your middle name is always...

Just some tiny bits of inspiration keeping me afloat in this black hole of trigonometry and cellular respiration.

i won't let them take you

I'm in one of those summer moods.

If only my hands had a way of shaking this cold second skin.

what's that, pillsbury?

Forests are trees.
Flowers are tulips.
Fluorescence acts tragic.
Facts aren't true.
Fudge also trickles.
Fiends are ticklish.

and we would run sometimes

Warning: This blog will make no sense. You have been warned.

God, you know, you're just beautiful. Do you know that? Do you realize that every breath you take and gently exhale releases the sweetest air into the atmosphere?

I want to buy a coloring book and spend 5 and a half hours just coloring in it so that I can calm down about how much I'm still so in love with you and your beauty and you made me laugh one time, so much that I forgot that I was supposed to be sad. When I look at cement and concrete and clouds I always get this urge to just lie down, just lie and stare and exist and be and I always wanted to like roller coasters but they never seemed to agree with me much.

You know I met you in an alleyway 23 years ago back when neon was actually cool. I think I must have told you secrets then thrown them away on paper airplanes and plastic gym equipment. You have a knack of flying away with my thoughts and words and feelings.

When it rains, I imagine your reflection in the glassy pools of gutter water and when the planetarium seems to sway behind the mist your voice seems to distantly quiver with the winds and the rain.

I didn't used to care about being pretty until I was eleven and it mattered.

What happened to bare feet and finger paint and muddy jeans?

You still smell like summer, even far away. I just thought you should know.

My friend pointed out that this song reminds her of me. It reminds me of me, too.
And just ignore the awful New Moon clips. Though it probably won't be awful because Chris Weitz is directing it.

crayola

boo.
i hate
rules.
i never was
good
at coloring.

just a short bus ride

pangs of generosity
flowing
through my index
asian sensation
ghetto nation

i am the minority.

i need something
hot
my old candle blew out
weeks ago
no heat
just words i don't know
keep my numb for now

pilot

my best friend is a plastic pen
i know it seems sad
but he's a nice companion.

he leads me to new, exciting places
and never abandons me
he laughs at my jokes
he listens to my problems
he never judges
he satiates my teeth's ten a.m. boredom
he keeps my secrets
he never hurts me

because
he is a pen.
my best friend is a pen.

he's a good friend,

but you can't hold hands
with a
pen,
can you?

baby, it's a wild world

Have you ever wanted to step outside of yourself and break the patterns of predictability and normalcy?

I have this constant and unexplainable compulsion to keep my actions consistent, my personality consistent. Don't get me wrong, I reincarnate myself at least twice a year, finding new things out about my multi-layer self. However, there's always that fear of people thinking you're odd, fake, schizophrenic or bipolar or have some other mental abnormality. I find myself stuck in this juxtaposition between moral and immoral (I hope I used "juxtaposition" correctly, but if not, at least it's a beautiful word).

I have the dangerous desire to be typical and cliche, to break rules and make stupid choices for spiteful reasons. I hear constant gossip of so-and-so's drunken escapades or Jane's basement weed parties and I think to myself, "Are they bad? Are those choices bad? Is there even such a thing as an immoral action or choice? And when in my childhood did I establish my preconceived notions of good and bad?"

Supposing I smoked or drank or whored myself about the general community, would that make me less of a person? Or, in fact, would it make me more? Would it quench my hunger to live a passionate, full life? Would I gain wisdom from experience or would I just be your average teenager getting "fucked up" and having a good time just for the hell of it?

These wonderings began last winter I suppose. The more I'm exposed to, the more curious I am, and consequently contemplative.

I wonder every day what constitutes the value of a person and what variables have worth in calculating it.

Again I come back to the question: If I chose to do this, this, and this, does that make me BAD?

The newest John Mayer single is helping me let go of who I am, learn to roll with it. For now. Not to mention the cinematography is beautiful and the melody is lulling.

autumn leaves

Exactly.

Jazz is medicine for the soul, I swear. Something about autumn and slow piano riffs and honey vocals makes my heart melt with warmth and love. Well, partially.

I am gradually getting back to who I am.

match point

But I love to love so it's okay.
I love to love so it's okay.
Love to love so it's okay.
To love so it's okay.
Love so it's okay.
So it's okay.
It's okay.
Okay.

is anybody home?

I feel so disconnected from my body. I raise my hand, ask a question, but wait? Whose voice is that? I don't recognize it. I speak and stutter and soliloquy while my mind thinks to itself, "What is that sound? Am I conscious of it coming out of my mouth? Is this the same voice I've had for my entire life?"

I look at pictures of myself and can't remember what I look like. I feel like I'm looking at photographs of a complete stranger. What is this face? And those eyes? And that smile? They do not belong to me anymore. My mind and body have separated, broken apart right underneath the nose that no longer feels like mine.

What's going on with me? There are days that go by where I can't remember a single thing I've done. Conversations I find myself in that I don't remember starting or participating in. My body is simply a transitional shell for my mind. This is both frightening and intriguing to me.

I have no idea what I'm going through, but it's extremely odd.

there's a screw loose in the pendulum

I am confused beyond measure. Unclear of my position, my status, my being. What is my life? What has it been? I can't seem to remember it. Last week, I woke up and forgot who I was. For thirty minutes, I had no recollection of my childhood or my location or my name. I merely lay in bed, staring at the ceiling contemplating my existence and it's significance. This makes you realize how insignificant your existence truly is. We live, we die. Others live after us and they die. And so on and so forth. There is no point, it's this never ending cycle of shit (because that's really all we are and all we contribute to the universe, just lots of shit).

I was really beginning to find myself, discover who I was and what I was and how I was and how I've been and why. However, my life has encountered some turbulence and no equilibrium can come from it. My life is a pen balancing on the edge of a cliff like a see-saw, waiting for some force to penetrate the surface of either side. Either way I will be falling. Hard. Life is painful and intense and colorful at the moment. This is always my problem, aside from how I deal with my problems as well. That's also awful. I don't cut or anything, so you can sleep better now.

I have 99 problems.

I don't even have a song that works for how I feel. Only my past writings of the last two years to remind me that I've survived this long.

Fuck it, I've got to be at least halfway through my nine lives by now. They're slipping grain by grain through my heart's hourglass.

anchor

I remember a time when I couldn't finish a cup of tea. Now, I drink gallons. Credit is also due to the horrible hacking cough I've gotten. And for some reason, which I will not reveal, my right eyebrow periodically twitches, an odd spasm of muscles at the most inconvenient and uncomfortable of times.

Oh you. You will not be named. But you are making my week just really not fun at all. As you did last week as well. You are the reason I read Sylvia Plath and watch sad movies and forget what my name is when I wake up in the mornings.

But I love to love so it's okay.

deflated beauty

The sound of God whistling
Through an empty wood

The refracted light of a stained-glass window
In an abandoned chapel

The sweet, ripe tang
Of an untasted summer strawberry

The girl biting her pen
On an empty concrete bench

Depreciation due to bad timing
And bad population.

We wish there was a loophole.

ding

I've decided to start reading the journals of Sylvia Plath because it seems her mood fits mine at the present.

winds make my hollow heart whisper

image courtesy of: snippetsofwisdom.com

This is what my life is right now. No returned messages. No returned calls.

No returned affection.

Fuck it.

choke

You

are

killing

me

with

your

invisible

hands

laced

around

my

visible

heart.