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i'm looking through

looking right through

you

there is a static dissonance in my head; a lump in my throat. photographs of them and mental relics developed; all the time spent smoking drinking lamenting. laminate the stamp onto your forehead; it was already written all over my face.

Looking
right
through

You
hello, old friend. you haven't aged a bit.
Did I know you?

Oct. 28th, 2011

I just wanna play video games.

Jan. 12th, 2011

My birthday makes me sad, for some reason. I have never been able to pinpoint exactly why that is. I am unable to feel the joy most people feel on their birthdays – all of it makes me want to cry. The birthday charade seems so routine to me. Why does it make me so fucking sad? Shortly before we all went out to dinner, I sunk into the cool leather of the couch in the living room. My eyes glazed over by the reflection of the T.V. screen. Gretchen came over and instantly realized that I looked down. I tried to explain to her why I feel the way I always feel on my birthday but couldn’t find the fitting, descriptive words. She presented me with a card and I knew what it would contain: sincerely honest statements that she had ripped from her heart, bathed through her head, and laid out to dry on paper, in ink, by her gentle hands. I knew the words would describe somebody else – somebody that seemed foreign to me. I have always felt that way about compliments. I always think people are talking about somebody else.
Sometimes, when I am doing things, specifically: working or thinking - I'll feel like I've been enthralled within the specific aforementioned task for only a mere amount of minutes. And then I look at the clock to see it has been much, much more longer than I originally anticipated.

Then I feel like this:

Anhedonia.

2010. A new decade & a new year, yes? There's something bittersweet about this particular "holiday" that I have never really been able to place my finger on. For starters, surely I'm not alone in realizing that this night, just like many other nights, is a phenomenal excuse to drink ourselves (as a society) to excessive inebriation. Additionally, there's some weird guttural affliction I'm ailed with when the clock ticks away the last second of the former calendar year and the fireworks are lit and the glasses are clinked and the lips are kissed and the drug addicts use and then buy again and the alcoholics sip and then refill and babies are born and people get killed and cars get crashed and the homeless wrap themselves up tighter to fight the chill. The bittersweet feeling is that of happy sadness. Happiness for myself and the potential of the possibilities that are all well within my reach. Happiness for my girlfriend, happiness for my family, happiness for my band, happiness for my drums. Sadness for my older brother who counted down the clock while enveloped in a haze of cigarette smoke at some hole-in-the-wall dive bar where it's a rarity when the patron's have all of their teeth. Sadness for a particular guy I know (wouldn't call him a friend - for, he certainly wouldn't read that way on paper) who sat in his bedroom with porcelain glued to his lips and his eyes fixated on a computer screen. Sadness for a particular girl I used to know who I feel is filling up her empty spaces with empty people in empty places. But who am I to say all of this? For every inch of happiness I crawl towards, with my arms outstretched in a longing embrace to capture it, I am shoved backwards two feet by the inhibiting inertia of sadness I feel towards others; for others.

I felt this same bittersweet feeling when I turned 21 - just a little more than a week ago. I felt happiness for the mere fact that I actually lived to see this age, as melodramatic as that may sound. Theoretically, I should have been dead about 3-4 times, now. I felt happiness upon analyzing the juxtaposition of where I was in my life last year around my birthday (the 23rd) and Christmas as opposed to this year:

Last year's holiday/birthday season: Hardly keeping my head above the raging tide of water that is life. Lost my job that I had worked for more than a year due to a managerial dispute, my "girlfriend" was in a detox, then subsequently a rehab, for a particular addiction to a particular pharmaceutical -- essentially, I was just very lonely and very lost.

This year's holiday/birthday season: I have an okay job (read also: I have a job, period.) with menial hours that will coincide well with my impending, full-time school schedule. I am feeling confident about what I want to do with my life, vocationally speaking (though, this warm feeling of illuminated confidence flickers off and on like a dying light bulb: some days, I can see so clearly what I want; and other days, I feel completely lost in the dark) - I have a stable, healthy relationship with a beautiful girl who I have not tired of, and has remarkably not tired of me. Her spirit is pure and endearing, and her personal philosophies about drugs/alcohol/education are inspiring and influential in the best of ways. My situation with my family could not be better, and my little brother is practically my best friend.

So, what's the matter? I don't know, and anybody who says they do is a liar. Here comes another year of consistent inconsistencies and hopeless hopefulness and doubtful certainty.

I imagine the highest compliment you could pay to an artist/songwriter is that they can write better than you can feelCollapse )

21, tomorrow. (technically)

I could get used to that.
The potential of romance. Consequences purged with indifference. The need to be needed and loving to be loved. The underlying truth is the ending we will all face soon, and we need something to bide our time by. Just something to clear our minds from society, from work, from school, from people. A substance or a liquid or a chemical complex or a lobotomy or a train or a plane or just some kind of ticket out of here. Out of our bodies, escaping ourselves. Out of breath, we retrace and delve into the depths of which we shall not know until it's obvious face decides that it'll show. Then and only then will we know. Then and only then do our bodies decompose and help the grass grow. Just for another selfish human to stand upon, not knowing anything of his ancestry. I wish to be ignorant like the people I see on the television screen. For they unknowingly have the key to everything we need. To blind themselves from all of the brash truths that they see but do not fully perceive. Cogitate a cognitive reality, instead of hiding away from the brutality of our short-lived mortality. Calender pages turn and groan and birthday candles sway from breath and then get blown. We must remember to forget what they know that we don't. But we won't, and they can't, so much potential juxtaposed with our selfish recants. And we rant when we talk to whoever will listen, because our breaths are numbered and respiration is just a privilege. Drink it in deep, this might be the last time our eyes evermeet. Kiss me softly, my sweet: for in the afterglow of the afterlife we can then finally have eternal peace.
“We spend most of our time and energy in a kind of horizontal thinking. We move along the surface of things... but there are times when we stop. We sit sill. We lose ourselves in a pile of leaves or its memory. We listen and breezes from a whole other world begin to whisper.”
It's sad that I don't feel comfortable enough to post how I truly feel on my own journal. So instead of posting the very long, very revealing entry I was going to post, I will mark that private and simply say this:

I am desperately alone and feel like I'm going crazy. Ugh.

You once talked to me about love And you painted pictures of a Never-Never Land And I could've gone to that place But I didn't understand

plea from a cat named virtue

We have fist fights through telephone lines. We create the makings of a long night in early afternoon. We're strung along and out of tune. Vulnerable and exposed; a familiar repose. I never saw the curtains draw like they did, last night. It was on a different channel but it was the same show. Excavate these bones, tonight; A hole once carved, you crawl back in and seal it tight. What you don't know is I had the locks changed after the last time. Tread softly upon this fragility- the antiquity of it all is almost too much to bare. Reap swiftly the seedlings- let them bloom and blossom in repair.

Jun. 29th, 2009

I'm scared that when I finally realize I need you that you'll be gone- I'm scared that when I finally write to you my feelings that you'll be someone else's song. In this room alone I ask for space, and when we hang up the phone these four walls tend to asphyxiate. But it's a chance I have to take, it's a regret I have to create; it's an apology I have yet to make. So please forgive me in advance; my stubborn, selfish sleight of hand. Tonight, I will sleep, but only because of excessive intoxication and excessive mental fatigue.
Was hoping the computer would be off so I had a few extra minutes to think about what I wanted to write. Unfortunately, it was already on – so, here I am and here we are. What is it about the rejects, the addicts, the alcoholics, the liars, the bulimics, and the people with constant chaos in their life that I cannot escape? What attracts them to me? Better yet, what attracts me to them? I really don’t understand it and I think I’m ready to just shut myself down, again. At least until I meet new people which I don’t foresee happening soon due to my social anxiety. What happens when the new batch of people come walking through the door with the same emotional baggage? I just feel like I’m in a very cruel cycle that I cannot escape. I want to leave but that is not an option. Well, it is, but whom would I go with? I don’t want to go alone though I would prefer it. I guess I could. I want to see snow. I want to slide down a mountain on some vessel below my feet. I want to feel a winter so cold that I turn red and sweat. I want to see a piece of the country so desolate and so obsolete that I feel lost. I want to drive far away with just cigarettes and my debit card. This feeling will pass, and I know – for tomorrow, I have to go to work. But just for one hour I was peaceful internally because I thought about the possibilities. The chance to reinvent myself and the chance to finally forget. I want sentence fragments to be an accepted part of the English language because sometimes they read more poetic than any properly structured string of words ever could. I want clarity and I want adventure. I want simplicity and I want beauty. I want

(sometimes)

Life is a test and I get bad marks.

effing good.

the future

I think I've found the missing link

And my love for you is trapped like a bird in the cage singing a swan's song before the grave but each day the latch becomes a little looser and soon I'll be out- you're a catch and my future- without a doubt you're the seed I can plant that can perpetually sprout.

hello world

I am slightly drunk and the moon is full.