Living

When all there is is just cigarette smoke and hope filling the room, what can you do? What can you do but to feel like you want to laugh and cry and scream and you feel like it should last forever. What can you do but to feel a little upset because you know it has to end sometime - it just has to.

Every good thing comes with that price. With that lump in the back of your throat (that lump that you get when you know the feeling you have is the absolute best kind of bad).

Walk to the park. Lay in the middle of the road. Listen to the sound of perfect - to those laughs, that you just know are real. You don't have to wonder, think twice, second guess those laughs. Climb a tree. Those moment when you go outside and huddle together or walk while embracing because even though it's warmer inside, it feels better this way. Nothing can compare to sugarhoney kisses and one last cigarette.

To picture lifeless trees, living skies, tombstones of babies that died in eighteen thirty-three, , concrete floors and beautiful people whom you have nothing but love for - capturing things that you don't think should be memories yet. No, not just yet.

I like to capture them like yesterdays clouds and make believe that nothing can stop me from making them stay forever. And I dance and sing to the soundtrack of my future nostalgia hoping to put it in my pocket and hang onto it like it's something tangible.

I think sometimes that maybe this feeling is the feeling of happiness, something that I've never held before, never really experienced. I figure it's like being in a tornado - not the eye, where everything is peaceful, no. Instead it's like swirling around feeling things I never knew I was capable of feeling. I am a million shades of crazy, one hundred layers of calm, a mile of chaotic beauty.

And there isn't anything a thing that can be done to stop this. To end it. I know that it doesn't matter if I never feel this way again. It doesn't matter because I've had it once. This isn't an ending at all. Remember? We're feeling; we're living.

Something to fill some space

There was a pilot who crashed, wrecked his plane (and lived). He said he'd never fly again. I guess that words don't mean a thing if you can throw some together with the hope that it turns out okay, and then let anyone read it to see what he or she will say. Sometimes I feel like that 'anyone' is my only friend. Anyone is everything, you know? Me, us, them, him, her, no one at all. I just write words to words and hope that someone might discover the diffrence betewen 'listening' and 'hearing'.

I kind of laugh at the way I lie awake and let darkness seep in through my open windows, gathering under my eyes and bruising them a dingy purple.

I don't really have an inability to sleep, it's not that. I guess I'm just tired of devoting myself to something only to have it turn into a vapor and dissipate into the atmosphere - miles away - leaving me with empty clentched fists and damp eyes. And I do this to myself all the time until I'm raw with ignorance and nauseous with rejection.

I think I upset a lot of people and I know that I upset myself. And maybe I don't want that.

As for today, I'll just stick to my grey skies. It's like that feeling I got the first time I was soaked with rain and didn't even bother getting dry and warm. Once you've had lightning and thunder shake the walls around you, you might as well expect more because it's coming.

Sometimes rainstorms are so beautiful it hurts but it's not as bad as the times when I hurt so badly that it's beautiful. That's how it's been, licking envelopes and only tasting glue, not something enjoyable. Not something memorable. But I love those memories anyway, of sending letteres the old-fashioned way; and sometimes, when it's wet and grey or I can't handle the weather, I pull out an envelope and seal it shut without a letter inside because I think I've run out of words and I've been relying on touch ever sense.

Purifying

I woke up today in a weird place, in time. A grey place where it wasn't dark anymore and it wasn't quite light - just grey and kind of cold.

Sometimes, I get really angry with myself for thinking so much about everything around me in such a negative way. I'm finally trying to get a better perspective about my life and a better handle on the things that shape it. I'm really trying to understand the whole concept of feeling human without skepticism anymore.

Yet, I'm living in a system that doesn't force people to risk anything. I'm breathing a life that is not in control, but won't lose control. I feel like I will never stop fighting, yet I don't fight. I think there's a beautiful thing about the Chinese Taoism teaching to embrace and endure, and I find it rather entertaining how the Western world optimistically believes that if you embrace, you will endure.

And what exactly was that moment of greyness this morning? I suppose just a tired sunset that I called a sunrise because I haven't a clue. Maybe I'm just a fatigued as the sun, anyway. I feel like it. I'm emaciated, detached, and I feel lately lacking in life. I have, over the last two months or so, discovered my desire for solitude, perhaps of habit, like a woman suffering leukemia, only mine is an illness of spirit.

This past weekend has been rainy, and I feel like everything is exactly the same on a rainy day, where I can rest outside for hours while it pours and pours on me. There's no comfort in water and no comfort in stars. There's no comfort in knowing that the sky will clear up to something beautiful - because there's no saying when.

I'm learning an awful lot about myself lately without the presence of other people. For example, I spend entirely too much time outside in my garden and I never actually do much in terms of horticulture. It's funny that way. I just think the whole time, and feel the rain which is steady and just enough to let me know I still feel something. I think about art and how foolish it really is to think that I can stop and capture something beautiful as it is while it naturally occurs. My eyes are cold and dull but there is truth in them. I think about everyone that I am not and how they're all alike yet different. How they're all addicted and insane and how I'm just the same, and different.

Perhaps it's time to do some purifying?

Us

She once said she never liked to be alone, and it's kind of funny the way she rarely is. She has this sort of magnetism that attracts people to her. She hates it.

I had a marvelous discussion the other day and I feel like I might be one person that understands loneliness better than a lot of other people do. I guess a girl can't quite understand that level of solitude until she's watching someone die. I'm battling the sky.

I feel sometimes like a tramp - like I use my own body for satisfaction and communitcation instead of harboring the suggested behaviours of health and well-being. But sexuality is more about the mind and body finding harmony that it is about the body and instant gratification.

There are days when I sit outside under the warmth of the sun holding my hands to my chest - holding my hands against the life I had. That part of me is now so far gone that I can only see it when it appears while I dream. I'm loyal and I'll remain this way until the day that I die, but after that, it's uncertain. Nobody knows what lies behind the day we die.

Sex is only a part of the quest to be beautiful. I miss that part of physically being with Lucas while we're on opposite sides of the country, but I know that in life and in love people are constantly promising but never really after a promise. Instead, searching for a guarantee that whatever it is that two people share won't ever slip away.

I feel sometimes like we're slipping.

The way I'd like it to go isn't always the way it ends up happening. I think sometimes that what we do is complicating our lives vicariously through blocking our emotions because they're ugly on the inside. We're bitter and irritate and we should probably sing songs while we sail through the sky instead. Besides I believe that I'll know what he means when he flies and also when he comes down. Maybe it should all just be simplified, instead of worrying about circumstance and anything else weighing us down.

I don't want to be together. I don't want to be apart.

I'm yours. You're mine. That's it.

She probably wouldn't hate being alone if she took the time to understand what it was really all about.

Poetry from the garden

Untitled.

What would it mean to she who passed
A single room with a lamp left on?
If two lovers wondered out into their garden
To live where twilight lives after dark
And sit among the leaves and flowers late to bloom
Where the wild rasberries grow
Like chords from the string
Only speaking of inconsequent things
Whe he writes, he'll think of her constantly
And she, understand what the writing means
All he may mark would be his own
Offset by what is hers alone.