the right guesses

tell me - what do you care, really? why am i permanently reduced to making clumsy guesses about what it is that makes you tick? why am i always the one making overtures? why does the burden of making things comfortable always fall on me?
and i wonder if perhaps i really am not the one expecting more from this strange relationship.
you once made conversations elegant and delicate and fun. once, conversations with you were wonderful things. and now i tread around eggshells, and on them. inadvertently. oh, my dear. i am tired of tiptoeing around your perceived weaknesses.
when have you ever considered mine?

for someone who asked

at times i am "not the most mature"
(still taking adolessons)
but everyone's immature; some just deny it better. they tell me - oh, not They; just they - my friends, the people i ask - they tell me everyone who is, worries about dying alone. and i think, that would be okay, if i knew. i need to know for sure, that's what i need. perhaps i have too great a regard for spelling things out. most people don't like it; they say why must you ask so many questions just let it go why can't you let it go only i can't.
i worry that i will always never always never... i worry. i find my wisdom in my misery; and it hurts that all those whom i believe can or will see it - don't. it is because of time spent, i suppose. time spent around the immaturity of me. i am tired of being seen skewed. i am tired of guesswork. spadework. work. i wish, so much, for a friendship where i will not be the only one making the advances, the offers, the sacrifices. i wonder why i am always so ready to be the one helping. does it make me better in any way, trying to be the person others turn to?
no, because they will not always turn to me. i am terrified of being unneeded. am i so ordinary that everybody everybody everybody can do without me? ah, but wait. it isn't everyone, is it? no. it's just one big mess and a series of one-sided arrows, and a person who will insist on pushing me away.
if i were to break it down
(to pieces pieces)
i would have to admit that i'm better off now than i was the last time this happened. definitely i have come ahead in the departments of blame, tears and silent suffering - except that i'm leaning on walls a lot more leaning this time around. perhaps because there's a larger measure of honesty there this time. perhaps. but the problem is (and has always been) that i am a past master at fooling myself into thinking whatever i feel like thinking. why worry? why worry about could have- should have- would have- why? because i can?
i wonder now if i'm looking for something to blame. i usually am - i like things to be someone's fault, or something's fault, or because of something that can be avoided the next time. i collect these guesses like little pearls of something almost approaching wisdom and i ask ask ask everyone i ask them what did you do what would you do what should i do and people will tell me things i want to hear because all the people i ask are as mad about the lost romance as i am. and all the advice is bad, and all the advice is wrong, and my instincts are sending me horribly mixed messages. alas, egad, agog.


I have far too great a fondness for symbols. Superstition! ahoy. So weak and powerless over you. Odd, it's only because I will. I want to be. How much self destruction must I recognize before I'll step in and stop it? I can advise until I'm blue in the face, but I will not believe it's over until someone says it in so many words. I wish I could just be loved by someone I love, you know? Just once, have someone I like more than anyone else in the world return the feeling. It's okay if it doesn't last more than a day, or if it never happens again. I just want to know what it's like - and I want to be able to say I've felt it, too.
Is that too much to ask?

Is it too soon?

it's done, then

i will be okay, i will. i'd like to say "fitting", because it is, in a way. and at the very least there will be one more person with something to remember me by. i suppose i should be happy about it, though i cannot find it in myself. and the fact that i was right, in one way, at least one way - but that counts for so little now. will i always be so wrong?
i didn't expect this to affect me so much, i didn't. i do care; that's a bad thing. it means i gave in, in the end. in spite of all the warnings, and all the worries, and all the wisdom of past experiences. that is why wisdom is important. it is. it is maturity.
i want to get through this as i convinced myself i would.
ask me next year, and we will see if i did.

i will see this to the death!

why, where's all the screaming? the crying? the million letters written in the head? all i have are some very erratic heartbeats and a face that tends to blush inappropriately.
oh, dear.

I don't care. don't care don't care don't care don't care.
The horoscope; it says:
Luck is on your side this week.
Something you've been wanting for a very long time will finally be yours.

...
...
...
to the death.

oh, why did you

and what have i done now?
I can never tell.

I want to believe in good things, but sometimes the feelings I get don't really go with the good things. I wait around for people to clarify, so I can tell myself: there was a good reason, there was. Eternal optimism will continue to believe until it drops dead, or until the moment when it can say: there. that is what made it worth all my while.

But it is not. This is not worth my while, it is not.
The upside is this: Now I know. I know.
This time I will not put up with a person who is reckless with my heart.

listen

you fool yourself. you talk too much. you lie to yourself and to people who will tell you what you want to hear. you ask questions that can be answered only two ways, and you ask them of people who will always choose only the one option - that is not fair. you imagine what is not there, you read into words what they don't say, you make believe where you have no right -
just leave him alone.

for god's sake.

No, I'm not blocking you. What am I, five?
(or twenty-one? I did it; in those days).
I just can't be bothered any more. I'm not so fond of you that I will help mend you when you refuse to be mended. I've done all I can; and all I'm prepared to do; and there's my good deed for the year may I get my gold star now, please miss? Far easier if you school yourself to hate me. It's a pattern you're familiar with anyway, isn't it?
I have problems of my own - I cannot fix yours too.

there is a new-post link in the top right-hand corner

Once upon a time I wrote that. Very astute, methinks.
:)
And hasn't it been too long since I've written something here from me, from I; from me about I; from me about T? Yes, too long. Too long. I've been worrying about the people who read this, and there can't be that many; and they can't matter because they won't say it
(hush a secret where's the secret where is it)
to me anyway because Were you invited?
Sometimes I wonder if the blue isn't losing its purpose; if I haven't become slowly, (slowly, slowly) someone who can manage her life without a miserable cry about it first. I use too many happy faces. I have learnt too well to smile. Is that not wonderful? Yes :) Except - I don't write as much as I used to. I can't: I keep thinking of other things instead. All my best thoughts are behind me; all I think of now are suburban dreams without the southern hemisphere. I wonder if the end is what made me happy - this freedom from the five years. Victory, victory! A lesson learned and the guerdon of a self one can love. I don't want to think it; it is a solution almost insulting in its simplicity.
One likes to take credit for one's triumphs.

I have wandered back through the blue, and I am afraid I have been clueless (oh, clueless) Has it really been eight months? Eight? And still it's only now that you are ready to say it? And not even ready! For that question there should be only one answer, not a mess of shuffling guesses and fluctuating feelings. I tell myself that I wouldn't imagine something that wasn't there. I tell myself that my instincts are better than that. (Have I not always known?)
I tell myself that this time it will be different.
The odd thing is that I'm not unhappy. Is that not odd? I've been unhappy over boys. I've worried and cried and spent sleepless nights wishing I were dead. I've begged and pleaded and demanded - how do you feel about me? I've hated them for pushing me away, for running away, for suddenly realizing they cannot bear to spend time around me - needy clingy desperate woman that I am. I have done it the other way; run because I didn't want to be there in that position in that situation - and I have always drawn that line. Now there is no line.
And yet I'm not unhappy. Does that mean anything?
I want to believe I've learnt from past experiences; that I've become wiser and calmer and more mature; that I am no longer that child screaming to be loved. I want to believe it; and at times I can convince myself it's true. Is this simply an illusion I've created because I want it to be true? I don't know.

i see that i've stopped writing the blue as though it were an extension of my brain. why did i do that? why am i still wishing for a single person to be reading this? and what does it mean that i want him to read not the content, but the other things; me! me in these words! and does he know how i feel about him at all? all the old posts have lost their secrets. it feels strange to pass them by and read them as i would a stranger's and think - i know what that could feel like, i know. the first time i read non-sensei i ached to think of a love like that. if i had a wish it would be to be loved with words. is that stupid? selfish? and what if i am married not to the one i love but to someone chosen for me by parents grandparents loving relatives; a software engineer who says too when he means to and of when he means off and vice versa verce visa, oh, even if he willingly corrects himself if i tell him it's wrong, thank you dear, and what will i do?
the words must be loved.
as much as i do. as much as i do.

horoscope

Do you believe in the truth? The truth above all else and the pain a truth causes is worth it because there! there it is, it's the truth and what could be better?
Would you tell someone - "I don't love you."; "I don't know how much this is going to hurt you, but it needed to be said; in so many words. I don't love you." - would you?
You need to tell me. I need to hear you say it; in so many words. I won't believe it until you do. I will say to myself I am prepared, I can take it, I will be okay but I will not know, I will not know until you say.
Would you, please?

300

Do you know how hard I try to push you away? Here, in my head; where you take up so much time and space and energy. Only your curiosity seems human; something to tie to tie myself to tie myself up with. I wish I didn't always imagine happy endings; the things we want to believe in rarely turn out to be true, don't you think?
I am worried that I am not worried.
What have I convinced myself of?

should have lied

i blushed. i actually did. at one point my head screamed my secret mine and i was afraid they'd see, that they'd reach in and grab it, and it was mine. but when has that ever stopped well-meaning relatives? oh bad, so bad. it took the best part of a five-hour car ride to set my head on straighter than it was, and it is still far too far ahead of normal.
but you're weird, my tee.

the truth is, there is no part of me that will say no. how scary is that?
when i fall this time it will hurt worse than all the last times.
please let it be easy, oh please.

been one week

It feels wonderfully liberating to complete something on time and within requirements. It has been a long time since I felt proud of myself - and that is a great feeling. I don't want to say things like "learned a lot about myself", and "failure is a stepping stone" because, well, they are pansy clichés that I would be ashamed to use, but...
they're true nonetheless, aren't they?
In the long run it really does not matter. And I'm happy with myself, so what odds?
:)

Meanwhile, regarding some brass bottles...
One has to think of it this way:
a. It means I can return it before the owner leaves the country.
b. It means the owner only needs to meet me once.
The little voice screaming "walking distance! walking distance!!" must be resolutely ignored.
:(
sigh. Sometimes he makes it very hard.

so badly.

Oh, my T. What are you doing?
Lost it.
It isn't as if there is anything there, you know. You know. Why do you persist in making your life miserable to be a part of?

Write me a Pink Floyd lyric and tear my head apart.
Alas, my dearest Augustine. All is gone, gone, gone.

oh, lewis

.


why are you never around when I want you to be?

secret songinthehead

Please give me a second grace
Please give me a second face
I've fallen far down
The first time around
Now I just sit on the ground in your way

Now if it's time to recompense for what's done
Come, come sit down on the fence in the sun
And the clouds will roll by
And we'll never deny
It's really too hard for to fly.

Please tell me your second name
Please play me your second game
I've fallen so far
For the people you are
I just need your star for a day.

So come, come ride in my my street-car by the bay
For now I must know how fine you are in your way
And the sea sure as I
But she won't need to cry
For it's really too hard for to fly.

beautiful all the way down

here is my indifference. it never manages to last as long as i need it to.
be here now?

well, what *did* you expect?

but!
on my birthday.
:(

why make me beg?

it makes me seem so much more desperate than i am...

subjunctive cases

i've been meaning to be good. i know how to be good. i just cannot bring myself to it. why does wisdom not come with the desire to apply it? i'm sorry. i'm sorry i push you. i'm sorry i pull you. i'm sorry i show you that i need you. i wish i cared less. i wish i were indifferent. i wish i didn't attach myself to people - stuck like a limpet until cut loose forcibly, stupid woman, didn't you see it coming? but i'm not unhappy all the time. not even melancholy - it's just the humours that make it seem so. you made me happy, once. that was when it was accidental. i was happy and carefree and you were not important to me at all... and now you are, and that's the end. now i'm lost, lost and i wish i weren't. i wish it were easy to not care. i wish it were possible to be self-contained, to truly need nobody - but it isn't. i need you. i need them. i need someone. needy, clingy; funny. i know all this. i knew this ten years ago, when i was thirteen and perhaps no less mature.
if i had more to offer, would there be a person who would give me what i wanted to have?

away for the weekend?

:(

out of ways to say what i want to

ummph. the mind speaks to itself in guttural non-words. there's a letter out there somewhere that has been over four weeks in the receiving. i sent a raspberry that mortified and now i am back to being most thoroughly confused. i wish... but he will not hear.
i have a clench in the stomach - i know what that means. it is all only reaction. i shall go do some mathematics now.

"it's mostly not your fault"

Truth above all else.

It is my fault, but only in part. Who has ever said that before?
I feel happier than I should. Why is this? Because there were no evasions, that's why.
Thank you. You make me smile. :)

almost december

Do you stay away on purpose? It works well: I am learning to spend a day without thinking of you for more than half of it. I do not know whether this is a development I should be happy for; I've had too much fun with you in my head. There are too many people aching at this moment. If I had my way I'd send them all purring cats on laps.
Look, ma - I know how to use the subjunctive!

Of course she's right. I've always known that. I've always known a very fair number of things. The knowing does not seem to prevent me from doing stupid things, however. This is the tragedy.

if i promised not to think about the persons who might be reading this page, could i return to the honesty it began with? dear one, there was never any honesty in a single thing you did - why think to start now? i hate that everything i do is seen from the outside and inside and sideways simultaneously. is this a conversation with self, then? :) you do strange things, my tee.
is simplicity such a crime?

i miss you. i shouldn't, but i do. i miss you less fervently today than i did two weeks ago, but i've been missing you months and months - did you know? i pretend this is something special and unique. but i pretend too well to trust a thing i tell myself. i will pretend to believe it this once: belief is something i do not think i can do very well without. it strikes me as funny, the little of you i apparently am willing to settle for. there are so many things i want to talk to you about, and all i want - really, really, all i want - is just that moment in time when i have your undivided attention.
i miss you. do you see now?

Miss. How pretty it is when one word means so many things.
Poor misstee. What will she do when there is no one left to set her heart on?

leaving

I had forgotten that feeling.
How could I have?
I had forgotten what it felt like when something someone said made me cry. Perhaps I had gotten too used to dealing with people who liked me, and cared about me, and worried about what a single word could do to someone with an ego as fragile as mine. Perhaps I was too comfortable in the knowledge that people could be forgiven the unkind things they said because they didn't mean to hurt me - when it was only true of people I considered my friends.

All he said was "yawn."
How can utter strangers have the power to make me cry?

being sensible

It's easier than previously imagined.
:)

it will not

if i were ever to wish for my mind to find something to fix itself on single-mindedly, this would not have been my choice.

at that point when i'm mutilating daisies

i miss you when you're gone. i miss you all the time. i wish you were here, though i cannot imagine past the fulfilment of that one wish. i drop references of you into disconnected conversations the way one drops names of famous people one knows, nonchalantly on purpose, like secrets that beg to be told. i think of you every second second, in spurts and shocks and spite (in spite) of all better judgement. i hold long discussions with you in my head where i say all the things i wish i could think of when you were around, when people actually heard me. i wait with busy signals and pointed status messages all for you, only for you, and i forgive you when you never notice. i write you letters pages long in my imagination and then tear them up because they all end up making uncomfortable admissions that i am not sure i believe...or want to.

i've been here before.
will i survive another one?

promise me

oh, my dear.
as far away as that?

and as long ago. birthday.
i am almost a happy person.

do you only pretend, to spare me the pain of looking stupid?

I'm not a cruel person. Really, I'm not. At least, I try very very hard not to be a cruel person. Assertions of my mean nature notwithstanding.

It's just that I would like to have you feel, for a little while, exactly what I feel every time I come here and wait around for...things. I do.

Not long, no. For a mere ten minutes, for example.

Hmmm. Perhaps I am cruel.

How can you not know?

i must ask this -

...do you not care?


at every second second.

past your shutters

I fear this will come out sounding bitter and miserable and self-pitying, but at this moment I do not believe I feel very much more than curious.

Is everyone as ready to be deceived as I am? Do they, too, go over the same old memories over and over until they're warped beyond all recognition and coloured by every dream they want to see fulfilled? Is every moment in the past brought forward to fit in with the idea of the present?
How much of what I feel is real and how much just the ravings of a wishful imagination? Is recognizing the possibility a step in the right direction, even if no move is made to change anything?

Someone said things a lifetime ago that I listened to with half an ear and then immediately forgot about - until I saw them again yesterday. I do not remember all I felt, but I remember enough. Do we miss messages when we're not listening? If they're not important and never repeated, may we not leave them forgotten?
Does what was said four months ago matter at this moment?

For all I ask and pry and plead, I get nothing but blank walls and neat evasions and pleasant conversation. Should I not stop pushing myself forward?
Should I not stop believing?

self-control

7000
1296000
192.76.146.51

i am afraid and ashamed.
more afraid?
more ashamed?
all manner of people.
oh, god, help.

I miss him. He's busy, and I'm being sensible, and the only reason I wrote him a seven-page epic telling him nothing is because I refused to annoy him when he had no time. As long as I'm writing him, I don't miss him that much. I wish I hadn't sent that link now. It smacks of screaming attentions, and I don't want that.
"Undoubtedly, there is meanness in all the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable."
:( mewl.

if you push hard enough, everyone will

There are three hundred and sixty six days when one can remember a moment. Perhaps the only reason people do not celebrate an anniversary every day is that life does not spread itself out that evenly...


What would you have me do? The secrets that others tell us wind around us like so many great grey coils; intangible chains that bind us at once both from speaking and breaking. A secret not yours is a burden you cannot choose to lose yourself.

Are the things we are willing to forgive in others only things we would be willing to forgive in ourselves? Is friendship about trust, or about truth? At what moment does one stop and decide that enough is enough? Where is that line drawn beyond which you do not care enough for another person to let them hurt you more than they hurt themselves? Is it possible to believe that the way a person treats others does not matter as long as you are treated well?
Is affection a substitute for worth?

How much must a person mean to you for you to forgive them the pain they have caused you?
Trust is an ineffable entity, non? Indefinable. You rarely realize how much you trust someone (or, dreadful thought, wish you could trust someone) until you're actually called upon to do so. When the need arises, what then? How do you choose what secrets you can place in the power of another mind? Whom will you trust enough to give the power to hurt you to?
Is trust the hope that the people who can hurt you will always choose to stay their hand? Is trust the belief that the person who has the power to break you will not do it? Is trust the handing over of that power?
And if it is, perhaps love is the knowledge that you will always forgive someone even if they do.

Here is the issue of trust again. Does seeing through someone's bullshit excuse the fact that the bullshit was present at all? Can you forgive someone for doubting your affection; for testing your trust? And even, even if you prove that your affection is true, doesn't the fact that the test was set at all mean that someone else failed it before it was taken?

But then, do I not push people just to see if they'll go? The trick is not to lie. The trick is not to push too hard. I know.
Some people, when pushed -
they will go.

camaraderie

What would you do, love?
Is it a measure of stupidity, putting your trust in other people? Refusing to be pushed away: is that not all I ask of the people I care about?

How far will you let someone go?


Look: the irony of questions you are forced to answer yourself.
Do you care enough to self-destruct?

second anniversary

I am almost cured now.

between anniversaries

why bother?


because someday somebody nice will reply to a letter.
i just wish it could be you.

old ghosts

And it is odd how easily a carefully formulated plan will fall flat on its face when someone does something unexpected.
Forgiveness is very easy when someone apologizes. How is it done when someone doesn't? When someone hurts you badly enough to leave a scar, which is a better idea: to try and forget it, or to try and tell the person what they've done?

a year ago today

1066 FTW !!!

I think I might cry.
:)

but

I know the only reason I think of you so much is because I have nothing better to do with my day.
I still wish you were here.

turn around

Why do you suddenly pretend to care now?
You have never been a pillar of support - what makes you think I will turn to you now, when I most need someone I can actually trust? And you will tell me to my face that my behaviour is not normal, and you will expect me to step up and take control of a life I'm still coming to terms with?
Oh, well done. Perhaps I'll have that therapy, after all.




***
I'm terribly unhappy. I wish you were here. I need to talk to someone. Won't you please come by and be nice to me?

FAT FAT FAT

Here's a high flight: do I really expect someone else to judge anything using the same yardsticks I mark out for myself? Indeed it's stunning to see how often I am the one to blame in all my dealings with people (all except my mother - is that meaningful, doctor?)...
It's strange to see that I have withdrawn into my shell again. Strange perhaps because it does not seem as much an act of hiding now as it did five-six-seven years ago. I begin composing the messages of cheer when I am of good cheer, but then I stop somewhere in the middle of a strangely involved sentence and decide that the story would be better left untold.
(unremembered?)
How much of my life do I want to remember, anyhow? How well do I want to remember it? Do I want to remember all the things he said and all the things she did and all the ways the rabbit was the most adorable guest we have ever had, or am I content to let my mind set aside a single strand of memory for all the little things?

Talking is pointless if there is nobody listening, and I worry that I begin to repeat myself. Repetition, it is boredom. What would I do if I bored myself? Why do I feel as though it is not a result very unlikely? How much external validation can a person crave, truly?

where is my love
horses galloping
bring him to me

I worry about being a lonely broken person with no one to love her.

and again.

Really, this missing by minutes is more than I can bear...
Meanwhile, I think he likes me. More than he says, anyway. Is that good or bad?

realizing that...

...guarantees make it *very* easy to be patient.

What a revelation, ya!
:)

sob

where *are* you?

status update

one two three four five six seven eight nine ten

I was doing fine until I missed a message by half an hour and then nothing would do for me but to wait three hours more and waste every minute of it.
Current mood: Atrocious.


Be firm.

wise friends are good for one

:)
Well, they are.

This one is for you, Mamma. Do you still stop by?

misconception

Turns out he wasn't mad, just busy.

Ohnoes, I am such a big stupid. :(
Now what will I do?

<and space, where I will later bemoan my tendency to assume the worst>

decision, decision!

I said something without thinking and someone got upset and isn't speaking to me and I'm wracked with guilt and ruining my digestion, and it isn't my fault.
So WHY am I the one crying myself to sleep, why?

Wise person says, "maybe he is pissed with something else but is using this as an excuse; i used to do it ..thats why i am saying so. give him a week and then talk to him!"
I wish wise person bothered with correct punctuation, but it doesn't really matter anyway, really.


I'm going to give him a week, then. A week, and I will not:

1. Apologize again
2. Ask him where he is
3. Ask him if he's busy
4. Tell him I miss him
5. Ask him if he's ignoring me
6. Ask him why he's ignoring me
7. Ask him to stop ignoring me
   
8. Tell him I never want to speak to him again because the strain is too much and I'm tired of being the only person in this friendship who is actually concerned with how the other person is feeling
   
9. Come online seven times a day and stay awake until four a.m. hoping he'll show up so I can talk to him face to face and give him a piece of my mind... oh, who am I kidding. Welcome to the Suck - it's back to last year you're going, missie.
   
sigh

I will be FIRM. I will be mature. I will avoid thinking of him for a week and I will, I think, not cry, hein?
Oh, oh, oh! It is going to be so hard.

all that they say about old habits

It has been a wonderful time and a wonderful eleven months and the wonder is that I have lasted this long with only the minor hurts that have come my way. Let's face it, love. Once I've cried myself to sleep over a boy it is past time to sever the connections.

don't came back

I don't want to talk to you any more.
Love,
T

you hurt me, and you could just as easily have not. you laid all the blame on my head, where it did not belong, and you left me to ache while you were gone. you are never here, never, never, ever and you can't see that it means anything to me at all.
How is a boy always so blind?

hypothetical analogies

Let us imagine, then, that there is a forest.
(perhaps it has bunnies?)
And it is thick and dark and oh-so-mysterious. And there is a path. Imagine it. Imagine a path that looks as though it leads somewhere special - new and exciting and extraordinary; only you don't know where, or what you'll find when you get there. Imagine a path that promises.
And imagine that you go down this path and you see signs that it might possibly end in a hole with spikes at the bottom and you decide to believe that the signs are wrong and you go down the path anyway because the signs are only signs and not warnings and the path, it is promising, and the way is beautiful and the day is beautiful and you don't really want to believe in this big hole so you keep walking along but bit by bit it gets darker and gloomier and rougher and thornier and you don't want to turn back because you've come this far and you think, perhaps the pit isn't there at all, really and you keep right on disbelieving all the signs even though the evidence is overwhelming until you ended up falling in the hole that you didn't want to believe was there...

And what if there is another forest and another path, and you go down this path because it looks different and safer and it promises entirely different things and suddenly you see the same signs... what are you supposed to do then? It's a different forest, see, and a different path - only the signs of the pit are the same...

My question is this: Is there a pit or not?

too late now

I give up. I am going to stop waiting.
Don't look for me.

I won't ask you again.

them apples

I did it again.
After, how long? Four months? Five months? A year?
It isn't even the thrill - there is no thrill. It means nothing, the act - it is a means to an end. I don't know that I regret the means, and that worries me.
God preserve me from ever enjoying it.

I found the music books, unexpected.
I should be happy.
All I am is worried.

still counting...

The site counters tell me someone from that city has been by, but without further information how do I know who in that city it is? All signs point to probably, but I refuse to assume a thing.
I miss talking to him.

I am so afraid of giving people the wrong ideas.
And then I am afraid of getting the wrong ideas; and it is always far more likely, because I have an imagination that fills gaps in with pleasant alternatives to the truth. Feelings shouldn't be so hard to pin down, surely?


Why do I care? He never hears a thing I say anyhow...

behind my back

sigh.

the statcounter, it feeds optimism.
:(

it's over!!!

Final count: 112.5
I give in. Might as well. Otherwise it is more pain on my head.

...and continued

At the risk of alienating myself from sensible humanity, I need to confess to terribly overwhelming urges to send pings to a number of people.

current count:
110 hours since.

(and it does count. because of the lack of expectation, and the lack of provocation, so there.)

this has become a production, i don't like that. i was, even when i knew people were reading, able to say just exactly all i was worried about even if couched in obscure esoteric references. what has changed, then? perhaps it is the fact that i no longer need to purge as often as i used to. is that it? have i turned into a more balanced, less emotional person? perhaps yes. i think it's the girl friends. what a startling development!

>_<

omgwtf!!!!111!!!!one!!!

Cycles of three?? Are you kidding?
Please tell me this is only becuse one can draw parallels between any two people, given that they are sufficiently not-dissimilar.
omgomgomg
:O
SHOCK!!! DESPAIR!!! UTTERLY INEXPLICABLE JOY AT INNER GLIMPSE INTO THE WORKINGS OF THE UNIVERSE!!!!

hahahahahahahhaa
shit. :| I'm a repeater.


laughter or tears?

...and counting

73 hours since.

56 unacknowledged pings.
274 evidences of correspondence.

I don't have to read them all in one day, though, do I? But no, and this means I have something to do till the weekend.

emo kid emo kid!!!
This page reads differently now that I know the rabbit's reading it.
Hello, rabbit. You are ossum and I love you and here's one (1) number big hug for you. I'll finish writing that letter soon, I promise.
:)

I don't like being conscious of the lameness of my complaints. I was perfectly happy wallowing in self-pity on this page right up to maddox yesterday. Now I can't be happily miserable. And the clear signs of obsession don't help.

Meanwhile, what am I doing about all them poisonous moments? Tomorrow. Saturday. Sunday. What can I do in a day? What can I? Yes I can, yes.

moving times

Today I came home full of resolutions to reform my sad-ass emo ways. And then I did a search in gmail to find the first time I wrote a person about a book and ended up reading a lot of old communication instead.
I am terrible in the beginnings of friendships. And at the ends.
I come off as such an eager love-starved poseur. It's disgusting. DISGUSTING, I say. I am ashamed to read the things I say. ASHAMED. There aren't enough upper case words to express my disgust.
He did write nice letters, though. I wish he hadn't stopped.


I resolutely refuse to write him. I am keeping the resolutions admirably. It has been...two and a half days! ohmigosh ossum!
I am very proud of myself.


Here is the oddity: I wrote more honestly when I wasn't worrying what he felt about me. Why is irony so ingrained in everything I do?

twice over

why can't you write? would it kill you to drop a line? probably yes. this is a good thing. all negative qualities must serve as warnings. this is paw all over again, and catspaw is not a happy prospect. really, it's not. the future is not hard to imagine if one uses the right parameters.

look, you. it's time you stopped with the obsessions with the boys from that particular combination of places. please, T. no amount of teasing from friends and pleasant lunch-time discussions and veiled confessions will change the facts.
THE FACTS.

mewl. :( I don't like the facts.

how many

Ends are painful. I like ends that are ends, though. There is closure.

Papa Santa needs to be forgiven. Can I? Not for a while, I think.

Three to two, if that. What becomes of all my loves? In this moment at half past two in the morning I can say I will be fine in spite of. Tomorrow, I may not believe it.

It is easier when others take the decisions out of your hands. Oh, my T. Is independence such a scary thought? Yes, and yes. Do you hate me now?

resisting

The urge right now is to write a lot of pointless emails. It's a very strong urge. I clamp down on it firm, like so. I say to myself, T, you will not email him; that would be entirely uninvited annoyance. I say to myself, T, there is no reason for you to behave in this childish and attention-seeking manner. I say to myself, T, there is a reason he is not talking to you, and you will not die if you do not find out what the reason is.
I say to myself, and I recall other pointless emails and a Santa promise and I am very close to tears. (this is the point at which I say, Ha! And what else is new?)

It strikes me as odd that even the familiarity of the repetitions never seems to lessen the ache in the stomach the least bit. Did you know I used to write messages couched in stupid poems the first time around? One of those poems, it won me a prize.
Is there a better use to put misery to? I doubt it.

Fun fact: Angst is synonymous with anxiety.
I wish he were here. I wish he were here.

interval

I want to be able to shrug it off. I did for a while, didn't I? I did. I have been sounding more and more mature and grown-up every moment. and then I read Eve's diary and I'm pining again.
No matter. They all found somebody else, after. Likely I will too.
My tummy hurts, though. I wish he were here.

gone case

you cannot cannot cannot say "will you be around later" and then blow me off.
ugh ugh ugh ugh DO YOU THINK I HAVE NOTHING BETTER TO DO THAN WAIT AROUND FOR YOU AND GET SHOUTED AT BY MY PARENTS!

:(

it is a true

Here is the question - how much do I want this to be special and unique and permanent?
sigh. I do very badly.
It's just that - haven't I done this already? Haven't I been premature about all the other ones as well?
Dear you, it annoys me how often you are in my head. Dear you, it annoys me that I cannot just come out and say I miss you. Dear you, I worry I don't care about you at all. If it is this easy to feel for someone, does that mean the feelings are less acceptable?

I fancy his maaind. :) I can deny it as much as I want, but it is a true.
Oh, well.
Time will tell.

disconnected out of town

With emails to send and calls to make and plans to finalize.
I'm worried about a wedding I'm attending.
I was invited, see? Only I've met neither bride nor groom and I'm terrified of fraud-feelings. The only thing worse than not knowing anyone at a place is knowing people only well enough to be left out of every story. I'm such a pathetic excuse for a social animal.
:(
And people are all going to be unreachable and I'm so unhappy. Why?
sigh.


Dear you
Wouldn't it be awful if you woke up one morning and realized that somewhere along the way you gave up all your grand plans and decided that no prize was worth the effort required? Wouldn't it be awful to wake up one morning with a recollection of the first expectations you ever had from yourself and discover just how much you have forgiven yourself since then?
The question is, is contentment happiness, or isn't it?
I don't like being a forgettable person. That's what I am, though. i am ordinary and mundane and entirely forgettable.
Except for the personality, but that doesn't count, now, does it?

whatever was it?

Baby mustn't send me such messages.
One tends to blush and giggle and generally cause others around to ask what it is that one is reading. :)

song titles

In what world do I mean anything at all to him?
It is folly to imagine there is nobody more important.

And it hurts too much.

?¿

Wasn't supposed to. The last time this happened I managed, no? And nothing had gone wrong. Why must I insist on peopling all imagination with sad scenarios where it's all my fault? :(
I missss.
:(
I don't want to have scared him away. This is a hard admission to make, because I was so sure, so sure, that this time I'd managed to avoid the more insane parts of the attachments, but turns out not so much. I've been pretending cool detachment, but it doesn't work so well.
It does help my cause that the other person does not care one way or another. This is a good thing, I think.
Yes.

P.S.
Don't worry. Don't worry. Everything will be fine. It will. It will. :)
I believe it.

P.S. DUSN'T CARE.

say it isn't so

Please not?
I thought I was being sensible! What happened to sensible?
I want chocolate. :(

A weekend away from the computer, it will do me good, yes.

will you tell?

I want to say I'm smarter. Ooh, I do, really. But it's past midnight, and I cannot look myself in the face without sheepishness. I do have zero expectations. Is that a good thing?
I am not
a. Acting coy
b. Lying
c. Taking advice
d. Enacting imaginary scenarios in the head as with previous people. Nothing above PG-13 rated, anyway. :)

Sigh. :) He is a nice. What happens later?

but i love you

What does it say about me that I wasn't surprised to hear it? Am I supposed to feel this disquiet when someone I care about tells me he loves me? Love is such a fickle feeling; I don't trust it; not one little bit. I know he loves me. I've known for a while, haven't I? Only the statement in the head is formed more like this: He believes he loves me.
I know about believing things true making them stunningly so. Once you believe, every lie is true. I know this better than most people I know.
I still think I need to hear it, though, this lie. Why else do I try so hard to make people feel it? It is a game, is it then, O T? You reel them in and then spit them out? You collect the declarations and grade them to find the ones that are the most true? I see rows of little loves like pearls with neat card labels up on dusty bookcases. Break through all their barriers, you will, until they say it, and then there is really no more use for them, is there?

Oh, say it isn't so.
Because I do love them, I do. I could say "I love you" and not be ashamed to say it. (and I have, haven't I? "I love you". It feels like nothing else one says, and the first time is the hardest time, but every time it still feels like so much to say it)
Only, what does it mean to be able to say it to so many people?
What does it mean to say it at all?
So far it's only two.
Only. I say it as though boys fall in love with me all the time. Though the other way around happens often enough to comment on.

What happens when this fades away?

wake up, sleepyhead

New potential friends who have been warned of past performances, and a progressively more worrying morning conversation habit. What am I supposed to do, really? One weighs the current pleasure against the possibility of future misery and continues to do exactly whatever is most enjoyable anyway.
I'm leaving it all up to him now. Accountability is terribly unattractive a prospect, especially when happy lies in the balance.
Responsibility is for old people. You may have it, yes.

markedly

they do fall away. they do. midnight conversations have lost their flavour and i wonder where we go from here. meanwhile, the world is still a bright light in the nighttime (lame rhyme!)
you are the bluest light.
the further away, the harder it is to

well, schyeah.

he smiled! he said goodbye, and he smiled! really really!

hurr.
You are a lost cause, infant.

:)
I don't care.

wonder

oh, how much I think

immaturity

So. Of course he's right. So what happens now?
Why can't I tell the difference between being mature and responsible and being dull and unfunny? How do you? Will just thinking solve this problem? If yes, what am I supposed to be thinking about? How does one start being responsible if there are no situations to think about? Is the fact that I'm thinking so much about it a sign that I'm still unwilling to take responsibility for things?
Is thought counter-productive? What does 'voluntary' mean? What is the relevance of my sister being more mature than me? Does it matter that she is also less fun to be around?

Less drama.

Less drama.
It's an easy idea to follow, I would imagine. Surely I can manage it.
Only, what will happen to me?

And I'll let you know
When it comes

I won't be here any more.
Oh no, oh. It is Peter Pan. It is.
Didn't anyone manage in spite of it?

no friend of mine

Funny thought - when miserable, I always attempt to do something that will probably end up making me feel guilty on top of that. This is a global phenomenon and I hate it. Maybe it is, horrid thought, because I always need the attention. This also means my mother

Also, you are an ass, and I wish I didn't still wish you were here. Glutton for punishment, yes?
The thing is this: if you're going to talk to me at all, I am going to assume you will actually talk to me no matter what. Also, I will assume you will send a couple of pleasant words my way when I'm not my usual cheery self. Instead all I get is one big ignorement and a declaration to the effect that you'll see me when I feel 'more the thing'. It hurts that you don't realise I'd rather talk to you. How can someone so intelligent be so oblivious?
But that's beside the point, isn't it? Because the point, the point is - I'm starting in with the unreasonable demands again. And once again they are expected from someone who is as oblivious to my moods as the stone floor my feet are on.
sigh.

I know, I know. I do know. In the olden days, I might have reproached him with his entire dismissal of anything I might be feeling, but now I will take the high ground and ask him if he's over his tantrum yet. That is what I will do. And I will say, "Well, you were tired and cranky, so I thought it best to leave you be". And it will be his fault.
And I will stop crying over "Later. Bye."s
Yes? Yes. sounds like a plan.

Meanwhile, touch is a nice word. tutch. :) earthy, he says. what am I doing with that one?
And he leaves in less than a day, and he's here already. Best not think too much, the head is liable to explode.

guests, i said

i hate you i hate you i hate you
you are a selfish and i hate you hate you hate you
!!!!!!!!!!

Why is it so hard for someone to wish I feel better?

yes i will yes

You lie you lie you lie
None of you has ever seen anything worthwhile in me
Does that not say something about me?
There are weddings and I am not invited.

Why do I care?

dear d

why are you doing this?

unless you believe in peter pan

There are so many things I want to say.
If I were to ask you a question, could you promise to answer truthfully and to the best of your knowledge? Would you promise not to evade the question? I am afraid to talk to you, because you will ask me what I mean, or pretend you did not hear, or wait until I tire of the silence and ask about hills. You hurt me with words - the ones you will not say, and the ones you will not hear. You are stone walls and locked doors and closed books; you are riddles and ciphers and poems.
I don't know you. I don't know about you. I want to be your friend. It is such a small thing. It is such a huge thing. Why will you not see how much it means to me?

I am the child here, not you.
It's funny. I say it, and I believe it, and then I feel as though I'm doing something wrong saying it; stealing your thunder, betraying your beliefs. Forgive me, I only know other people in the context of myself. And I only find myself in relation to other people.
Is that how it works for everybody?

I am afraid of words.
They can mean so many things, so many; and yet people pretend communication is the simplest thing in the world. I find it so hard to say the exact thing I mean after thinking for hours and hours, and getting a single perfect sentence out brings so much joy -
How can it mean more to make less sense to more people? How can it mean more to be ambiguous and unclear and interpretable?
How can you not want someone to know what you mean the minute you tell them?
And yet. And yet I write obscure lines in the hope that someone will recognize in the convoluted thought processes something they remember from before.

Do children learn from their mistakes? Do children know when people are not telling them the truth? Are children the ones for whom life is black and white and friendship does not need time?
What does being a child mean to you?
Being a child is wanting to grow up and being an adult is wanting not to.

of rivals

didn't mean it to happen, really.
i'm afraid of retribution. :(
but i'm so happy. it isn't fair, surely? Surely?

Fair weather conversation.
It is well that I found out now.

little epiphanies

Do you ever push people away just to see if they will go?
And I'm thinking of the inadequacy of words and the qualities of silences and wishing for someone who will know better than to go when I tell them I don't need them around.
Someday.
:)

update

so i cried. how mature of me.
dammit!

better than none at all

You will always say the wrong thing, my dear. Best if you accept it now, before you blame yourself for all the unhappiness you cause. It isn't your fault, you know. Honesty does not care if egos are broken. If you will always apologize, it is easier for others to believe you are to blame.
How well you convince them!
And why, why, why can't you be bold about it, why? There is no shame in it, surely? Not understanding doesn't make you not enjoy. And you like what you like for no reason that you can point to, but there is a reason for all that.
Mistrusting ambiguity is your biggest fault.

perhaps a therapist

I've gone back to the fringes of my life, tired and ashamed and unconfident (this is not a word). I am scared, more than I have ever been; and I cannot find it in me to believe things will turn out well. I wish there were someone here I could ask, someone I could talk to, someone to believe in me. Too many people have believed in my potential unquestioningly, and now, when I am at my worst, I need someone to look at this mess I'm in and still believe. Who will do this? Nobody, because I'm not telling anybody.
You see the contradiction?
And just when I need them the most, none of them is here, not one. Not one. Not one. Though I call and call and call, not one.

Hurts.

soul mates

want one (1) number minimum.

et tu?

i miss you. won't you even ask how i'm doing?

liar

temporarily disconnected

not next week?

Why does she do this to me? Why do they do this to us? Why is it so hard to pin them down on any kind of schedule? Why do they pull us in and give us hope, only to crush it with a single word?
Oh, God, please let it not be true; oh please.
Oh please.

zero

Four and a half years. Will I always fail alone?

tentatively

but no moves!

the thought is this: if, then, else.
it is not my turn to play.

advice

block
him

arrives at noon

OMG T U IS SO PATETHIK.

I am having a slight hysteria attack.
I can't stop laughing.
:D

OMFG ARRIEVS @ NUNE K PLZ THX BAI.
Hahahahahahah
ahahhahahahaha
ahahha
a
USELLES WOMMAN!


goin' insanes, i.

afraid of missing something

oh, but you know this isn't allowed? you know this isn't allowed? this isn't allowed!
he isn't thinking of you at this moment now, is he? no. hanging around waiting is not going to make him think of you now, is it? wishing he were here isn't going to make him magically appear, is it?
he is not there. he is not here.
so relax.

:(
but
i'm afraid of missing something.

trying to escape poison déjà vu

I have always loved the rain. Haven't I? The world is beautiful when it rains. I composed a love letter three days ago because of the rain. And now suddenly the chills are here and the skin is remembering things I thought long forgiven and forgotten.
I don't know. I want to think it isn't because of any of them. I have been strange lately, though, haven't I? Everybody remarked. Perhaps monsoon keys me up.
I'd rather not be keyed up. I can't seem to think of anything right now. My mind is wandering in the streets of last year in meetings real and imaginary; by lights of sun and moon and stars. She refuses to let go. Why, though? Why does she? I was fixed. I saw me fixed.

Random thought: Maybe there are chemical imbalances or something! So what should I be doing?
Maybe soup?
I will make soup!
Okay let's see what that does. I will be mopey no more. I would appreciate more free kisses, but I will not pine!


P.S. Just look at last May's posts. Just LOOK at them! Could you get ANY MORE PATHETIC.
It has to be the weather. It just does. I mean. Seasonal mood changes are not that strange, are they? All the self-doubt etcetera etcetera. Hmmmm. I wish I had a better record of earlier years. Also! I fear I am about to get very very needy. Well, whatever. Not like I haven't driven people away before.
Another thought! May was usually spent in hotter climes when young. True or false? Perhaps it has something to do with it? Also! March poems and moans and stupid phone calls. I fear I might be on to something here.

Oh, whatever. All these theories get me no closer to design.
adwise: Stop waiting, he isn't going to show up any time till tomorrow.
Also, stop fighting with the mother. DO YOU HEAR ME. You just leave her alone.

pandora

once in a (stop) while I make myself cry (stop)
cycles (stop)
Most (stop) of those times is when I (stop) either go poking my (stop) nose where it (stop) doesn't belong
how we (stop) turn (stop)
The rest (stop) are when I don't do the things I should
to stay (stop) in a place

I wish he (stop) hadn't. I wish (stop) I hadn't. I (stop) wish he hadn't.
I wish I knew where I was supposed to be facing.
I wish (stop) I knew
I wish (stop) I never (stop) knew

Why did I go looking?

(stop) (stop) (stop) (stop) (stop) (stop) (stop) (stop) (stop) (stop) (stop) (stop)
Question: How can I let it out if I cannot say who?

first time

For God's sake! I went ten years without ever! What's different now? I'm very belligerent, and I want to bite people. And I don't want to feel better, I want to be screechy and scratchy and witchy and bitchy.
I can't even enjoy me a word or two.
stamp stamp smash.

Fuck off.
Come back next Tuesday. I will give you them kisses. :)

how much patience?

getting there.

i'm proud of me, very much.
:)

not this time

please no?
I went through this. I've been over it. I said I was fine! Where is this coming from? Where is it coming from?? I don't want this clenching any more; I've been through it enough; I did NOTHING, I said NOTHING - why is this happening again? Get out of my head.

On the double negative side, this confirms that it's always been about me.
Perhaps a seasonal thing?

not applicable

He loves me. Oh me, oh my. Watch out!
I am the Wickedest Witch ever.
Oh, wicked.

in so many words

you never tell. typical adult. cruel, cruel, insensitive. if i were to say it, what would you do? i know the answer to that, and it shouldn't matter to me, right. only it does. the time has come to take the bull by the horns and mix some metaphors and push some boundaries.
so.

post my letter

Yes. Post my letter. It needs to be weighed and the stamps need to be bought. I finished writing it three days ago and if you don't post it then it'll never get sent and it'll miss the birthday and everything will be horrible and YOU WILL POST THE LETTER, damn you.
I hate stupid selfish sisters and ignorant preoccupied mothers and my FUCKING CAST. I hate them all.

post my letter. post it. the post office is open only from 10.30 to 4.30 and if you don't go it won't get posted and how the hell can I beg you and scream at you in one sentence I don't know but I will and fuck you please bloody please post that letter fuck.

This rant is so bloody annoying. Post my letter post it.

southern hemisphere

Sometimes when I'm silent it means I am actually considering all the things that whatever you just said could lead to. Like houses in the suburbs and apartments shared in foreign countries and who leaves the cap off the toothpaste.
Time has always been very adaptable in my hands. Along with truth.
It's rather tragic.

please promise...

...that no one will be hurt at the end of this but me.

vindicated

:) :) :)
I love genetics.

No apologies! Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah; and all things in triples.
:D yay.

so much for good intentions

...and for things being better in the morning.
I dreamed of snakes and mongooses, but the mongoose ran away. There was a coconut tree in there, somewhere, and an anthology with my name in print. Even if you want to tell, you shouldn't; because sometimes people don't want to hear. Even if there was no comma after.
This I knew, but still I laid for myself the traps. What kind of creature prefers letting herself fall to avoiding pitfalls altogether? One who has vain hopes, maybe.

Sustainability in southern parts. A little excitement.
Thank God for Marcie.

two hundred

I am a good girl. So why is it so hard?
I am going to stop asking questions. And calling. And thinking. And waiting.
Can I go a week?

People's mothers have begun smiling when they hear my name. That's not one of the best signs - I've always been the person mothers like. So now what about me?
What about me?

Associations are all a lot less painful. That's a good thing? I don't care. And if he does not, then I will not. And that's that, so there.
I like that there and that and where and what all sound so delicious together.


TWO HUNDRED POSTS just here. I am seriously disturbed, um.
not fair, oh not fair. i'm here. and this is too much like old times. a good slap or two will fix that, yes? :)

wish i

The thing is, I can't write just for myself. That's not the point. The point is to write for recognition.
Or money.
I wouldn't mind writing for money, except that I doubt anything I write will sell.
It's all this doubt, see? and there's the thought that everyone's a writer, and everyone's a poet, and where will you be in a sea that vast, and who will read you anyway? there are no issues you can write about because you have seen nothing and you know nothing. You have no traumas, no miseries, no grand fantasies to bring to your at, so what precisely is the worth of you?

I wish I could write letters.
Real ones, full of stories and gossip; newsy breezy epistles from me to people far away whom I miss and love and want to hold on to. Instant communication, and where has the mystery gone? I don't receive replies to my little sentences (sentences?) anyhow; people just hang around hoping I'll show up. Is it really that simple to write off?
Perhaps not.
Funnily enough, the people who probably would reply to letters I don't particularly feel like writing to. Person, I mean.
*sigh*

not blue this moment

Dear God, you did good.
Thank you and congratulations.

Everyone in my life is being so nice to me! Yay!
Please don't stop?

but i can't

I want to be a bigot and hate all Christians. And white Americans. And people who think they can never be wrong. Bigots and bigots and bigots.
I feel like a blood clot.

other people's love stories.

I wish I knew. Just so I could weave myself into them seamlessly, make them mine, about me, my love; when the blanket of night insulates me from all my failures as a person. I have no redeeming qualities, and I hold no hope of happy endings, but a good love story is like new clean construction paper for my wandering fingers.
Other people's love stories make me cry.

this time it does not matter

Funny, isn't it, how I judge life. Or success. Or happiness. Do all rhetorical questions have to end in question marks? Why can't I ever get out of the habit of asking them?

I make friends assuming everyone means what they say. That's always mistake one. Now I know better than to trust anyone. I do know, don't I? Let us hope so. Let us hope I will never again write four pages worth (both sides!) of letter, wander through streets in search of second-hand books by a particular author for a complete stranger, spend hours making the perfect list to make into a mixed tape for a person I barely know...
Hmmm. I will always be doing things for strangers, I'm afraid. They're not strangers when I do the favours, see? Sigh. Let us hope, instead, that I will, and T will, manage to be neither petty nor childish. In other words, deletions are not the answer. Not, you hear me? Erasing people from your life will not make them remember you. Or notice that you're gone. It will only remind you that it will make no difference whatsoever. huzzah. Would you do that to your ego, now?

I have very strange personal pronouns.

Unhappy thought: It isn't really a fair world if the kindnesses you receive are all from complete strangers while the people you know for a year or two years or three years or four will not spare a moment to remember you while passing by. It isn't fair, but it is unexpected and that's a bonus, surely?
Perhaps only on the better days.

Thanks to a person in forn parts with a telephone. Made my day better, you did. Well, and the cake helped.


Unconnected: cannot tell. will not. if it does not, will i survive? needs must. i do not approve of making memories ahead of time. what will you do if the moment never measures up? this time it's different. i want to be able to say it, but i don't trust myself at all. and if it is only further, then what will i do? three more. wait it out. i miss you. can i say?

healed

...from the wound you gave me, misha.

You know no subtlety, my bear.

one hundred and ninety

I would be happy if I could only follow the stories along. Vicariously I will love.

secret fear #35
I am not sexy.

regret #11
I wish you had been the one the only the first.

pout

A part of my writing has died because there is nothing addressed to you secretly anymore. Who will decipher my sentences for me?

I don't like other people saying my things better than me.

am i?

Someone kindly explain to me the persistence in asking questions which invariably result in answers I don't like.
Ignorance is bliss, right? So what's the bloody problem I have with ignorance? What is it? What? What? Why do I need to know things I suspect are going to make me unhappy in the morning? WHAY.
sob. :(
"you are
though you wouldn't like to believe it"

Goddamn ego. And why do I care? Why do I care Why Why Why.
whywhywhywhy and I can already see myself asking everyone else bloody hell.
:'(

people

change

this time

It feels different. It is all prejudice. Last night I almost cried, but in a very romantic and pleasing fashion. :D
Oh, oh dear. And now I remember lost items :( What's the point of having nice things if they just fall off the vehicle and get stolen by thieving passers by? Owwww. How will I carry the buttermilk now?
It's nice, really, having the blue. It is like life, my blogs. Different strokes for different folks, only here anyone can choose and everyone can see; but I'm the only one who knows who understands. Someone promised to read me poetry but fell in love with someone else. Now that's a splendid sentence. Someone has soul while I have none. Sigh. Where are the grand ideas? Nowhere at all.
Can I go a single day? I don't think so, no. No.
I'm going to ask for
a. bras with underwire
b. a microphone
Well, alrighty then.
Am I allowed to say bras?
Don't Be Dirty! :D :D shyte arse damn

Sigh. If I could, I would put it all into a little box in the middle of the room. It came without warning! It did! I have no idea, no idea at all and when did it HAPPEN that's my question. And then big mouth! Well, at least I'm a source of some amusement. Only what will I do when it's all over? I will cry :( that's what. Don't wanna.
Hmm. Why so many nice-sounding songs is havin the terrible lyrics. Very tragic. I like the crawl like ivy up my spine, though.
And the coffee. Yes.

I drink good coffee every morning
Comes from a place that's far away
And when I'm done I feel like talking
(come soon)
Without you here there is less to say.

eurgh

I am
terrified.

how uncomfortable?

How odd it is that I, who read faces as easily as pages and gauge moods as a matter of course, should always be the one left wondering when I want someone to like me.
It's better, I think. I say it, and I believe it. Lately it's less me and more not me. As though I've finally figured out that it really isn't worth too much hassle. And people who run away are not really worth anything at all, no?
But this time I am less insecure. And for that I am grateful.

It's just that...why aren't the people you wait for ever there when you want them?

more personals

This time it will be different, I promise. There's less invested, see? If only there was less told, it would have been nice, but I notice every mention gets a pessimistic twist that never used to be there before.
I just...can't be doing this a fourth time. Or whichever jolly number this is. Funny that I can't organize them. I'd like to say three, but then there was a three, only not exactly, because then there's four and one doesn't fit in with that set of descriptions, but five sort of does.
And he isn't really the last to come. Just the one who lasted the longest.
And there's the in-between-everybody-teased person who came by in the beginning.
Hmmm.
It's all very confusing.
How am I supposed to package them if each one was different?


Oh. :)

:'(

yes i can.
yes i can.

ughughughugh. hmm. didn't i do this already?
durr. what a question. :)

no underwear at all. no, no one is allowed to ask. you may comment if so inclined.

meow

The heart bleeds to write letters, but I can't find the words to tell them all I want them to hear.

And I listen to REM in the office and rue all the pretty snippets of things that wrote themselves out so obligingly in the head on my way here this morning.

Why must all my best writing come only when I can't write?

Hmm.

A letter surfaces. Let's see how this turns out.

big mouth

across the universe.
oh, dear.
and what happens now?

shooting stars

wish wish you were wish you were wish you wish wishing wish i wish i wish i wish you were wish you were i wish you were i wish you were i wish you wish you wish you wish you i wish you i wish you wish you were wish you i wish you i'm wishing wish i i wish you were here.

anniversary

And it has been a year.
Oh, has it? Really, my dear?

Is it mandatory to take stock when one has been writing for a significant amount of time, I wonder. Well, it hardly matters because I take stock as a matter of course every second Tuesday anyhow.
Of course it ain't Tuesday, but what matter?
What did I do, this one year? Got mail. Wrote mail. Met people. If I were to enumerate all the things I did that were significant at all, it would take too long, and bore me to tears partway, and really, that's not allowed.

I wrote, this year.
157 posts over at some yells.
89 poems over at yellow.
15 excursions into fiction, or something like it, over at not.

176 moans here, at blue.

And I broke barriers and fought prejudices and opened up one big part of me, just because no one will come in if you aren't open. And I wove around myself delightful fantasies that will never come true because I'm too timid to try, and I wrote around people the most splendid of characters, and through it all, I believed.
More fool I.
But a lovable fool, in the end; and if you love yourself there's nothing more you need, right?

Hmm. We'll see about that.
time to untangle the tee.

telling too much

Because of course I lied. I do that, sometimes, to make things easier on a person. It's lying for a good cause, I say, but then they're all from the same mixed bag of deceit, so what odds? It's funny how hard it is to put into words exactly what you feel, because what if you say too much, or too less, or, God forbid, the entirely wrong thing? One wishes not to drive away good company, but then one does it in spite of oneself. One is me, in case you were wondering.

And it's odd what you can do with letters that you can't when faced with a real person. Perhaps it is that letters are easier than live conversation, because you can hide behind a flow of words that twist and turn to suit your whims. We did have nice conversations, though, didn't we?


And it's odd that we have never spoken, isn't it? And a minute on a phone, or an hour of introductions - they don't count, really. Those are just excuses for occupying the same space. And it's funny because of all the people I ever found, you were the one most easy to write to. You were the one made me most prolific; the one to whom I wrote the most, the one about whom I wrote the most. Perhaps it's just as well. Perhaps I don't need to talk to you. Perhaps I won't sit across from you in a coffee house, or walk with you all around town, or sit with you on terraces in the middle of the night. Perhaps we'll never talk. It's okay, really, because I have other people to do those things with, don't I? But I still regret the dancing.
And papa Santa.


But of course there's no reason for writing beyond the writing itself. Like an over whelming urge to reach out and touch someone who, for a long time, occupied space in your head. There's no sense to anything at all anyway. And being myself never got me anything or anywhere, even. As long as I'm writing I can impress them, but then I talk, and it's as though all the things I need to believe about myself I don't; and all the things I do believe in are all the wrong things; and in the end I'm just not what they were looking for. How do you sell yourself with only the truth?
It doesn't work that way, does it?


Perhaps it's just perversion, the need to write to people, at people. Perhaps it's cruel to send people disconnected snatches of thought and call them letters, but what's the point of sticking to a structure when all you get in return are the same old sentences from everyone anyway? What's the idea with a set of instructions that tell someone exactly how they have to react? So this morning I wrote to four people and told them nothing, narrated no incident, revealed no theory. I said no hellos and I asked no questions and I sent no signals.
And this is where I find my fun.


It's odd what gets people. And what gets at people. I glad one of the four read this. It makes the gesture that much more worthwhile.
Was it really that hard to understand?

somebody's broken heart

Don't I get points for trying?

It is strange how any upheaval in the life of T sends her scurrying towards keyboard and computer screen. the sister asked me yesterday what I'd do if I lost it, all the writing. I...didn't know what to say. This is really all I am, this outpouring of nonsense. Why do I write, really? It isn't as though people want to read it, is it? No, but I do. Sometimes I write just so I can hear what I'm thinking.
Disappointment. I'm getting used to handling it with calm and poise. Stoic. Only I'm not, not really, I just try very very hard. And it all used to come around to am I really good at anything, really? but now it's different, now it's i know i'm bloody good, so what in the hell am i doing wrong?
Perhaps it is being myself that I should avoid. Give people what they want to hear. Or maybe again, that's what I do, only always at the wrong times...Maybe I tell people what they want to hear when I shouldn't and I'm myself when I shouldn't be, or. heh. Maybe I'm just not what people are looking for.

It's easy to say there's something out there better, easy to shrug off the little failures, easy to pretend that you don't care. What's hard is believing it. Believing that you are all you want to be. Am I? Intelligent? Kind? Thoughtful? Talented? Better?
Why do I care? Why do I? What does it matter where you study, or where you work, or where you live? Why does it matter what you're doing? Why do you compare? Why not be content with whatever you do, regardless of what others are doing?

Because it isn't good enough.
I want some direction, please.

some life lessons in perspective

There are times when it is very hard to pretend I'm the better person. Or good, even. Anything worthwhile.
(mercenary)
It is hard to always be happy for others' successes. It is hard to go out each morning into the same dull world and try and tell yourself that it is a new adventure.
It is hard to be stuck in a head that goes nowhere.
(i'll do just what i want, so fuck you)
So hard to pretend I have all I need to be happy.
(jealous)

Oh, the shame.

waiting

gmeh. i've started again.
somebody needs to be slapped.
hissspit. mrawr. aargh.

letters imaginary

my darling
how long has it been? i can't tell - it seems as though i found ways to get along without you too long ago. i thought of you yesterday, could you tell? it was unexpected, like ghosts and blasts from pasts forgotten and people leaping out of corners screaming boo. i'm sorry i never said a proper goodbye. it just seemed time to let go, and i never stopped to think about it. yesterday, i thought it had seemed the time because of all the substitutes i found (like cheap margarine, baby, nothing compares to you) but today something happened to turn that thought on its head and out the window. will she always follow me, that awkward fat bespectacled unlikable clumsy girl? will she always stand like a silent spectre, ready always to leap out and say, remember! remember all you were and weren't, remember remember remember remember. i didn't realize that the only laughs that really hurt are the ones unexpected. i didn't realize i'd learnt it already. how can anyone learn so many lessons and never know all she knows? i cannot remember, for example, where you came from. not to begin with, anyhow. nor why. i still miss you, sometimes, on the lonelier days, when the current conversationalist is absconding somewhere. we didn't talk much, though, anyway. if ever i find someone with whom i could sit for as long in companionable silences like the ones we shared, i'd count myself lucky. this letter don't make sense. the one i wrote first made me cry. it said things like fat and ugly and stupid.
above all stupid. stupid and stupid and stupid, and the things people say, even when they care.
i'm a clown, dear d, did you know? a clown, yes, i have that big red rubber nose, so you'll laugh at that and miss the real joke. and that joke is me. who knew?
i wish you were here. oh, i do. i wish you here.
might as well wish you were real, while i'm at it.

say, come swimming. it's been a while.

rudenesses

How sad that I always look for the ulterior motives now.
I always suspected that reasons were two-fold, and now I've stopped hoping for things being as they seem.
Where are the people to restore my faith in people?


Why did he say hello, out of the blue like that? Or was it all he said, and have I been entirely wrong? Am I being paranoid, and insecure, and stupid? Or were my instincts right to warn me away from selfish boys? Will it be abysmally stupid to hope for comfort again?
And, most importantly, how much does he know?

bongo drums to the head

How depressing to figure out, in such a short period of time, all the things that really make me miserable. My greatest fears. The banes of existence. The things that keep me awake at night and crying into my pillow.
My greatest fear is that I'm boring, I told him (was it something I said?). It is, too. To bore someone is such a crime, isn't it? To waste their time, that they have so little of! And then there is the fear that I am ordinary. Not that I will be, that I already am. How painful it is to be ordinary. To think that there a million, billion people exactly like you, with no claim to genius, or uniqueness or anything remotely memorable or special in any way...oh, how it stings to realize you are ordinary. What are you doing with your life? What's the point, really?
Where's the purpose.

ugh.

Meanwhile, what is this little gnaw? I don't want it to be a gnaw. I have had more than enough of these, surely? And letter readers are hard to find.
It isn't good to be so particularly miserable so early in the morning. I wonder how I always manage it.
Please?
How often have I said that?

why did i?

if i could name the feeling i would.

third persons

sigh.
Once upon a time I wrote that. Very astute, methinks. But I look and see and it's been far too long since I wrote anything here more than a few sentences long.
Time was when the blue was the only thing that kept me sane, when the blue was the only place where I was uninhibited enough to go right ahead and write whatever was in my poor tormented head at that moment, regardless of organising thoughts and making sense. And today I go forward and back and edit. oh, the shame.
I'd forgotten how much fun it used to be, though, the continual self-analysis. why did i stop? perhaps i got happy. today was...an odd day. almost like old times. i wanted to tell someone about it, only who? the pa is long gone, and the bee i don't want to bother, and i don't trust anyone now anyway.
today i thought about unhappy people. people unhappy. and i thought about how i cannot bear to have people i care about unhappy. and then i thought about how i define these people i care about - people i've never met, people i'll never meet, people i've known barely days.
once i wrote a boy a letter - eight pages long, handwritten, air-mailed; and once i made a boy a mixed tape - twenty-odd songs, hand picked, pre-arranged, timed; and once i wrote a girl haiku - specific, titled, special; and - but that makes no difference to anyone now, does it?
i can try, in my little clumsy awkward way, to make things better, make it all better; fix it fix it fix it; but nothing works because people don't understand the gesture at all. and he will say "why did you? you barely know me", and i'll cry because oh, he doesn't understand, and then i'll write him a letter full of lies just so that he'll believe them and feel better, and poof, you see? i did what i needed to do.

and really, in the end, i feel as though i shouldn't bother. because i can scream till i'm blue in the face about wanting people to think i'm nice, and having ulterior motives for all the things i do for people, but the truth is, i cannot sit by and do nothing when a person makes me feel as though they're unhappy. i can't. i can't. even if all i manage to do is to show them that there is one person who notices when they're feeling less than great, i need to show, i need to tell. and maybe it is, oh, it probably is, because no one ever told me.
and there is someone right next to you, and they're miserable, and there's nothing you can do; because can you guarantee a well-paying job and a loving partner and a bright future and a happy ending?
sigh. i wish there were a way.
hugs are good, but still.
sigh.

maybe i'll buy her a Johnson's baby lotion (TM). just to show i care.
And apple pie and cheese for a certain special someone. He doesn't stop by here, but it needed to be said. Much like all the other nonsense over on the blue.

Do I feel better?
No. But I feel romantically melancholy, and it's been a long time.
All hail the blue! :)

i love u too.

oh, listen.

say hello.

first wedding

And now I want to cry very very badly.

There must be some way to stop the self-destruction? Someone please, oh please, tell me what that is. I keep thinking everything's over and done with, and then there's a Sunday evening when I come home and all the old boys gang up to break me in little pieces again.
If there were any merit in repetition, I'd be covered in gold stars.

Go to hell. Every last one of you.
All your advice is crap, and I don't deserve to be treated this way.

Hmm. It has a certain ring to it. I'll try it a hundred more times, and then I'll see what happens.
Maybe there'll be some gold stars in the offing.

fume

i hate being right about things like this.
bloody little bitch.
at least it was only the one.
dear god, how will i survive two whole days??

blue on friday

sigh
The wao is off to Washington to see her somebody.
The bee is off to London to see her somebody.
I want a body. Somebody who deserves me. I'm so tired of waiting for wonderful people who will like me as much as I like them, and then finding instead either wonderful people who don't like me as much as I like them, or pathetic people who like me more than I like them.
:'(
I'm scared of dying alone and unloved and an old maid. And this is why, when people talk of 'finding me a boy', I never say no. But no one has ever found even one. It hurts very much.
I want this for nobody. Good luck to you.

Tell me again.
Where are my promises?

post-valentine

I don't like underground. I'm getting decidedly turned off. Why is it the people who stick around are never the ones I really want? It's unfair! Do they teach mindgames to all the boys at that school?
Last count four. That's unpleasantly high.

Here:
An actor-poet on a motorcycle. With a guitar.
Such hope!

ijjit.

in particular

dear heart, oh, where have you been? i've missed you dreadfully. my life has been so full of people and events and a'ventures that i barely have time to breathe, but not having you to talk to has hurt in great big unimaginable ways. come back soon? life seems meaningless without you.
love and stuff
T

time to say goodbye

let the boy go
before somebody breaks

oh, my heart

and how many ways can a person say she is sorry for something she didn't know she was doing?
why must making it to tomorrow always be so frightening?


addendum: fifteen-year-olds are cruel and not worth my time. pay attention?

again: unless they apologize. so done.

hey, idiot

leave the boys alone.



but then again, i always refuse to listen to my own good advice.

tears

finally. four years.

and back to beginnings.
Thanks to Prashanth. I like thanking people. It gives life meaning.

transference

Oh, please. May I keep this one?

current litany: i don't care it doesn't matter makes no difference
take your pick.
i have ache.

help

i need somebody

but they all tell me.
that is the good part.

yes.

doses of melancholia

why do i only want things when they're gone?

venus undone

Every signal I send is wrong. I am afraid again, afraid, and i cannot tell what will happen except that i will be unhappy, and that's surely no surprise? none of them will care if i make an appearance or no, and if even one did i might feel less forgotten, is it my fate to be forgotten? i cannot bear it i cannot and i do it with a regularity and dedication that surprises, the pushing away; i will go about it as systematically as war, because of course it is war only i am my only enemy and i will drive them away every one until i'm all alone again. if there were a single person who could call me on it i would cry, i would try, i would die and not be so miserable, perhaps. am i so hard to read? predictable perhaps i am but the one who would call me on it i do not care about i do not care now but tomorrow i will cry when he forgets because that is all my life is about it's the regrets and that's why i will always be an idiot and die in despair. define despair? it is the state i am in every time i stop forcing myself to see the world in pretty hues.
the funny thing is i am all those things, happy and unhappy and friendly and churlish and it never depends on me, only the person drawing me out; but they still will not see because who gives a shit about me anyway not one of them not one though i would give anything to go back to the beginning and undo the whole thing it was bad enough with the real live people i cannot bear to have every virtual relationship travel the same path, no.
and i will write here these stupid words crying out for attention like little starving babies with big bellies, and i will still tell no one and continue to go to bed with heart heavy and weary and weeping.
And the ones i want to have asking about me have all gone, gone; gone away and forgotten and i cannot understand why i have to still hang on except perhaps that they cannot leave and will not and my head is a cruel and cold place to be right now.
i want a chest i can bury my face in and never step away from, only i am not ready for love or anything approaching, and i am baby still; naïve, stupid, insensitive.
why have you forsaken me?

why

some people are so happy young.
i'll take some of that, please.

compulsions

i wish i didn't always need to have conversations end well, and i wish i didn't feel the need to go back and fix up messed up dialogue so it all sits pretty in the memory but then again what else is there about conversations but the perfection of them? i wish i didn't obsess about words said and not said and unsaid into dark dreary nights till i feel the ache in the pit of my stomach and wonder what the other person is thinking because i cannot see inside their head though i would give anything to be able to. and i wish i didn't always need to have the other see exactly what i mean when i say anything, wish i could let things stand and lie and flop about like little fish on the carpet and let them think what they want to think because it should make no difference, only it always does, always. and i hope the new ones will ease the messes.