Yep.

I'm pretty fucking miserable.

Champagne For My Real Friends, Real Pain For My Sham Friends

It's too much anymore.











I don't want to talk to you.

Am I blind?
Was I blind?

Placing in you a greatness undeserved?

Are you an addiction? Do I love you and hate you?

Can I stand being around you?




Am I afraid of not knowing you? Does it admit my fear of never being close to a woman?

What if I told you? Would you care? Somehow, I doubt it.


You're avoiding me.

I Am Not A Robot

I think I'm caught in some fantastic limbo.I'm on my bed and room is really nice and warm, but the window is open and it's raining. Occasionally some drops get in, but it's actually pleasant.

Does she feel it too?

Is it why we act the way we do around each other? Does what we see as mild distance from each other come across as chemisrty to others? Are they helping us? What do her friends think? Is she even talking about it?

Does she understand? Is she dealing with her feelings rationally, or is she hurting herself? I want to teach her, I want to see her understand, I want to build her. Does she want to be built? Does she know she needs to be built? Does she care?

Will she sleep tonight? Or will she think of me?

I've always liked the power of minimalistic words.

A slow dance.

Explosions in the sky.

A warm night.

Figures.

Couples.

Our faces buried.

Her hair.

Her touch.

Her warmth.

Our bodies in motion.

A slow dance.

It isn't happening, and it never did. Dreams I've had that were so real I can wake up happy. Wake up happy and revel in the soft mists before fully waking. I want it more than words can wield the matter, I wake up and it's all I can do not to cry out in grief at the loss of those moments of sleep. Those moments of happiness, understanding, clarity. When we would sit opposite and talk through it all. Why this, why that. I feel it too.

Does she feel it too?

Did we talk through it all?

It's all I can do. . .

I'll See You Around, Jack. . .

Claire de Lune



A fancy bar, rooftop, looking over a calm, night-time city.

Empty, except for a lone pianist, playing Claire de Lune. Jack is sitting at the bar with a cigarette and a martini. His friend enters, sits beside him & orders a drink.



"Found you."

Jack: "She left me, Tom."

Tom: "Make it a double."

"I know why. I understand everything. But I can't help but wonder. . .


What could have been. . .





We'd have our house on Superior.

We'd walk down that amber road.

That unswept path by the lakeside .

Take in the scenery.

Maybe, take some pictures.

Her auburn hair caught on the summer breeze.

Snapped in frame.


We'll pass on, but. . .

those pictures'll. . .keep on going.


Love.

Beauty.

Immortal.

Infinite."



"Well Jack.

I don't think we ever stood a chance."

"No, no we didn't." Smiling.


"Well listen Jack, I've got a late flight to catch, and Kitty--"
"Yeah, yeah. I understand."



(Tom stands up & puts a hand on Jacks back, coat over his other arm.)


"I'll see you 'round, Jack."





(leaves)

There's a lot ahead of me this year. I'll (hopefully) start college in August/September. My final exams are in two weeks time.
Preparation.

I don't feel afraid yet. I thought I'd feel afraid of the future, college, work. It hasn't even hit me yet that I may not see a great deal of people, individuals close to my heart, for a very long time.

Except for one in particular, that ever-present She.

I am scared of not seeing her again.
I am scared of what I will do when I can't see her every day.
I am scared of telling her how I feel.

She's such a huge part of my life and she doesn't even know it. At least, I think she doesn't.

I hope she does.

I am all about the happiness of other people. I have a martyr complex. Though I still do like myself.
But. I just want them to split.
It's hard to write that.

Rather, I just wish He was never there, and We just Were.
I want it so badly. When I sat next to her in class (something that is now lost) I could feel the hairs on my arm reach, pull, and drag my hand to touch hers. Alas for the strengh of hair. . .

As with the previous post:

I cannot feel happy.

Point of Disgust

I'm coming down from the weekend. Highs have to be followed by Lows, I guess.

It came on all of a sudden. I had a tremendous friday and saturday. My sunday couldn't have been more relaxed.
Then it set in.
Some harrowing wave of sadness, of lonliness, cold enough to penetrate this heavenly weather.

I start to feel even more alone the more time I spend around my family. (which is odd because I love them.)

Old feelings I haven't heard from for years decided to drop by. They are not particularly welcome. I don't have much more to say than I already have.

Why is it that I always think the worst of what I don't know? Every time I don't get a response from a friend I automatically think they're trying to avoid me. Which may not even be the case, they could have just not heard me, or were too drunk to comprehend more than a fork, or just concentrating on something else.

I like to think those things. But I don't believe myself when I say them. It just reminds me of how different I am from most of the people I know.

I don't feel particularly close to anyone.

Not a soul.

I am very. Very. Sad.

What Is Tomorrow Worth. . .

What are words anymore? Other than a device to make me a fool.

Documenting my thoughts online. What about this isn't an attempt to be noticed? What about this isn't attention-seeking? What about this isn't written in the hope that She will read it someday? What about this is subtle?

I'm not sure of anything anymore. I can feel myself changing, and I don't know where this change is taking me. To bitter shores, it seems. I feel. . .angry.

I feel lonely.

I just. . .I just want to be with someone. Not anybody. Someone.

But I can't.

Here comes, a visible horizon.
Right where it starts and ends.
Oh, and then we start the end.
Here comes, a visible illusion.
Oh, where it starts and ends.
You're like a sunset

Cracks are Starting to Appear

What I am notincing on a rising scale recently. . .is that what I notice and take in to contemplate appears to only represent the surface area of the subject at hand.

Then. What good is anything I say? To realise this, then to read my what is writ. . .it does not serve as a handbook to the Deeper realms of thought.

Although.

What I am doing serves as a method to get you, the reader, to think over the material as you would if you came up with the material at hand. You might read a passage and think "Nah, that's bollocks.", but then see it, mull it over in your head, and come to a conclusion about it that is satisfactory to you alone. Could I ask for more?

In Making Mountains of Molehills. . .

You know, I usually take a balanced approach to everything I write. However, for the following passage, I must ask your permission for me to let off some steam.

I am finding it increasingly unbearable to hear such phrases as "Ugh, men/women are stupid" or "It's because I'm a woman/man and you're a man/woman." Seriously, if I hear someone say it in earnest, I cannot help but think of telling them to fuck off.

I see this purposeful separation of the sexes as part of the larger problem of forced stereotyping and discrimmination by the larger media, when in reality it doesn't exist. All that does exist is people. If someone in a relationship is acting like a fool, or if there's any contention in a relationship, it's not because of some "failure" of the antagonist's sex, it's becasue of the couple's lack of functionality.

For When There Are No Words

I started this post with some intention of writing about the power of music, but I find myself unsure of where to start.

Most, if not all, people are able to understand that music has an immense power.

I was just wondering about it some time ago: why is the vast majority of music about love?
Then it occurred to me: what other set of emotions moves one person as much as those to do with love and partnership? And it seems that music is the medium of choice to express this love, short of sex.

Through my understanding of emotion, love is something felt. I was part of that cliche of saying "So what they say in songs about feeling love really is true!". Love, to me, is a deep, deep sensation of a longing and near desperation of wanting to be with someone, close and in their presence.

I find such an emotion to be. . .fucking amazing. I find that whole idea fucking amazing, that even being in the space occupied by a loved one can lock ones' attention so much that they forget what they are about to say, or act brashly, or even lose their footing. It actually even grabs the attention of your subconscious, throwing your functions out of wack. . .that's. . .just incredible!

I was subject to this, that's why I'm writing this. It was only for a few seconds. . .

I was walking through a hallway, on my way to class. Our school is pretty crowded, but for a few seconds, the hallway was empty with only me and her at either end of it. She looked at me expectantly, gently gesturing to come along to class. Whatever it was about the empty hallway or the way she was standing or the way she was looking at me. . .it made my knees buckle. They actually went weak.
For just a few seconds, all there was, was her.
A perfect moment.

I swiftly recovered without allaying any suspicion as to what I had just felt. We went to class. What I have written above is how I feel around her. Even if I just think of talking to her or remembering that moment, I get short of breath.

She doesn't know that even happened. She's probably even forgotten that day, that week.
But every detail is crystal clear in my memory.

This is what love can do to you? I'm not even with her, or anyone.

Have I only scratched the surface?

It is through this memory that I can realise why music is generally about love. It is so powerful, that only music can provide satisfaction when there are no more words.