REPORT A PROBLEM
I remember that you have a mole on the inside of your left pinky... just like I do, except yours is bigger. You used to say it looked like a piece of chocolate. I remember that you love Sarris chocolate-covered pretzels, but that you eat the chocolate first, then the pretzel (I still don't understand that). I remember a lot of things. I think I remember them out of love. I hold on to them for dear life - remembering them, to me, is life. But I think of you too often, I remember too much, and slowly, it's killing me.
I can never get over you. You are simply gorgeous in my eyes. Do you know the difference between gorgeous and pretty? Pretty is something you notice once and make mental note of. Gorgeous... beautiful... it's something you can't understand or comprehend and so you can't really remember it... you just remember that you thought it, and every time is just like the last, like the first - you are impressed and truly taken by it. Every time you look upon something this beautiful, it melts your heart and steals your mind from the world. And yes, you are that beautiful.
Me: "I think sleeping at those times, though, is the excuse for being bored and lonely in this city." Her: "Every day I ask myself what there is to do and then realize there's nothing..." Me: If I don't wake up until 9 pm, I can just say 'Oh, anyone I could've called is busy now.' So I sit around and be online and play games and piano." I have a habit of picking up people I passed silently every day and realizing how incredibly interesting and worthwhile they are... now that I don't have the luxury of seeing them.
"If I sing a song, will you sing along? Or should I keep on singing right here by myself? If I tell you I'm strong, will you play along? Will you see I'm as insecure as anybody else?" (Eyes lose focus, struggle to come back...) "If I follow along, does it mean I belong? Or will I keep on feeling different from everybody else?" (Look up, see Phillip walk into the room, he turns on the ceiling fan...) "If I sing a song, will you sing along?" (Go back and write things I was too slow for the first time.)
If I keep writing, maybe someone will read. If I keep feeling, maybe someone will see. If I keep screaming, maybe someone will heed my warning. If I keep crying, maybe the tears will stop. If I keep thinking, maybe my mind won't rot. If I keep wondering, maybe I'll stumble upon what I've sought all this time. If I keep listening, maybe someone will speak. If I keep pressure on the wound, maybe I won't bleed. If I keep forgetting maybe I won't need you any longer. But if I stop loving, I just won't be living any more.
I hold my head in my hands and watch my little world crumble behind my eyelids. Plans flood in like the dirty creek and they flow away just as fast. People come and go, mostly go. I can't get a grip on anything, and I can't float here alone forever. I call and I leave messages and most people have caller ID on top of that, but it doesn't seem to matter. I could drive around for hours, days, I'd just sing and follow the roads. I'd be pathetic and take my silent cell phone with me. Maybe I've disappeared.
Laying naked under blankets, under darkness, underground, I wonder where the whole world went and why my hands are bound. There's a secret that waits for me, and I'll know once I can bear the pain that it will bring to me when I stand up or take the chair. Waiting here, my company is just a silent phone, bitter thoughts and resentment for being so alone. I'll pretend to be somewhere else, someone different, something, just something. I'll wait for the day that I'm nowhere, no one, nothing at all. When the world ends, when all the empires fall.
"When the world is raining on your sunny day, just look to me and we will laugh it all away. When you're having trouble smiling through the tears, just hold my hand and we will make it through the years. When you are sure that there is nothing to be found, just give me a call - I will always be around." I wrote this for you, and you'll likely never know. I played it on the piano, and no one heard but me. I sometimes wonder, myself, how I can live my life like this. But I've no new-year's resolutions.
It occured to me the other day that my first "entry" was written before I knew that this site existed... I wrote something to my girlfriend of the time, and limited myself to 100 words (I'm pretty sure I used exactly that number, though this wasn't an explicit rule I set forth). It was so powerful because every word had to matter, they were to be so limited. Well, I don't know if I still have that letter, and I'm not sure that I would want to read it if I did. Still, I found that memory to be interesting.
It's nothing special, it's not above or below you. It is just an email that I wrote quickly, saying what I wanted before I became to scared for honesty. You can reply however you want. I don't ask for elegance, just truth; something to read, I want to know someone is out there remembering that I exist, or at least that I did, at one point, exist, even if what I am now is just a shadow of all that, or what that was is only a shadow of all this - it simply depends which side the sun was on.
"I've been seized with the ice cold rage of a lover betrayed, half a million miles away. I've cried so hard for hours and not known why, I never do. I've been knocked down flat by joy that makes my face pulse like a sugar high. I've been cornered by the screams of a body as it freed itself from its mind. I guess you could call it superpowers, but no one is going to save the world with what I've got. An indigo light from silvery towers, surrounded by rocks and stones as far as the eye can see."
"If I ever would let down the walls that protect me from you, I would say 'Respect is due.' But not in this lifetime. So maybe I'd have loved you, and maybe if you loved me, and maybe the easter bunny exists. It's all the same to me now, dear. Yeah, but I don't think I have those old lists. Now the guns are tired - shoot bullets in slow motion, and all the soldiers have all gone home. And that's too bad 'cause it was such a nice war, dear. Yeah, but it is time to leave well enough alone."
I apologize if it is unattractive, if you can't stand it or it makes you run away. I'm sorry for all the things I have or will say. It occured to me the other morning that we all should heed this warning: There's no place in a world of empty hopes for ugly desperation. The two don't get along, and it's wrong how they let the one slide. Don't let me disturb you with genuine desire, and, close behind, disappointment. I'm just a sunk cost, old memories dying hard, kinda guy. I'm just trying not to not just get by.
It's hard to think that I'll be gone for so long. I wonder where I'm going. I wonder where it really is that I've been. Who have I impacted? Who gives a shit? What is there to love in all of this? I may be left with nothing but questions, an open mind and a broken heart, but I'll push on through whatever it is that I am in. I'll push on through to whatever it is that I am going towards. Sometimes it's hard to get up in the morning. Other times I don't want to go to bed.
I'm so tired. No sleep last night, a little in the car today. It's only 10 pm. This is usually the peak of my day... but now I'm struggling to keep my eyes open. I keep going from one thing to the next, trying to keep busy. I brush my teeth and plan to go to bed. I see you online. I can't go to bed without talking to you, now that I've noticed. You're at the top of my buddy list... did I do that on purpose? I don't remember. Maybe I just clicked there when I added you.
First day back to classes tomorrow, and it's a little exciting. More nervewracking than anything, though. I have a lot of shit to do and I just want to keep being on break. Too much stuff right away, I want to ease back in, not take it in the teeth the first damn day. I wonder if I'll be able to sleep tonight. I wonder if I'll like my professors, my classes. I wonder how crowded The Goose will be tomorrow at noon. I wonder what else there is that I should be wondering about that I've just forgotten.
The point of reference determines the object. The light source places shadows. The speed of time blurs it into the dark recesses of memory. A mirror will never show you what anyone else sees. Records won't tell you what you sound like to me. A smile is a whole new world and laughter is the soundtrack to the movie. So if you don't understand it, don't bother trying to: you aren't going to notice how beautiful it is to make others smile and live and love, or that it is just you. But I'm going to thank you anyhow.
Something I realize after every break: getting back into the schedule of school is a pain. Getting up early, doing homework, going to meetings, not forgetting like a douchebag... it's hard sometimes. I got so used to just sitting around and doing nothing. I got so set in a schedule of being lazy and just doing what I wanted to, sleeping when I wanted to. It's better for me to be back now, with some structure, with some force pushing me in the (supposed) right direction, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to fight it like a stubborn ox.
So I'll let it all out, be honest. It is so liberating, a white bird in a blue sky and the brown earth shrinks as I disappear into the wind. Take a trip with me to the depths of a warm summer afternoon. Bathe in the sunlight your own eyes afford the beautiful world you see. You are the glimmering golden hope screaming its way through the darkest grey skies and a shimmer in the empty black night, reminding me of what it is to be home. If I am an open book... well, then, these are my Cliffs Notes.
Fingers through hair, skin so fair, and so bare, and I only ask where the time went. The long nights and the lost fights, the blurred sight from the tears building up as I drove home. The cold wind blows and I know that the same white snow falls for you and I both. Winter yields to spring, and it seems a beautiful thing when sirens sing us to the rocky shores. Who ever would have thought that all the things we sought were waiting to be bought by the old and lonely? I can't help but look back, sometimes.
I often hate keeping things to myself, but some things just can't really be shared. I mean... no one cares about what I think about some random third party, if they are in no way involved. You don't care what I think about you, or even if you do, you couldn't relate to the way I see you. To you, you are you, to me, you are something very much different. What an odd situation. So even if you constantly interest and intrigue and impress, you probably wouldn't understand it, because you are modest... which may be the best part.
Why must you be such a dickhead when you are drinking? Even the slightest bit and its like you are just waiting to jump all over someone the second they disagree with anything you say or think or even thought about thinking at any point in your life. You aren't even worth talking to at this point. It pisses me off so much -- you asked me once to confront you when you do things that upset me. Yeah, well it's pretty fucking hard when you won't listen to a damn thing without being hypercritical of it. Whatever, keep fucking drinking.
I have to be honest with myself, I have to stop wishing my sight away. If only I could distinguish happiness from dreams, bliss from ignorance, and love from laughter. I am scared to admit hat sometimes I am scared. I am scared to admit that sometimes I lie to myself. I'm scared that I don't always know the truth. But maybe the truth is worse than all of this. Maybe the truth is what the walls crumble and the children run and hide. The monsters in your closet are all too real. Cry for help that can't hear you.
One of the things that I can't stop wondering - what is going through your mind? What are you thinking about? How beautiful are your eyes? Do they shine with hope and dreams? Do you smile passively, even when no one is looking? What does your heart beat for? When you lay awake at night, where are you? When you are not in view of anyone else, who are you? What do you see in the world? What do you want the world to see in you? You don't say everything that comes to mind, as I maybe shouldn't. Oh well.
What do I write about? If a day passes by and doesn't even welcome you, if a night closes its eyes without saying "sweet dreams," what do you say about that day? If the sun never rises, the sun never sets, and I'm just another day behind. An empty space in an empty time and another obligation that I never really wanted. Wastes of time don't waste mine, and I'm starting to wish I could just stop and take a look around. So I stop, and then I forget why. I'm back on my feet, and I never looked around.
It's funny the way little things can turn a day around, it's the people that know this simple fact that make my life worth living even when everything else seems to be looking down. I try to tell you how much you mean to me, but I can't even understand it, so I doubt you do, either... but then again, you've amazed me in every other way, why not this? I can feel my pulse in my fingertips, I can feel it in my chest. I welcome every day, hoping that I'll catch you with a free moment to speak.
My thoughts keep drifting back to the same place, the same space, the same thing that consumes my free moments every day. My fingers keep fighting toward the same keys, they beg me, they implore that I let you know everything. Every night I end up in the same bed, the same head, the same realization that I'm all alone. We're both looking at the same stars, no matter how far, no matter how close we are, I'll always wonder. Are we under the same spell, I can't tell, I desperately wonder what it is you're thinking, what you're feeling.
The cold wind dries by open eyes, chaps my skin and warns me to stay indoors. Warm blankets call me back to them, safe and comfortable and predicatable. The sun hides itself behind the clouds and there's no saying when it's coming back. I'll wait patiently. Windows just don't give the same perspective. The pane of glass filters out the pain and the love, and I'm just not going to sacrifice this time. All the troubles in the world for the love and the joy that life just might offer me today. Falling down might be falling in love someday.
Part of a conversation: "I really don't know what to say, though... if I had my choice, I'd make you tear up with heartfelt amazement that a human being can be so innocent and beautiful, so positive and reassuring. Does everyone say "This doesn't ever happen to me," when it does, or do most people just watch it go by and not realize what they are losing each and every day: opportunities to live. Head down, I can only type approximations of what I am and what I think, of what I feel and what makes me say these things."
More: "... I'm frustrated at my inability to speak. The best way to understand would maybe be to take my pulse, to see my eyes, I've never been good with words. And yet I try to force it all out in the clumsiest form, in one hundred or less, at that. The same thing over and over and over, and I'll never get it right... I'll never convey a single true thought or feeling. Happiness can make you cry. No one ever tells you that as a child. I've got nothing. I'm just speechless again... it keeps coming out all wrong.
Talk about a themed month. Doesn't take a lot of guessing for at least one person, maybe the only one, that is reading this. So I'm back to the same old thing. I can't hide my thoughts from you, and I don't want to. All I can say, I guess, is thank you. Thank you so much for just being who you are. If you are nothing special, then maybe nothing special is the best way to be. Special people continually frustrate me. So then, fuck special. I've found something beautiful in you without special to cloud the issue.
The Tip Jar