually reading this, I hope you enjoy these.

Self-Portrait

Pointing my heavy black camera around, I aimlessly search for some sort of inspiration to capture and develop. The film is my cage, and I am in desperation, searching for my butterfly. Cars are blaring, and the city lights glimmer but I want something more... Something breath-taking, you know? Yeah, sure. I mean, who can really say they have no photography subjects in this city? It’s San Fransisco, for God’s sake. You’ve got the gigantic buildings, the colorful blur of constant movement surrounding you while the cool air whips at your reddening cheeks and watering eyes all the while.

"Stop complaining and shoot some damn pictures, moron," right? (Directly quoted from my professor, by the way.) But... I can never seem to bring myself to shoot a photograph that I’m uncertain about, in any way. Like, it has to be one of those flawless moments of certainty, where nothing--- not your own thoughts, the sound of your own breathing or the consciousness of your own being can come between you and your subject. That is the beauty of photography. It’s why I do what I do, and it’s the only thing I could ever be completely certain about.

But lately, those solid moments I lived for has reached a sudden stand-still. However, I am by no means being lazy about this sudden stagnation of inspiration. I haven’t slept for fifty three hours and counting, nor have I eaten for the past six days. I must make myself suffer until I once again taste the triumph I once savored, and appreciated as a delicacy with every click of the shutter of my camera lense. I would rather eat my own shit then surrender my passion. I take a seat next to a frilly little baby carriage, wondering where in the hell the kid’s obviously inadequate mother is as I sit and contemplate my torturous predicament.

If you’ve ever experienced the sensation of losing something, or thinking that you have lost something dear to you, you get that little twinge in your chest... a slight drop in your stomach.

But have you ever felt like you were losing the one thing that you live your whole goddamned life for? Well, that’s how I feel, and I can almost hear the seams of my heart bursting open. As for my stomach, it’s probably about two seconds away from bursting out of my mouth. I pinch a cigarette with the corners of my lips and light it. Maybe that’ll keep it down.

I lay my camera down on the table, and begin to think of how humiliated I had been last week when I came to class empty-handed. I exhale a great deal of smoke, and grip the side of my face in agony as I think of that wretched moment. It was then, that the tip of the cigarette that rests between my pointer and middle finger burns the very top of my cheek and I jump up, yelling out a long string of profanities. I bite my lip, and look down at the ugly little wrinkled thing that’s being suffocated by gaudy pink lace. It simply blinks at me."Sorry," I murmur, nervously flattening my tie against my chest. I must be crazy, talking to a damn baby, "I’m having a bad day. That’s for fucking sure." I flick my cigarette into the gutter, and pick my camera up to leave.

"Click."

"Every form of addiction is bad." - Carl Jung (Part 3)

I found a set of stories I had written a while ago which were all inspired by a quote from one of my favorite psychologists, Carl Jung. If anyone is actually reading this, I hope you enjoy these.

Hi Dad,

I’ve been having trouble sleeping again, but I don’t quite know if it could be classified as insomnia. You see, I’m afraid to sleep because I’ve been having trouble dreaming. Yes, dreaming. Seldomly do I have nightmares. God, it would be so much easier that way. But, no. I dream. I dream of how different things would be if you had never left. Dreaming of being able to cry on your shoulder when I bleed. It only makes the "blade of reality" (as ridiculous as that sounds) cut me so much deeper, because reality has seen the way my tears slide down my face, only to be caught by my own trembling fingertips.

I’ve been having trouble with love again, because I have kept choosing men just like you. Maybe if I can fix them, things will change. Pathetic, right? How much more of a textbook case could I be, right? Obviously, I always come out with a fresh new wound. If only you could see the scars. There are so many scars.

I have always been having trouble with the truth, because I know she will always mean more, and I know that you have a different woman’s legs wrapped around your waist every night in those inebriated frenzies of lust you are addicted to--- a bottle of hard liquor dangling from your lips.

And what's the truth? The truth is that you didn’t even look behind your shoulder to see my face one last time as you walked away. The truth has me on my knees, bending over a toilet with my hand shoved wrist deep inside my throat. The truth is the pain that spreads through this ink every time it’s too much to contain.

This late at night, there is little else to do but sit on this bitter cold tile floor, staring at the blank stretch of whiteness that is the wall. The only sound at this hour is my own shallow breathing, and the sound of my tear drops beating a steady rhythm upon the floor.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

I think the hardest thing of all is struggling with, and trying to accept the fact that this is the only way I can tell you how much you’ve hurt me: a badly written letter that I will never send and that you will never have the chance to read. All each night represents to me is a tally, keeping count of how many times one heart can break.

"Every form of addiction is bad" - Carl Jung

I found a set of stories I had written a while ago which were all inspired by a quote from one of my favorite psychologists, Carl Jung. If anyone is actually reading this, I hope you enjoy these.

I don't like change.

If you want me to be completely honest with you, yeah. I come down here a lot. It's kind of like some fucked up ritual. You could call it an unhealthy obsession, but this is a part of me. I search my memory, as far back as it allows, and here I am again. The first, ragged breaths of air I can remember swallowing into my fragile lungs. Despite all, I can't help but to acknowledge how commiserable this scene would undoubtedly appear to somebody outside of myself; watching me, or reading me like some sort of tragic novel. My desperation could appear comical to most. I am not bold enough yet to deny that.

And 18 years later, has anything really changed? My breathing is still shallow. I'm laying on my bedroom floor, my back pressed flat against the carpet. I'm surrounded by people. You know, friends. Well, I don't know. Friends? I don't exactly know what to call them, but now that I come to think about it, to assert these people as "friends" would be a gross over-exaggeration. But they're here, aren't they? Yes, for a solitary reason that doesn't have anything to do with my "good company," but you can't say they aren't here. I can barely open my eyes. I manage to squint, and I look to my left. I see a dark figure above me, on the couch with their hands covering their face. An image of a marionette doll, hands dangling limply, supported by bits of thread flashes through my mind for some reason that remains unknown. They're hopelessly endeavoring to suppress their laughter. I'm laughing too. I don't know why, but I am. I think I am, at least. I don't think it really matters though. In this moment, everything I believe is happening is. Whatever I imagine can be real. It can even be tangible. That must be why I'm reaching out to the ceiling now, grasping onto the air for nothing. Nothing, until I can visualize what I want the most. And I'm there again, gazing into the glowing, yellow lights of the windows of that house. My house. My memories. The past. Currently, the present. I am omnipotent. In this moment, I am omnipotent. And I'm back again, to my first memories. Everything else is no longer a part of me. Those lights. My ceiling. They're swimming above me in a haze. Fuck. Am I already tripping off of this shit? Everything's just a big, shimmering blur. I sat up, and immediately felt hot, wet tears running down my face and in that moment I knew that all these people surrounding me were in their perfect moment of life. And I knew that in that moment, it was real to them. They could feel it. Touch it. And it clicked: The aim isn't to stop the laughter. It is to try and hold that moment in, forever. Or as long as they can, at least. It's impossible now to stop yourself from marveling at how intense laughter and uncontrollable sobbing sound uncannily alike. The first usually leads to the latter, doesn't it? In these situations, they often do. Only now do I realize that they do need my company. They need to know that they aren't alone. But an hour and a half goes by, and it's gone. And they're gone. "Good shit, man." They're gone. And I'm still alone. But, I don't give a fuck. I won't remember this shit tomorrow. Fuck it.

I don't like change.
I fucking hate change.

Because I am obliged:

You are a synonym, and a list of names of all those who dwell on Earth is merely a Thesaurus of sorts.

Exquisite flowers sprouted from his palms.
The petals wrinkled each time he touched me
and slowly crumbled, and crumbled, and crumbled away
until there was nothing left

except for prayers floating up to the Heavens
whispering for Spring to come again.

Ready, set, go.

Some really old work I just found on the computer at school:

The side of my body presses against the cold, slightly damp grass;
Blades of ice, melting and sinking around me,
And I'm gazing at you.
In complete infatuation with your subtle imperfections.
A faint smile traces your lips, and I can not help but to feel
The sensation that you are breaking into my thoughts.
You are reading me;
Theorizing and calculating every word that parts from my lips
And every movement that escapes my bones.
I reveal the faintest of expressions:
A tinge of discomfort at this silent analysis.
The skill I had previously thought I mastered myself
And it only makes the corners of your mouth lift further up.
As if I were an experiment, being tested for a reaction
You slowly place your soft hand upon my cheek
And you trace your fingertips along the outline of my face.
Longing to fool you, just once I hold my breath
in a useless attempt to remain placid.
You must hear the frantic palpitations of my heart
Humming your name over, and over with every beat.
You have heard it, and you laugh softly under your breath.
I can not resent you.
I can not detest you.

I love you.

I love you.

But you will never let me figure you out.
You will never let me figure you out,
So I cling to the faint webs you have woven for me,
Holding my breath, lest it splinter a single strand.
You are such a mystery
And I long to drink in the essence that your mind contains.
You are such a mystery.
And I can not solve you.
Is that the sole reason I remain so captivated?

Because I can not solve you(?)

I am not omnipotent
But perhaps that is my desire.

Sometimes my intentions disgust myself.

The world is made up of hard feelings.

I found your heart in a box of cereal.

I pressed it against my chest and held my breath.
I felt nothing.

I found your heart in a box of cereal.
I held it in my hands
and cried.

Ranting tirelessly about the evils of capitalism does not make you look awesome.

When I burst

at the seams, there's nothing I can do but sew myself back up.
Stitch, by stitch, by stitch

until all the cotton has fallen out of me, and vanished.
My favorite trick at the magic show is when they make her

disappear.

Seldom do I ever see anything as beautiful
as that act
of elegance;
of cleanliness;
of life.