singing again; sinking again

oh dearest how long has it been since you had a thing to say? too long, too long but here the words are back because the songs are back and so are all the lost feelings.
did you know you moderately identified yourself more with GOOD than BAD or that you rate islam higher than budhism and christianity, both of whom rate higher than judaism? the more you know.
i am going through the fire again with boys who tell me i should work out more and that if there was one thing they would change about me it would be the possession of a little extra around my waist except they didn't say they just indicated and how do i let people like that into my heart anyway i do not know
meanwhile i am heartsick because this world is kind of a horrifying place did you hear about the dead boy did you? hardly anyone who does not already talk about things like that is talking about it are all the people around me living in bubbles or are they just better at getting things done that are meant to be done than i am?

oh dear how do i
(i can't help it)
keep my mind on the mundane everyday work hard study hard do your job make money to feed yourself pay the rent maintain a lifestyle that will enable you to do something big to change the world some day some day in your future how do i?

i am too invested in this planet and it is breaking my heart.

america: fuck yeah

that's it for now. i just felt like reminding myself that this was once the place i was most alive.

save a paper boat

i am back to dreaming about things bigger than i am - back to stopping in the middle of my life because a woman can sing the songs in my secret heart. i am back to waiting for moments to fall into place after they have caught me unawares.

some day soon i will find again the words i need to talk about the inside of my head.

some day soon i will be able to talk again, because i am ready to fall in love again.

naïvete

this last weekend caught me off balance; i have not got my bearings yet.

i forget (because it is easy to forget) that people are complicated and can't be understood. and that people don't always say what they mean. i persist in believing this - i am smart, but i am "willfully naïve", don't you know.

i feel mildly ill, as though the floor has been pulled out from under my feet. i am not good with finding out that people think less-than-complimentary things of me.

i wish i had manuals.

"how to deal with people so that they either think good things of you, or don't think anything at all, or, if they do think bad things about you, they either tell you to your face or say nothing at all."

"the degree to which sexual desire drives the actions of men and what that means"

"how to talk to humans so they will listen and not bitch about you behind your back."

"how to prevent tiny upstarts from making disrespectful comments even if you do work for their mother who has apparently been telling tales of you at home."

"how to know if someone likes you or if they're just pretending."

"how not to sound like a lonely teenager."

quite frankly, i could do this all day; i have too much work to do, so i won't.

i just feel...as though everything i know is now a lie. i don't like that feeling.

i don't like being a fool.

:'( tears. how fucken embarrassing.

revisiting black kittens

suddenly my days are frighteningly devoid of panic and mayhem; i wander around with an idiotic grin on my face that invites inquisitive looks from strangers. i am busy and important and valued in more than one place; i have purpose and definition.

and still the thing that has me the most delirious is that old forgotten swooping falling feeling.

no fool like an old fool, but at least i go into this with eyes open?

no, no i don't. i am leaping into deep shoals without any protection whatsoever.

and i don't care, so there.

ex-boyfriend

when i think of you, i think in pain; i wish it for you and upon you and into you: physical and mental and emotional. i wish for you to lose the things you love; that they might leave you and desert you and let you down, as you have me. i wish your skank girlfriend dumps you, i wish your family disowns you, i wish your dog dies.

i wonder at how easily i stopped loving you, and at how hard it was to stop missing you. why is this? it means i needed you around for my sake, and not for yours. just as you wanted me around for your sake, and not for mine. i would have said we were well matched, except that i am the one who has come out of this alone and wondering at the lack of wonderful people, while you found someone to share your house and your bed in less than a month. if i were not too busy feeling stupid, i would feel betrayed.

i regret. i do not like that feeling; it is the worst feeling there is - it means i wasted time i could not have afforded to waste. i wasted time thinking about you, and writing about you, and writing to you, and travelling on buses to you. i wasted time, and effort, and energy, and love on someone who didn't deserve it, and that makes me feel used, and naive, and shamed.

i hate you. i hate you and how easily you moved on to call another woman "darling". i hate you and how easily you brushed off all the cruel things you said to me when you no longer wanted to be with me. i hate you and the fact that you made me love you, and i fell for everything you said and did.

i hate you because you played me, and i didn't see it coming.

i hate you because you proved i know no better.

i suppose i should thank you for the lesson, but until i find a man who is truly worthy of me, who passes all the tests i now know i should put him through, i think hate is the only emotion i will be feeling.

surprised

it amazes me how much more together i am than i thought i would be. it is all because of the cat.

snakes in the grass

darling, how can i explain to you?

i am not afraid of death. i do not feel as others do, the jerk of near deaths passing me by. all i have ever felt is glad that it was only near.

perhaps it is naive of me to say so: i, who have never been anywhere nearer real human death than the corpses of one grandfather i never met and another i barely knew.

it is only that i have seen the people who are left behind, and it is they who evoke my sympathy and pain and understanding. it is harder to be the one who doesn't move on.

i do worry. i do freak out. i worry that you will leave, while still alive; that all my shenanigans will not prove appealing enough to your wandering spirit. i fear i will lose you. (i, not you. i will lose.)

for all that i love you, my darling, almost all my concerns are purely selfish. how startling the thought! it makes me at once both ashamed and proud.

i am a fool.

that's all.

no fool like and old fool.

secret fool. lying fool. how many more kinds?

a song for you

love, i love.
and i miss you, while you find ways to let things out of your head into the clay that is your life; and i miss you, while you work so hard you do not call me, because you do not think of me at all, because you do not think of anything at all; and i miss you, while i wander through my days plucking adventures out of thin air and wishing you were here for me to share them with.
and you are not here, and i miss you.

it is a pretty pretty world and i wonder sometimes that it took me so long to see the things that were in front of my face all along.

love!

is pain for foolish reasons.
but it's happier than otherwise. :)

In truth, a man with a turn replaces ducks and makes me happy (7)
:D
<3

'veola" as they say

beginning realities and hallucinations untangled locally (5)

wicked!
but i <3 pushing daisies.

do you remember?

i used to be able to make you happy.

identities

"Oh, no", they say. "Oh, no"
And "Still?"
And "I think you need some help"
And "But he is a-"

i wish i knew for sure if it was all in my head. it would help if i knew. have i said this before? maybe not as unemotionally. (aoccsionion. i wish i could have told you.) i want to know that my little secret feeling that you were not entirely indifferent to me was not my imagination. and you may say, what does it matter now (and by now you mean now that it's over and you are nothing more to me than somebody i once used to know) the way you said it about the book you promised me and that i will never receive the way all other promises that everybody else made fell by the wayside; you will probably not understand it, but it does matter, it does. it matters because knowing will mean the difference between real and imaginary and stupid and crazy and this time and next time.

It is such a little thing, the truth. And for all you have said, you have refused me that little thing. Are you not one of the people who "recognize that honesty may bring pain, but lack of honesty will cut even deeper."?
I quote you at yourself as if it will make you listen. I don't know. Perhaps it is just to prove to myself that I have been listening. I always listened. I always did. Perhaps that was the reason why I heard things that...weren't apparent. Now all I need is to know that they weren't true.

It would be such a huge thing, such a little thing. A moment of discomfort to give a fellow creature some comfort. A pain to lessen another's pain. In honour of the things that went before, and if there ever was a day when you were happier because I was around.
Could you not do that much for me?

crosses

i don't question the words that come unbidden, because if i do it might mean they will stop coming entirely and then i would die. the perversity of birthdays is getting to me. that, and the missing anniversaries. why should i care? every day is the same. i do not want every day to be the same. just as i do not want every person to be the same, and i don't want to be the same and everything the same the same my god stop it.
i am not crazy. i am sad. i am deranged. i am displaced. i do not belong. in my own head.

it gets more and more tiresome each day to think of things positively. i begin to read those books again, the ones about honour bright and meaningful moments and why must days be productive as well as happy? they could be both and that would be excellent, and they might be either and it would be bearable, but when they are neither the world seems very bleak and disgusting and one ends up thinking of the people who were around when it was different.

why do i care? why do you care? i dreamed it in a word when i was walking along hospital corridors on my birthday and wishing someone had cared and they asked me, why do you care? and is it important? and what difference does it make? and they all say, why do you care if nobody wishes you on your birthday and i say i do not know, i do not know why i care, i only know that i do because it hurts me so.

i am lonely. it has been a long time since i was lonely; i did not recognize the signs until it was quite far gone. the one-with-his-name says i pursue friendships with aggression, but he doesn't know how much i need it and that i would be prepared to beg for it if i didn't know that begging only brings you disdain and despisal (do you remember wondering about this word?) and the very empty evenings. he says i loathe myself. so did the one-with-his-name. did i wonder about this already? i forget the things i have said and the things i have thought, and my mind cannot tell the difference between what is real and what isn't. and there i wish i had said is not, because it was the phrase i had thought of first, but then the rhyme hit me in the back of the head and tasted like sewers smell so i think i will let it go for now.

i do not have enough to give.
i miss him so. i am ashamed to admit it, as though i were confessing some dire fault that i would rather keep hidden from the world. "narcissistic self-loathing" and i worry that i listen to other people's opinions of myself too much but then i always worry i always worry. i want to say i worried less when he was around and i did perhaps i did for a while a very little while when i was certain he didn't know how i felt about him and how much.
i need somebody to come along and take all my troubles away and is it odd that i would rather be crazy or stupid or depressed than admit that i am lazy and a coward. i say it sometimes, lazy, and other people parrot it back to me with strange pride, as though to be lazy were something one could only be after years of trying.

i worry about the wishes i wake up to. i am afraid of how hard i will fall. i was afraid before; i remember i was afraid before; i remember thinking about falling and writing about falling and something about woods and forests and paths that look the same and are different or look different and are the same and i don't remember who it was i was writing about no i tell a lie i remember who the woods were about but i cannot for the life of me remember the first two times boys broke promises.
why must i always remember the things people promise? like the dancing on my birthday and the visiting on my birthday and the letters from an uncle and . but i will not write it because then i will remember how much i wanted it and perhaps i will cry again. i wonder that i still have the moisture left to cry as much as i do; i do not drink enough water.

perhaps i am miserable not because i have hope but because i don't - perhaps it is that despair that is born out of hopelessness; the knowledge that all the boats are burned and the bridges are burned and all the eggs broken.
i am tired of being lonely. get up! get out! get away! get some! but the effort is not worth it with no guarantees, and i am not over him yet not over him and now i am thinking about him thinking about how stupid i am, and how young, and how stupid, and thinking he knows he knows how i feel and he knows what will make it better oh you fool me fool both fools and why did you have to push me and push me and push me.

Maybe it is a lie. a lie. my life is a lie i am a lie i am. perhaps i should warn people i meet that if they spend more than a day around me and are kind to me without my asking that i will love them because it is rare to find kindness. maybe.
i am so tired of being lonely.

24/7

It is a week to my birthday, and I realize that I have written here sixteen times. Sixteen. When all the nonsense I've been through should have had me writing here two times a day. Sad, sad truth!
This is what happens when someone reads your blog and you know they do.

Still.
Birthday! Presents!

Yay!

:)

borrowed wishes

So who's to worry if our hearts get torn
When that hurt gets thrown
Don't you know this life goes on
And won't you kiss me
On that midnight street
Sweep me off my feet
Singing ain't this life so sweet

erring blindly

It is painful to be on the outside all of the time. It hurts worse because I remember a time when I thought I wasn't.
Unhappy people are so dull, my dear, so dull. I will spin in the rain until my heart bursts out of my chest and flies away where I cannot find it.

yell me a sigh

Good Lord, the disappointments!

...

I forget why I wrote that. Possibly it was done at a time when I could not keep my mind on anything long enough to write about it.

I am in love. How tragic that feels! Under different circumstances, etc etc.

You are in love, enfin!

You see, it is not that I think I am in love. 

I did not think I was in love 

I have spent much time and energy; I been through the entire range of possibilities. 

I think. I wish. I hope. I have- convinced myself fooled myself tricked myself into imagining pretending believing... 

Sigh, how very lowering to be exactly the same as everyone else! It would not, perhaps, be quite as unpalatable if I were exactly the same as everyone else for whom this has worked out. In a way, that's lowering too. :)

I ask myself what it is that I love. What can I say? I cannot say, he is smart, and funny, and interesting, and enjoyable. (oh, but he is all those things) I cannot say, he likes things I do; he lislikes the things I don't. (it isn't always true) I cannot say, I love the way he plays the violin in the morning. (perhaps because we all know there is no violin) 

I can say only that time spent talking to him makes me happier than I was.

all the worst advice in the world

therapy.
seriously?
and would i consider this?

how much of what i said was the truth? not the truth as i see it; it was all that - but the truth as it is. the truth alone by itself entirely. if i were to remove it from all the conversations i've had with all the people i've had them with, what would remain that was true? was it always this complicated?

infatuation.
this word, i roll it around in my head, and taste the shape of it, and i wonder - is that true? is it a true word, is it a whole word, is it what i have been reduced to? am i infatuated? addicted? obsessed? to the exclusion of all else? from the outside it might seem that way, but surely the outside is the only place to look from if you want any perspective at all...

question - how does one tell if happy is wrong?
by going to therapy?
good lord, that is a horrible thought.