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I talk about what I don't believe in, because I don't know what I do believe in. Once you cast that net out, it's impossible to reclaim it without dragging up some things you don't want. I think I'm afraid to clearly state what I believe, because I doubt I'd believe in it strongly enough to subscribe to it, I'd turn myself into a liar, a disbeliever. I've heard all my life, with folded hands in dimly lit churches, that there is no crime worse than not believing, but some of us aren't steady enough to believe a damn thing.
Alan says he is a patient person. He waits for things to happen, says if they're meant to, then one day, if he waits long enough, they will. "Patience isn't a virtue," he says, "but it's what life's all about, it's how you play the game and win." But if you wait for things to happen, you'll spend your whole life waiting, waiting, waiting. How do you know when to stop? What if you continue waiting through the thing you're supposed to be waiting FOR? Life is too short for patience, and life is too long for patience.
I create problems everywhere I go, and I can't say I don't love it. I do a lot of acting. I'm a yeller I'm a stomper I'm a screamer. I am a hurricane. I know the world doesn't revolve around me, but sometimes I think it should. My car broke down, I have a shitty job, I can't pay my bills, I'm hungry all the time, but it doesn't matter, because I'm in love. I create problems everywhere I go, but none of them matter, they're overshadowed, everything's overshadowed by the fact that my heart could explode any second now.
Sometimes I wonder what color your eyes would be without the sun in them. I can't count past two when you're in the room, I can't discern Left from Right and Right from Wrong. Those things simply don't exist in here; if you've got anything different to say then clearly we do not exist in the same place. Do you know what existing means anymore? Because I don't. I want more than to just "exist", I want more than to "be", I want to be something, anything, anything more than just being, I need an adjective to follow me around.
I can't forget those moments whose words have taken the breath from me, and those that have given air to my lungs, life to my heart, and volume to my voice. Words, words, words, they're all I talk about these days. They come out like a tornado, weaving through everything erratically; they are everywhere and anywhere until they are nowhere, too many words, too many explanations, too many excuses and apologies. You asked if I didn't hear your apologies enough, I said I didn't believe them because I heard them too often. What of words? Words are walls between us.
sometimes i think i'd prefer minimalism, to not have anything but myself, it seems it'd be a lot purer, I wouldn't have anything to complicate things, I'd just get the purest rawest form of myself and my life. Sometimes i want to get rid of everything i have to boil it down to existing, but sometimes, i just want everything and everyone on this planet. it seems to be one of those extremes, though, i either want everything or nothing. "some" is just such a terrible thing, at times. Ideal doesn't come around very often.
I want to make this house a home, make these floors and windows skin and bone. They say home is where your heart is. But my home has never been architectural. If my home is where my heart lies, you will always be my home. When I was a little girl I'd give inanimate objects names in an attempt to humanize them, to make them seem important. But things get used up, even if they do have names, and are pushed aside just as suddenly. Please, let me take your name from you and give it again and again.
I'd rather keep my head busy, than my hands. Lately I've been doing a bit of both, and it feels allright. Separate wavelengths and sometimes I wonder if they'll ever intersect, I feel split. Last night I said I felt two of us, but there are always two of me, one running off into the closet, out of the light, under the blankets. Sometimes I wonder if there's another you beside the other me, hidden behind coats and scarves. Hide and seek was always my least favorite game, "Come chase me," you'd say, but I can't keep running like this.
I want more and more and more, I am not okay with living a mediocre Midwestern Life. I am too big for this city, I am enormous, this city, this state, cannot contain me. I feel sorry for those who are content living mundane, insignificant lives. Or maybe, they have something I don't, they have the ability to be satisfied with their lives. I am never satisfied, I have a feeling I never will be. I feel like I need to market myself, I want to be my own business, my own product. I want to make myself an empire.
Less than poetic. I've got all the time in the world to be everything, or do anything, but I don't do any of it, because I don't know where to start. I don't have much to say, and I hate wasting all these words on nothing. Sometimes you just run out of things to say. I always wish I had some adventures to tell, some stories where you'd say "that can't be true!" but are. Hopefully, one day I'll have those kind of stories, I'll have miles upon miles of them that can keep my mouth running for centuries.
I want to rush in, I don't care. It's been a year of being unsure. I dream of things I've never seen. Some of them, I hope I'll see one day a few years from now, and have that familiar prick of de ja vu that says "I have been here before." Some of them, I hope I never see, the ones where you wake up convincing yourself it's not real and everything is okay. Everything is okay, but I'd rather it be good, great even. In art class, I could never draw circles, but I'm an expert now.
Leaving and coming and going, only to leave again. April 10th till May 4th, I will not be here, I'm always in the same place, but for one month I'll be displaced. I'll be South and West and Southwest in places I've never heard of. Misadventures and adventures, hopefully more of the latter. Three boys, one van, and I'll be in the middle. I'll be in the middle and the left and the right, missing you and you and you, spending too much money on the telephone. I couldn't get my eyes focused, but now I just see straight ahead.
I have doubts. I guess we all have doubts. When I drive, I mentally tear down everything I've built up. There are songs I listen to when I'm absolutely emotionally destroying myself. One is "She's a Jar" by Wilco, that tune never fails to rip me apart in the most delicate way. It's sad but hopeful, it makes me grow up too quickly and think that sometimes sadness can be such a beautiful emotion, just because it's so raw and pure, it reminds me of snow. It's acknowledging what's been wrong, and walking away, a little wiser, a little stronger.
Things are good, but could be better. Too many witty comments escalating into too many witty insults. Ruthless, to the point and to the heart. We made her uncomfortable. We made me uncomfortable. It's supposed to snow on Tuesday, I want to walk a million miles in that snow, so you can follow my tracks, away away. I wish flowers bloomed in the snow, bright pink against that cold wet white. People pick them because man cannot make anything as beautiful as nature can, and it's a damn shame. The season's changing, the weather's changing and so are we.
We are fragile and we are putting ourselves on display. Hands grab and swing but we will not be knocked down, we will not be ground into the carpet and brushed under the stairs. Yes I do live here. I come undone at the slightest of words, hardly a movement and I will be found with an arrow through my heart and oceans in my eyes. I get lost so easily, returning to the same room, over and over, square inches of square inches, wall to wall. There are earrings in my carpet and nonsense in my ears. It's okay.
I've had these conversations before, hundreds of them, thousands of thems, I've got fingers stemming from fingers, treefingers, enough to count on, but I still lose track. Our future is a train, looming, full speed ahead, and I am on the tracks, waiting to get flattened and hoping for a pain so intense that it's beautiful. I lose days like quarters in couch cushions, pennies, nickels, dimes are minutes, seconds, hours. I'd like them back, please, return my life like library books, those loose coins can pay the fine, because it's long overdue. I will bend, if you'll break.
I have breakdowns in bathrooms. There are too many mysteries that I know the answer to, that I wish I didn't have to solve, didn't have the means or the minutes or the ways or the days to solve. Those tiles are the wishes I wish I didn't have and the things I wish I would've said. I stuck my fingers down his throat and he sucked the air from my lungs. True romance. When I return, my eyes'll be wider with trees and sunsets and canyons pouring from them like faucets. There will be nations in my eyes.
Sidewalks and all of it. It's particularly nice out and kids are playing outside. "Are you not okay?" I like how they are completely random, don't care, never care, until they grow up. They scream and slap eachother, and don't give a fuck if the neighbours can hear. They love that the neighbours can hear, want them to hear, want them to come outside and tell them to be quiet. But they won't. Adults tune things out, dismiss everything as an annoyance, a distraction. Sometimes it's good to be distracted, and sometimes it's even better to be a distraction.
I'm sick of winning. This is one race I'd love to lose, I'd love to be beaten by miles. But you're always lagging behind, not one step, not two, but inches and feet. You stop to catch your breath when I haven't even begun breathing yet, you gulp water when my stomach is overflowing, out my mouth and ears and eyes, all over this racetrack, dousing everyone watching behind the fence. You might as well be behind that fence, you might as well be waving that flag. You might as well be losing your voice, never had it to begin.
I built this house on electronics. I built this house on stealth and speed, constructed these bricks and doors and hinges with the intention of staying hidden behind them. This was built in my head. I scale walls and climb continents. Alone. I grow like forests. Alone. No, not alone, there are always residents in my head and in my heart, but no one pays rent. Walls aren't built on lies alone. There's that word again. Alone isn't always bad, it's not the same as lonely. You can be alone and not lonely. You can be both, but I'm neither.
Sometimes I feel like my passions are faked, that I don't even know what passion is unless I'm reading about other people's. I've always wanted to be one of those crazy artists so engulfed in their work that they don't see the light of days for weeks, that they become so unkempt that people see them as insane. Unkempt is human, though. We try to dehumanize ourselves by cutting hair, rubbing makeup into our eyes. We forget what it's like to really be human, to just let it all go, and be how we're supposed to. We're not real.
Continuing from my last entry: Society is so disgusted by those content with 'letting themselves go.' It's seen as archaic, we are archaic, we are out of fashion. At times, I wish we could get rid of all this fake, all these attempts to improve what's allready there, and create what isn't. I think about what's beautiful, a lot. Some people debate that society, commercialism, tells us who is beautiful and who isn't, but I think it's something implanted, something there since birth. People say they'll love who they want, but they won't. It's allready decided, allready chosen.
I have watched you dissintegrate, I have watched us dissintegrate, which means I have watched myself dissintegrate. Please stop the vehicle, and somewhere weeks, months, years down the line I will be waiting at the next stop. It'll be like the song, and I'll have an umbrella made of words to shelter you from high winds and angry tree limbs, from rain flooding shoes and socks. Whoever said that 'words will never hurt' was a liar. These words are machetes, and they're precise. Bruises fade fairly quickly, but when they're on the inside, sometimes they take lifetimes to go away.
At age eight, I was deathly afraid of elevators and tornadoes. My father told me a story about his getting trapped in an elevator in the massive office building where he worked, saying that firemen had to come and get him down while he was suspended hundreds of feet below the floor. For some reason, the thought of being stuck so high up with no one around, terrified me. Now, I think it wouldn't be so bad, it'd almost be nice to be contained somewhere high above the skyline, clean and shiny. As for tornadoes, I never got over those.
Consequences don't even matter. Sometimes I want some god damned consequences, to feel normal, just to feel like things are real and things matter. All these terrible things I've done, all the drugs and lies and stealing, they have no reprocussions. If there are, I guess I'm just not paying any attention, they don't affect me enough to make my head turn or eyes blink. We are everything our teachers, D.A.R.E. officers, parents and preachers warned us about. We are the junkies in the streets babbling about the end of the world because we can see it in our brains.
I miss jump-roping heartbeats, the fireflies crashing into stomach walls and escaping from throats in sighs and into you with mouths opened. I miss palms that feel like saunas, the volcanoes erupting beneath cheekbones. I miss telephone rings that make my thoughts run marathons but never cross the finish line because they run back to the start at every note. In my chest there'd be a knife, and in my hands, an earthquake. Now we're the Plains; there haven't been any natural disasters here since the 50s, since little boys got trapped in wells and well, Lassie isn't here anymore.
I dwell on the past, and am terrified of the future. Past is stability, it's something that never changes, it's there forever. That's something no one has in their present, and I certainly don't see it in my future. This year has been about instability, about inconsistency, about many other words prefixed with "in"s and "un"s. I've gotten used to the fact that the minute I think something is stable and concrete, it's not. But that doesn't mean I'm comfortable with it. So I make my own stability by not letting go of what I've held onto for so long.
Wide eyes and open mouth, I can't keep either shut these days. Ribbons made of sentences, words, sounds tied to my heart, tied to my stomach race and unravel through my throat and over my hands, over his mess, over and under everything able to be touched. My ears are burning because my mouth won't stop setting fires. I scale walls and I climb continents, I build houses of sticks and stones and throw them but they don't stand so strong as the ones made of consonants and vowels. And that's one thing I'll never get sick or tired of.
I grew up as the mousey little girl in the background and watched as all the other "pretty" outgoing girls got boyfriends and all that, but I always thought I was too weird for anyone to ever like me. A lot of times, I still feel like that. I wish I hadn't been raised to be so independent and serious, because as a result, when I do become dependent on others, it's to an unhealthy extent and I don't know what to do when they leave. And they always, always leave. But not you, no, you're staying right here.
"She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there is was, perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner. The way Mr. Darling won her was this: the many gentlemen who had been boys when she was a girl discovered simultaneously that they loved her, and they all ran to her..."
"...house to propose to her except Mr. Darling, who took a cab and nipped in first, and so he got her. He got all of her, except the innermost box and the kiss. He never knew about the box, and in time he gave up trying for the kiss." We are proud and we are on fire. Lessons are learned. When you want to give up, don't ever give up. The only things that are worth anything are the ones you have to hold onto for dear life for fear that they'll run away. If you're still free, start running away.
The Tip Jar