The women were very woodsy and the men also grew their hair much like their maidens, except it creeped around their chins for manly beards. Their daily garment colors are that of elves, leaves, tree stumps, hills and autumn shades. The demeanor is peaceful, unified and cautiously friendly. If I lived among them, I'd certainly be accepted within their community except for the fact that I'd shave my legs. Not everything in nature is rough and raw. Limestone is more appealing when smoothed and so will be my thighs. Still I won't judge the ones preferring the long skirt fashion.

'For a minute there I lost myself'…. Radiohead.

More like two years. All those tiny ants in the twinkling cities…I wonder how long it took to set up their houses with happy families. How many got there and lost it again. How many too hazed to care. It takes wandering the clouds, to exact the location you want to land on. When I descend and join the colony that housed me, I'll kindly and amorously depart and go back to being found. This high has worn its welcome out. I'm ready for a denser share of oxygen. I'm coming down.

This tingling feeling is okay with my bones. With every sip, I could incrementally experience a new way to lose you. Each level is a training session for gradual tolerance of your absence. Slowly, I can accept loss as a part of life like philosophers have deduced it's supposed to crumble. They must've reached that conclusion by throwing down generous and timed gulps of single malts. I wish I could have what they had to better imbibe each stage of the process. For now, I'm just drowning the skeptic in a glass half full of conscious-altering drink, embracing the numbness.

Today is one of those deliciously good days, despite the undertow of a depressive reality. It's the autumn breeze and the bump from the energy pill that I needed to get the morning going. Since I'm too hyped to make music, I'm borrowing others' tunes as an expansion of my emotions. It's not only celebratory of the season, but also my latest obsession. So much that its possessing my time and energies. I'm trying so hard to glue the time period to a song, so I can melodically resuscitate the feel-good feelings if they deaden during the last winter days.

On the plane, buzzed on a meds/beer cocktail, I thumb typed a buttload of entries about metaphorically leaving him behind. It was a compulsion to keep writing about forgetting him, completely canceling out the moving on process. Before I got to this entry, I deleted all of them. There is no pill no erase his intrusive entrance into everything on my daily task list. I must be determined to acknowledge it and choose to ignore him. I have all the reasons to kick him out. Do I really mean it this time? We'll see. Earth is calling and I'm responding.

The trees told me things. They stopped shouting from treetops. They've been unsettled and naked in their roots, seeping and weeping whispers, dispelling their invisible tears into secrets only they can understand amongst themselves. Their message, successfully intercepted in a state of oneness with living speechless things, has been imparted to me. I've faithfully transcribed them onto their butchered martyred messengers, the paper, letting all know they died for a great cause and though they seem lifeless, they'll never be silenced. They're confident that some of us keep an ear out for the falling leaves, waiting for their last words.

Huge round marbled eyes stared up from a clothing pile I was unfolding from the suitcase. Not only was I visiting family, but also my dearest cat. I was dumbstruck, having missed that what I've missed is a furry companion. When humanity persistantly disappoints, and you need to break from let down, everyone should come home to a tiny sidekick. One who actively listens without judgment, without trying to immediately solve problems, with perked ears and a tilted, patient little head. You bitch out all your frustrations. The quid pro quo: all you have to do is scratch their bellies.

There is a constant rotational influx of work vehicles roaring by no matter where you stand in this city. There is no retreat far away enough from busy roads so that I may feed my brain undisturbed, clean silence. Plugging into headphones help, which is more pleasurable, nevertheless foreign sound. Music influences mood, not fully originated from inside, so it can't be completely trusted. Then there's jerkoff who plays metal everyday, which is only sparingly appropriate, but the distorted noise pollution emanates down the hall all day. My shoulders won't rest. My bones are ready to jump off their skin.

I think I'm only comfortable when I'm being chastised, reproved or disciplined. Not because I've gotten used to self-inflicted turmoil. It's because even though there is plenty ripe potential in our hearts, there is usually more bad than good readily available. Our tendency is to give in to the easier acts, which can lead to rotten esteem, which begins the rotation of nasty cycles. Regular counsel and critique helps us weed and mold out all that can hinder the growth of the better parts of us. I realize this is cheesy self-help introspection, but I often need to check myself.

Nothing can keep me away from the gym. I'd have to be ripped off the Nautilus Lat machine. You'd have to chew off my quadriceps femoris to stop me from lifting, contracting and running. There is no other way than a constant state of hypertrophy. Don’t even think your presence there will deter my commitment of forward movement and continual progress. I sweat for me And no one else. I'm dynamically dedicated to this health club. Get out of my way, you're feckless face is blocking my finish lines. If you feel the same, let's stay on our separate sides.

So easily entertained, but so quickly bored. I like the idea of what to do next, better than whatever I’m doing. Sometimes I’m bored before actually acting on an idea. I already imagined it. Living in present tense has very little satisfaction unless it is physical and involuntary. If the mind is not trained to accept present, you have to catch up to tomorrow, which is impossible. Say if I’m reading a book, I want to dance. Once I’m dancing I want to watch a movie, and when I’m watching a movie I want to fuck. When I’m having sex…

My instincts were correct. They usually are in regards to attraction. Maybe they weren’t guaranteed, but worst case scenario usually wins in a world where luck doesn’t exist, things usually are out of our favor. The realistic odds won in this case and: he’s taken. I’m tickled to announce she looks a little bit squished around her fishy lips. Just as I suspected, he played dumb, deaf and blind until it was absolutely obvious I was in their line of sight. I could care less. Until they break up. And they will. Cause odds will eventually turn against them too.

There was no way you would get my pudgy self to play in a team with girls, much less all men. If so, I was exceptionally skilled at standing and watching the balls fly, roll, swish by me. I was good at escaping the pounding of balls in my face, unless we were playing kickball, in which case it was as if I trained to be a target. It's a different story now. Still not confident for quality offense and scoring, but hell of a defense. And I took down the fat bitch that bet me I couldn't tackle her.

What is up in Elena's life? Not too much dead air. It feels like I'm perpetually trapped in Groundhog Day, considering the limitations flanking at me from all sides. But making the best of my situation, I can claim to some riveting experiences that keep me interactive. Like watching M stuff 7 humongous marshmallows and muffling out Funny Bunny. Then there are the internal debates that feud in my head. Those are always interesting, full of sardonic retort and compound insult words, i.e., asshat, fartbrain, terdface. Who am I kidding? I need to ante up to stay engaged with reality.

Outside on a shallow rain-made pond in a grassy concave area, crane-like birds stand gracefully tall, balancing on one stilt each. Don't know their name. That exposes my knowledge of birds. I recently learned magpies are an aviary species. Before that, I wanted to know if it tasted better heated with ice cream. If I didn't appreciate their majesty, I'd knock them down with a stick out of jealousy. I barely stand on two legs. Sometimes I feel I was born yesterday, yet sometimes I'm sure Einstein is channeling my brain. This from a girl who wanted bird for dessert.

We're hoping this idea pans out. I start off with blinking light bulbs above my pretty little head, a twinkling eye, and jet plane, take-off impetus. Its high skies for a little while and then the fog descends and I run out of adrenaline induced energy. Plans fizzle out. Waldo said the blog is cake. At this point, I just want to eat it, not write it. Since nobody will miss something that never existed, I shrug it off. My ideas are bountiful. I should hire someone diligent to oversee and ensure follow through. I want results for a change.

Don't you understand? When you tumble back to rock bottom, I'll follow behind. When your vision blurs, your bones rattle, and your heart is frozen and the only thing you have left to do is die or sleep until surrender refuses your voluntary admission. I will be the first thing you see when you open your eyes and focus in. I will wipe your sweat, blood and tears when you're reintroduced into consciousness. I will have cleaned up your mess and cleared your name. I will have kissed your forehead and wrapped you in blankets. Binge on me instead.

These past days, I've felt like a teenager. With no real place to go, just figuring things out on a low frequency while the body is kept in motion, if not fast forward. Wasting time dyeing my hair for no one, buying gifts for people who inevitably creep out of my life, waking up to a day of activity, a night of partying, and going to sleep wondering what the hell is it for. It's like talking to myself, but with awareness of its absurdity. That's when I realize I need more medicine or I'm taking too much of it.

My addiction is out of control. Right now it's the nagging demand to own every song I hear that I love. Not just a download. Not just the one song. I need the option of the whole album. If that's not enough, I need to own the full discography, past and present, of the artist. Whether it was excellent or atrocious. How else will I know if I truly appreciate them as veritable musicians? I don't even have time to listen to it all. Just need the false satisfaction that I can retrieve it immediately, perchance my desires recall it.

The mood swings are here to stay. It’s not a disorder; it’s not maladjusted behavior. It’s a blend of sensory overload and the conundrum that comes with an emotional spectrum too wide. It’s like picking out a deodorant at discount stores. Powder, fresh, original or spring breeze? Anti-perspirant, deodorant, both or organic? Clear or gel? Gel or spray? 2 regular size for $5 or a large for $3.00? Which is the correct combination that works for me, doesn’t overwhelm others, and is easy to apply? It takes a few stinky tries to find a competent general brand, but eventually you do.

Where do I stand in this panorama? I'm consulting the celestial bodies again, turning upward and searching for inspired signs to shine down from a cloud, a moon beam, or a shower of meteors. Ever since he was eradicated from the photograph, the empty space remains to haunt. My soul didn't get lost, but it's stuck, as if mangled in wires. There are heroes here on Earth trying to save me, but I can't separate them from my fallen wishing star just a few days ago. So maybe I can trust something bigger than this picture, enormously bigger than me.

What I have to say would sound lovelier and more hopeful if I was able to accompany it with melody. The music would add lift to the heaviness of my words. Somewhere in the middle, my lowliness and my joy would come to an accord, and all that you perceived from my hurt would be irresistible and hypnotic. It would just make so much more sense in surround sound, with cellos and violins. Depending on the mood, some mad beats. My enviousness takes over my desire, when I hear the heartbroken already singing songs from the tip of my tongue.

If you love someone that much, it's only healthy to take breaks from each other. She goes to her corner and I hang out with myself. I understand how my incessant thought race can exhaust my loved ones and I don't have any reservations when I don't hear from them for some time. They always come back as soon as they're recharged. And I'm sure she understands there are days I also fantasize about taking a bat to her skull. A sponge bat that is. She a gun to my shin. A BB gun that is. So on, so forth.

Maybe that's why it's been difficult to keep up this month. It's takes more than the written word to depict who I am. Ink remains flat after all. Black and white print is so defined, no scales, no grade. Now, of course, some are more in touch with visual imagery, they can profile me and formulate a model, a valid prototype. But my essence is brought to life through colors and sounds, inaudible waves and unperceivable undertows. I'm a maelstrom of dimensional phenomenon, eternally being molded into something you can actually feel with your hands if you reach far enough.

My observation of the world continues stealthily from the outside, rarely crossing to the other side. I don't know when I created such boundaries, although I speculate I must've sniffed out something not quite right when I was a child and immediately set up walls. As does everyone, and so I feel a connection to everyone. But I keep close to myself. Never fitting in with the swarming populations, their species and subspecies. Coining a unique nomenclature for my body. Never caring to fit in, but never denying we originate from the same elemental compounds. We all bleed the same.

You don't exist. Of that I'm convinced.
Yet no harm in waiting, long as I'm idle.
I make the most of my time, I imagine the most of what you would be.
And since I'm baring bones, the concern in not you.
To shroud you with angel wings wouldn't exhaust a pulsing vein.
Setting up a place for you inside me is how your ghost was created.
If you existed, no doubt you would search my every inch for a habitat.
Before allowing defeat, you'd tear open my ribcage and curl into my heart's cavity.

Sometimes… I hold my breath…

Usually, I would let a typographical error fly, but the last entry made the meat held tight in my skin tremble and want to fall off the bones. Not only was the fourth line supposed to read IS, not IN, but as soon as I submitted the entry, I expereinced a bombarding of euphonious replacements that would completely wrap up the little heart-poured package with little bows on top. Blast my hastiness. Ok, moving on…. I'm starting to believe the winds of change I felt earlier quelled before even stirring. So now I have to rouse up the season myself.

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars...

Kerouac

I've quoted this before. I must've. If not, shame on me. I shall do it again when the time is appropriate. I may throw it out there for everyone or I may specify a select person that is igniting my spark at the moment.

There I go again, thinking physical laws don't apply to me. If there's a knee injury, whether it be visible or internal: Walk, don't fucking run. But it doesn't knock me down in agony, so I accelerate and voluntarily overexert the tendons begging for rest. The days following, I'm shut down from the wounds I've exacerbated. I have this bad habit of pretending to be strong enough when I'm not, especially when I'm being watched. I want to get it over with and move on, but the facts are I must slow down and repose for convalescence to take place.

That woman character in the bible, I never remember her name, the one mistaken for a drunk when talking to God. Well, that's me, God. That's me. I come to you, drenched in tears, flailing madly to the ground, prostrating myself down with the lowliest filth, begging you to repair what has been breaking down since the day I was born. I'm not beyond pleading like a mad woman. I'm not haughty enough to present myself as a person I'm not.

Here I am, exposed and willing to be humiliated, if that's what you want. If that's what it takes.