Remember that downward spiral? This time it's not about my own insecurities. My life loves testing what I can handle, and it's doing a great job this week.
I'm gonna go blast some music, jump up and down, maybe take a cold shower. I don't want to be here anymore, in this place.
I don't know what to do anymore.
When reasons for living are slim
Talk to me
I will tell you I would never be the same
Would you leave
If you knew I would forever cry myself to sleep
Would you leave
If you knew I would blame myself
Would you leave
If you knew that I was always here
Would you leave
If you knew you make my life better
Did you know you make lives better?
Don't leave.
The world will miss you.
I could help you
Let me help you.
On occasion (not-so-rare depending on the week), a person's look or response will send me in a downward spiral. I become insecure and doubtful of everything I know. It goes away eventually; I am generally a happy person.
I would like to make this disclaimer now: any pathetically depressing post I write is of the moment. By the next happy day it will sicken me, and I will remove it. If you read the last one and noticed that it is no longer here, you are my audience. I post them in the first place because I think in knowing me, one should know all sides. Good and bad. Just not the really really bad. What seems to be so is a temporary part of me.
The usual mindset change occurs during the discovery of a new favorite song or a really great acoustic performance... like tonight. The Josh Irby Band, a local act, sings every song meaningfully, and I agree with them all. That's a good feeling. My first poetry reading at the open mic segment that preceded it doubled that feeling. I read Music to Me, Edges of Love, Here I Am, and Feed The Shredder. Perhaps I will post them soon since readers only know the last.
So I will leave you tonight with good feeling on my part. I hope you are doing well, too.
Perhaps I've never written a song because I am waiting for a song to be written to me. I have faith in that. Someday, I will be an inspiration. Haha. Until then..
Poetry it is.
You know, it's okay if I beat them to it. Chances are they will quickly mean more to me than I do to them, knowing my obsessive tendencies. Maybe their influence will be too important for me to ignore, and my impatience will eventually get the best of me.
I guess it's a footrace. Or a feeling race?
I don't care who wins.
Philip Silverman, a member of our senior class, died this morning. At around 3:00 A.M. his friend fell asleep at the wheel. The driver and a third friend have been in intensive care.
The student body seemed in a daze. At some point I stopped asking the tear-stained faces if they knew Philip. Does it really matter? I didn't know him. It is so upsetting how many people a person can meet posthumously.
How many times the story of the accident was retold, I can't count. "A.J. was driving, Jimmy was in the back. Philip's dead." Dead. Dead? Really? He's eighteen. He knew people I know! He's not ever coming back? They won't ever be the same? They will have to live without him for the rest of their lives...
This is the problem death presents to me. Dr. House, my reigning favorite on-air diagnostician, stated that everyone would cry like a baby when told of their imminent death. I am not afraid to die. I will admit I am afraid of some routes that could take me there, but I am not afraid of being dead. I am afraid of who will live without me. I am terrified of living my life without those people. I want to outlive everyone I love.
I hate impossible needs.
The cynical side of me, or the realist, finds this and wonders who it will be. Who will die in my graduating class? Whose death will shake the school, as well as my life? I don't want to think about it. I can't help it. I have felt as if tragedy is impending for some time now. I am hoping to train myself to cope with it, when it comes. How ignorant is that? I can't ever know. I just can't ever know. I would rather not ever know. But...see above.
I apologize for my rambling, and the unoriginality of this topic. It's been a long, hard day.
Rest in peace, Philip. Not to mention Kurt Vonnegut... We miss you both.
Emotions are an attempt to find one's self. Some practice being sad. Happy, because it looks good. Scared, because comfort follows. Confident, because followers listen. True, because credibility is desirable. False, because liars are the center of any problem they create; attention loves problems. I don't think we practice being unprepared, humiliated, or broken.
We are creatures of habit, and habits are fueled by short-term consequences. Any far off outcome isn't incentive enough, though outcomes essentially define one's self. Emotions, then, determine character.
What one portrays forms the world's opinion. The world consists of people we love -- or at least they live here. Those people's thoughts regularly surpass our own in importance.
What one feels is seldom what they portray. Are the aforementioned impressions false? Does the practice of dishonesty not only avoid reality, but alter it? Does the practice of truth lead to happiness. Does happiness create confidence. Is confidence scary.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave.
withered daisies
deflated balloons
dying dogs
dented doors
crooked smiles
sinking ships
chipped polish
burnt toast
sad satisfaction
forced rhymes
broken hearts
celebration often ends
friends often flee
happiness often hides
love often loses
I have a heart-shaped box
not Cobain's but mine
it is blank and empty
waiting patiently
I tell myself I'll paint it
plaster it, polish it
but the bare wood is reassurring
it is mine to change
the edges are curved
it's pretty to look at
if potential is beautiful
step by step I fill it to the brim
with pictures
with words
with rhythm
with melodies
there will always be room for you
in the midst of the mess
I wait patiently for you to peel back the lid
tell me what you see
-walking behind slow walkers
-false flattery
-intolerant people
-intolerant people who find themselves righteous
-blatant interruptions
-dull pencils
-unnecessary answers to simple questions
-erratic bus schedules
-my inability to find a good pair of jeans
-people who read over my shoulder
-busybody salespeople
-spring break snow...not peeved. confused.
-dreams that flee my grasp within seconds of awakening
-knowing that I have more yet can't place them...oh well. to be continued.
Her favorite streets are the twisty ones. Only there does she feel in control. They're lined with beautiful homes; these homes have personality. She can feel the memories. One day she'll own one of those houses. Other's memories are no good to her.
She fell in love with this car on sight. It surprised her, that true love. She would take care of this car, and it would take care of her. She would learn how to master its quirks, and it would learn how to take her where she needed to be. It was a security she had never known. She chose to disregard that it had come to her in a piece of machinery...the people could follow along.
Her father doesn't like the car. It's a two-seater, and that's not safe. But it's beautiful, this car, and that is what she told him. She earned the money, she negotiated the deal. He wanted no part in it, and that's the way it happened. He argues his part was the weekly driving tutorials. Well then, Dad, be proud of me in my little red car. Your skills are driving it. And don't worry, Dad. I'll be just fine.
That car is her escape. It keeps her sane. No amount of drama, pressure, or guilt-trips can keep her away from the road. One day, she says, one day I will drive my little red car and never come back. Never look back.
sweetheart, I love you
you are beautiful
there is nothing I want more
than to wrap you in my arms
and tell you I will never go
sweetheart, you are worthy
of anybody's love
everybody's love
His love
you are made new
sweetheart, don't cry
tell me all your fears
I will fight them for you
when you are weak
I will be strong for you
sweetheart, it will be alright
the brokenness will break
the wounds will heal
this cruel world
will leave you alone
It is a shame that one bad teacher can turn someone off to an entire subject. It happens frequently, I know. But it shouldn't. Some people aren't natural teachers and no amount of education can instill that.
I propose a survey. Who is your least-favorite teacher? If answers overlap, find out why and either fix it or change it. Heck. I'd do it myself.
Okay I'll answer myself. Apparently (thank you katie), the eye-opening thing could have something to do with trying to open my eyes in real life. The only discrepancy, then, is the reason for the real life eye-opening. I wouldn't be complaining if this wasn't interrupting dreams I would like to see. I have gotten fairly good at pulling myself out of a bad dream; this is done once it is lucid. These occurrences have only happened non-lucidly (word? sure why not.) and mess with the "neurological" story line. Ah well. It is, after all, only a dream. I apologize for the dullness of this topic...I report interesting things as they happen. Lately? Hm. No.
I've been wondering about this for a while, particularly whether or not it's an exclusive experience:
Every single dream I've ever had (remembered) has involved me in some way. I am not watching myself interact, but interacting and seeing it through my own eyes. On quite a few occasions, my "character's" eyes will become blurry and handicap the visibility of the rest of the dream. Not only are they blurry, but I can't keep them open. Not yet is the dream lucid. Consequently, I "think" I'm blind, unexplainably tired, or going crazy.
I once proposed to a professor speaking on dreams that this was a trigger my brain created to help me realize the dream. In other words, a lucidity trigger. He argued that the very definition of lucid is to know one is having a dream. It is contradictory, then, to say my brain knows it is a dream while I do not. How could this even happen? Well. Perhaps through the development of childhood perceptions, I have always thought my mind and brain to be separate entities. Since that psych class, I've seen them as one; the mind being a result of neurological firings. Easier to understand, yes, as well as easier to believe. I have not fully come to this realization, as the validity of my beliefs has never been a major concern. Nevertheless, I understood the professor and began to question this characteristic further as it became more prominent.
The professor did not have a good explanation for these happenings, as they are so person-specific. It didn't help either that I had such a difficult time explaining them. He dismissed the question, perhaps thinking it unworthy of other students' learning time. How unfortunate.
So. Any thoughts? Any questions? Is it a result of shaken sleep patterns? A brain's cue provoking awakening? ..Am I crazy?
The angel said to the women, "Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; he has risen, just as he said. Come and see the place where he lay."
Matthew 28:5-6
let me paint you a picture
a picture of you
sit still
this will take time
i don't need your colors
black and white treats you well
no distractions
raw emotion
your family will frame this, you know
you want to look like that?
no, no
tilt your head, hand to chin
there
no, no speaking
i am concentrating
on capturing everything you are
everything you will be
portraits span decades
centuries, even
you will live forever
