Link

http://futureyesterdays.blogspot.com/

^ NEW BLOG. THIS ONE WILL ACTUALLY SURVIVE.

End

This is the end... of my time writing here.

_______________________________________

I refuse

To be subject to the forces of habit

To be pulled back in like the tide

To give up like some weak-willed wuss

Or to be bullied into saying what I should say

Because regardless of what vocabulary I have

What I choose to say is what is going on in my head

And when I say it

It means

Who I am.

And sometimes you need that period

At the end of a sentence

For finality

Because sometimes leaving it too open ended

Leaves too much room for misinterpretation

This is something that needs to be understood clearly:

.

I've felt every way possible about this

There's not an option I haven't tested

Not a rocket I haven't seen come crashing down

But still nothing to show for it

Not much has changed and I wish it would

Ten months ago I was wishing myself out of a rut

Now I'm in it

A new one

And I want out again

So I can discover a new rut

To get caught in

Lost in

Forgotten

And re-found

Not just a rebound

Feeling like I should reread this

To see how it sounds

Feeling awkward 'cause somethings rhyme

And others just plain don't

As if looking over what I've already touched on

Was gonna help me discover what my next subject is

Sometimes you gotta ignore where you've been

And accept you're going someplace entirely different

So I dare myself to shut it out

And just say whatever non-related bull that comes forth

And I dare myself to cope with a mix

Of the old

And the new

Because it is the cowards who try to define

Spaces of time

And box people into them too

And box emotions

And memories

Commitments

Am I capable of letting this happen?

I'm ashamed of my reoccurring patterns

Like I said

I've tried everything

The worst part is the dependency

Which I'm showing right now

This horrible display of dysfunctionality

Apparently that's not a word

It should be.

That is me.

RESTART

Her

I used to ride the train home from Kindergarten at the same hour that the high schoolers took the 1 train back uptown. I was about... four feet, clinging to a pole and looking up at giants. There was a girl in skinny jeans and bright white Nikes. She had the most perfect curly hair that was always perfectly tousled and was wearing gold hoops, and a backpack thrown over her arm. The subway car would be packed in tight, so that everything was dark at my height - people's legs and bags. So I would just look up at her, with the perfect hair and the perfect look, surrounded by her girlfriends who were laughing, and she was laughing too, a big beautiful smile, with gum tucked in the back. And in front of her was some guy leaning against the subway door, flirting with her and she just kept laughing back. And these people were in some realm of superiority, which seemed like perfection, and where everyone should land in by the time they were teenagers. At that age, being a teenager, was one notch below a deity. It was a place I dreamed of, when I would be at the peak of life and freedom and identity. And beyond that, when I had my identity, I knew exactly who I would be. I wanted to be her.

February

For some reason, this never made it up when it was written - May 6, 2010. Felt like sharing:

______________________________________________

February was the last of the good old days

Before everyone went and changed their ways

I can't believe we have slipped into this phase

What happened to our innocent lunchtimes at Ray's?

Seems that sex has gotten everyone crazed

Taking full advantage of the world that we made

But it's not just a gain

Apparently it's a trade

Because in exchange

We are losing things

And which one is better?

It's hard to say

I'm just looking up at quotes

From last February

I'm feeling nostolgic

Cuz though times are great

I also have time to appreciate

When the weather was cold

There were sweet couples

We had principles

Not just hooking up with people

There was hope and chance

Actual romance

And comparitively things were so relaxed

Or maybe I'm just mourning lost time

And judging motives

Since I have lost mine.

2am

When the world falls alseep, why am I still sitting here expecting confetti to burst up over my computer screen? Why do I check my silent cell phone? If I've been caught up in a tornado all night, is this just me suffering from the shock of the end of the wind? Or maybe it's just pure insomnia, or abuse of caffiene. Nevertheless, here I sit, watching night breathe on. Love songs play from YouTube, with no meaning other than the soft tune they put into the room.

As I stare at green digital numbers, I can feel time dripping down on me, and I start to feel layers disappear. Tonight is not just tonight - it's every night I've been awake in the middle of the morning, wondering if I'm about to fall out, or if I'll see the sunrise this time. Everytime I've been worried, or blissful, overly contemplative or scared. Any time I have held this vigil, 2am on Fort Washington Avenue. I start to realize I'm staring at the same pencil-smudged plaster and paint I stared at years ago, and signed my name and pledges of love. Written like prisioners' wall carvings to prove that I was once there, in a different form. Of all the things that have changed, I still find myself in the same room, awake, absorbing night's gravity.

And then when the sunrises the purity of the dawn will shine off of urban windows and in faint ways around red and brown bricks. And I will feel every morning I've ever lived, the cold ones and the warm ones. I will feel the simultanious dread and wonder that I'm alive again and there is another day to live where there will be life on earth. Dawn is the best time to determine your character, as light baptizes you. There's a certain signifigance of seeing the first moments of morning - there's a reason you're catching that moment; it doesn't tend to be coincidental, and even if you think so, I suggest you think twice.

Jump

I don't want you to get caught up in my mistakes. See, I feel like I'm about to jump off a cliff, and there's fog ahead of me, and I know how risky this is, 'cause I don't know what I'm jumping towards exactly. But I don't wanna stay waiting on that edge, because I'm bored of it! I'm so ready to just jump... and I'm waiting for myself to go... but I stay rooted in where I am nonetheless. And now this metaphor has gone beyond my control 'cause I have too many things on my mind to keep track of who is the cliff and who is the fog and why i can't jump.

I have to admit that before there is safety there is always the risk, but why am I so reluctant to take it now? Every time we speak I know this is what I want to be jumping to, but I can only hope that it's right. I've waited for the sake of morality, I've taken it slowly for the sake of evaluation. Now I have to see that the right thing for me would be to start learning how to drown again, rather than let the lake dry up.

Trust

You gotta trust SOMEONE in life. Everyone is human, everyone has their own personal motives and everyone is gonna lie. But there has to be at least one person, that you take the risk with. The risk in believeing that human harshness will be set aside, for the quality that makes us remotely functional as a soceity of animals. The quality that makes us want to look out for each other, and care about each others' well being. To believe in that quality in other people, is to trust them. Because the only time you would ever need someone else's trust, is in the protection of your own feelings, future, or material objects. Trust is either entirely emotional or forced by a feeling of morality. At that point, the person is taking care of you because of some feeling of debt to themselves or the world, and based on their own beliefs. Most people are not like this however.

Trust is a necissary part of survival. People like to trust in other people, but there tends to be a lot of wariness. There is no way to determine for sure what's going to happen. You can look at statistics of whether this person has been reported to be trustworthy, but you never know for sure - humans are unpredictable. But if you don't trust SOMEONE, you can never create relationships, and you will end up carrying a lot of weight and secrets on your own, which never ends well.

Know

Doesn't it suck to know something and not be able to mention it? I guess that kind of sounds like a secret, so maybe this should be called "Secret". But it's not a secret! It's just knowing. Knowing something I wasn't supposed to know, because I found out and I saw things and someone gave me a clue...

Sharing knowledge is so exciting! It gives you a sense of power to know things that others don't or for example, to know things that people don't think you know. The feeling of trading stories and information is just something natureally loved by humans - I guess that's gossip. Maybe this post should be called "Gossip".

But that's not what I'm talking about either! Gossip is when multiple people discuss multiple things, and this is one thing, kept from one person. Moi.

I don't really care about not knowing - there's a lot of stuff I don't know but I end up knowing in the end. The people who kept it from me really had no business telling me, and it doesn't change anything. But it's so interesting, I would just love to share it with you.

But I'm not supposed to know.

PMS

I do not want to talk to anyone. You think you have a hilarious story to tell me, but trust me, there is nothing funny about it. You think I'm depressed and need someone to talk to but I really just want you to get the f*** out of my face. No, I don't know why I'm crying. I don't care about what you did today. I'm not going to go do that with you, because I'm sick of you and I don't like you. So do yourself a favor and leave me alone.

I'm angry at everyone but they didn't do anything and there's nothing they can do to fix it. I just want to lay on my bed and cry, and I hate crying. I don't want to read a book, or watch TV, or do anything to try and cheer myself up. Honestly, the only thing I'm up for right now, is an Eminem song and a hot shower.

Or a cold one - cold showers are even better.

Lola

I love Lola. Lola is my dearest close friend who I miss a lot right now. Lola is the reason I haven't posted in weeks, because she is the only one who reads this, so I figured it would be a waste of time to post a bunch while she was away. Lola should be home soon, with her brother, and our friend. I miss them all. But most of all, I miss Lola.

My love and wistfulness for Lola, has inspired this blog post. Actually, I've been wanting to write this for a few days now, but I restrained myself, thinking it was just a little bit creepy. However, I can't take it anymore and this is the only way I can think to cope with the fact that she is away from me and I can't talk to her about the things on my mind and closest to my heart. Moreover, she is not here to give me my morning rant about what aggravates her today, the drug qualities found in random foods, and how her family has done her wrong. Which is equally disappointing because I have become quite fond of those rants.

So I hope that when Lola sees this, she can interpret it as a tribute of love and longing, not creepiness.

I'm not even entirely sure Lola will see this, because I'm not sure if Lola is going to keep blogging when she comes home. I know I am on the verge of creating a new blog which will be completely different from this one, in style and content. But as for Lola's plans, I am not sure. I miss you Lola. Please come home.

Love, Flower.

Love

Love... is a relative feeling. Love builds up, and can just as easily exist between one set of people as the next... it doesn't belong to a set of requirements. Only that person knows if they love or not, and it doesn't have to be mutual. It is just one of those things that means you have feelings for that person, beyond any other feelings you've ever had before. And I guess I started out with the idea of romantic affection, but this applies to other kinds too. Like a mother who experiences the new rush of love for her baby, and the whole new emotional aspect that they were not aware of until they were a parent. It's like the longer you exist, all the different causes of love have more to live up to. More competition. Which means when you're older, your senses of love will be much stronger and more aware and experienced and whatnot, than it was when you were younger. However, it does not make love beforehand, any less.

Bowl

Like warm water

Poured into a bowl

Set out to sit

In the spring

That first touch

So welcoming and soothing

So strong

Everlasting

That season.

But spring is not summer

And it's not fire, it's water

Spring has breezes

Water cools

However long it takes until

The tub of water does not fulfill

Then the replacement so shocking

Bizarre in its blizzard ways

Exhilerating in its first wonder

Leaving with an unusual sting

And a slap in the face

So here you are with confusion

Snow that was your friend

Five minutes ago

Doesn't mean the blizzard

Is any less than the bowl

But the water's gentleness was comforting

This blizzard is foreign

While you know you must take chances

Because that water is getting to be cold

Somehow drowning in cold water

Is more reassuring

Than the bipolar storm.

Alone

One of my greatest fears since I was a kid, was to be alone. In any situation, I was okay, as long as there was someone there to be with me, support me, and to prove that I wasn't doing the wrong thing. When you're alone you're three thousand times more vulnerable, and there's a silence that you can't fix as you can around others. That silence can eat you up and make your inner mind start talking for you, which can be very necessary at times, and at others it can go on to the point of danger. I'm afraid to be alone, and be sitting there unable to override the sound of silence. To have no one to bring me down to reality when I start to imagine the best and believe the worst. And when I'm alone and I cry, I know that there's not gonna be a friend who can say their one word and make me smile.

Twelve

Sometimes, I can close my eyes, and this year never happened. I close my eyes, and I am twelve again, it's a cool summer day, I'm riding home on the elevated 1 train, staring out the window at the clouds. For a second, I have a year. We are standing on the edge of a cliff, and there are so many bridges we are about to cross, but once we are crossing those bridges, we are focusing on making sure we don't fall. From where we stood then, we could merely stand on the edge of that cliff, and look out into the canyon, entirely unaware of what was out there. And I remember so vividly, staring out into the expansive gray clouds, from the view of a vandalized window, thinking that something was about to happen. Future was about to happen, and there were so many points that were bursting, like a nest full of eggs about to emerge.

For a moment, I am back there. I am back in that feeling, right before life changes. It is there whenever life changes, and whenever you need it. And when I need it... I need to touch base with twelve year old me, who surprisingly, knew more about myself, than I will ever know again. Now I know about other people and the world... but it's harder to read my own dreams, and my own desires. When I close my eyes, I remember how it felt that summer, and now that I think about it, that summer was a time of magic.

8th grade

The room held an ominous silence.

It was late. Most had gone home.

One day.

Fake money and plastic flowers

Scattered across tile

Where the darkness gave fluorescent lights

a creepiness.

And that finality

Known all too well

When the energy is built up so high

Just to crash

When hours ago

This room was filled with laughter and joyfulness

Gone so suddenly

Almost like dead spirits

Now all that's left

Are half filled racks with suits

And an empty hallway

Where Axe lingers in the air

And props scattered on the ground

The remnants of multiple souls

Or one collaborative soul

Which I now mourn.

Enemy

I met you briefly in a darkened room. There was a crowd of unknown people, an embarrassment, a cake, and tension. Names whirled by and I saw your upturned face, smiling. At the time, all I could remark was yes, you were pretty, but I didn't put much more thought into it. I was focusing on the burning discomfort that I didn't know how to handle. Because I was here for her and I wasn't going to let anything else take me away from feeling the strongest love for her; after all, I had a guilt trip running longer than any jog-a-thon champion. So, in a desperation to not let the sixteen days since I'd been speechless effect me, I chatted with the others, hugged those who were familiar, and let you all wander around in a buzz around me. Because when I saw your face, in the dim light for a second, the last thing I thought was that you would soon become the next target, my next enemy. I didn't realize what was about to happen, what would ineffectually pierce my flesh. Retrospect haunts me now, because I wonder what it would have been like, to know that within a week, you would be a key part in my life attitude.

And

When I was in first grade, my teacher told us to never use the word "and" to begin a sentence. It was bad grammar. Microsoft Word told me this once, too. So when I'm typing for school, or on my blog (because this is the last place I write properly) I try to do it the right way - not start my sentences with "and". But you might have noticed, that I do end up starting my sentences that way, because half way through the post, I get frustrated, having took too long to get my idea out, because I'm trying to do it right. I try to eliminate the "and", or make it into one big sentence, but no matter what, it ends up sounding very wrong. And I think it's unfair! How can you say it's not allowed when it sounds so annoyingly good, and strings phrases together? Of course to compromise, there is the semi-colon but who ever figures out how to use that correctly, and there we have more issues with being grammatically correct. What's so horrific if I start these sentences with "and"? It's a beautiful, helpful word.

Stop

Where did these days go

Lives lost

To pride

And the unknown.

Power wasted

Choices made

Never taken back

Wisdom that I lack.

Words that I reuse

Ad nausium

So you can tell

These are my favorite words

But I don't use them very well

I just sit right here

Every night

And I write

Or I try

To create

Some dispension of hate

So that I don't walk in tomorrow

Ready to scratch someone's eyes out

And so I don't cry on the train

When there's nothing to cry about

And though I'm still stupid

I just don't wanna lose it

When I'm on my way to math

Please no premature ruin

There's no telling when this stops

It stops when my fingers

Stop punching out words

That explain my state of mind

And when the meaning just becomes

Searching for rhymes

I can stop myself there

And stop wasting my time

Stop this, stop that

Stop because I can't go

Go where

There's no place

But your face

That I know

Times feeling upside down again

But I feel tied in

Running into walls

Like an animal pen

And I'm just pacing up and down Columbus Circle

Looking out the glass

At the whole wide world

I wanna stop pacing

Because there's nowhere to go

But if I'm not going anywhere

Then I can't get hurt.

Importance

We walk by people every day, and almost as often, meet new people. New names and identities enter our consciousness, even if only for a second. They are the insignificant people in our lives, acquaintances and strangers, and then there are the main characters, friends, family, lovers, and even teachers I guess. Who present a more prominent and effective role in our lives. But really, every one of the main characters started out as one of the nobodys you passed, and didn't think much about, who you had a one word opinion about and never really looked further. Because there was no reason to look further, because they didn't ever come into contact with you, or anything you did. They existed within one random moment like an extra in a movie. Then, you wake up, and a bunch of those people are close to you now, changing your life and the way you think, taking you in all new directions and becoming important. Who would have thought, when you first glanced at this person, that they would become your best friend, or you best advisor? And this will happen again - people we may know right now, as vaguely associated with some other part of life, may come to have a starring role. Then you'll look back and see how the world can revolve and take us to people, who it would appear, were always meant to be a part of your history. I find this intensely amusing.

Mistakes

Most people will admit to making mistakes in time. It can be what's blamed for the misfortune that comes to you - it's because you made some mistake in your past. Generally, these mistakes mean you did something that you thought was a good idea at the time, but turn out to be things that hurt you, someone else, or just the situation in general. No one would make mistakes if they were able to recognize them at the moment. Mistakes tend to be seen in the past, after you've already seen the damage, and then connect the misfortune to a prior action. The thing is, every action you make, doesn't have just one reflective reaction. One action can cause multiple overlapping reactions for months or years to come. And out of those multiple reactions, there can be the positive and negative ones. Sometimes the positive ones, do more than just cancel out a negative one before it. Mistakes that cause sadness one day, cause more happiness than would have been possible before you made that mistake. So how much of a mistake is it then? Actions that cause damage, but then benefit you as well. Being able to tell what was a mistake and what was actually better in the long run, I think is impossible up until the day your life is over. It depends on the final result which we'll never be able to evaluate.

Salsa

Morning. The smell of salza mized with the rain. Softener in the back room, mice and birds in harmony soaked blossoms outside my window, the feeling of a big house and a day before you. One basketball bouncing, cars on the wet road. A shiver and sunlight, inspiration. Laziness and energy, soft music in my head, the calm kind, not sad. Tasting some sweetness that is almost like sun-cooked grass and days that never got old.

Conditioner

The commencement of the season

Marked by a sound

Humming

Heavy-breathing

Brushing.

Like the gentle shushing

Of a reclusive peacemaker

Brought to subdue

The clatter.

Sitting in the back

Patiently

Watching as the party streams in

With another day to conclude

Absorbing the traces

Of sunlight on their skin

Replaced with folds of coolness

Seamlessly

As a slow breath

In

Out

And disappears

From the atmosphere

The smell of late afternoon -

A smell

Like fresh copy paper

Is introduced into the evening

Summer is not present

Until the nights are narrated

By the variant whispers

From the corner

Welcoming

Into a room made

an oasis

By the leader

Of the orchestra

Of these days.

Fourteen

And no joke, I was sitting there with my calendar open, years flashing by in my head. With my backpack open on my lap, squished into the corner seat of the subway, I opened the vinyl cover of the set of papers that mapped out a year of my middle school life. Staring at the pages, I flipped through, month to month, looking, as I realized that soon it would be June, and another summer, another transition, and half of us would already be fourteen.

Remember back when we were all in fifth grade and turning eleven was a big deal? When being fourteen was one of those far off places of such maturity? Being all grown up and sophisticated with big issues and life that kept going in a dramatic line of constant excitement. Eleven was big enough for us, and we owned every bit of knowledge above those who were still stuck in fourth grade. Slowly we would creep up to be teenagers, but thirteen didn't count 'cause you would still be in middle school, and fourteen would be a teenager. While we could barely feel it, those mythological times were dawning upon us with every Friday afternoon, until we filled those silhouettes.

Soon we would be celebrating sweet sixteens and normals sixteens, and we would feel like kids, but be in the shoes of adults. If we can go from being 10 to 14 without too much changing beyond a bra and a few inches, then how long does it take for us to be eighteen? We would be standing together, remembering when we were little kids. Hopefully.

The best part is, I had these deep revelations about ten years flying by, just by riding home with my planner open.

Blog

I've been thinking. That after all this time of writing these posts about my latest discovery, or venting about my latest emotion, or the poetry that I wrote in my school notebooks... I've been thinking about where this is going. I've been running this blog for the past year and a half, and next year I'll be off to high school. I'll be around all different people, a whole new place, a whole new dynamic, and I won't be the twelve year old that started this blog. So this is my proposition: I've considered running this blog until either graduation, or until the end of the summer. I'll keep going the way I've been going, and then when I end it, I'll start a new one. The format would be more of a journal type thing, except I wouldn't keep it like I keep my written one. It would just highlight certain moments of my day, and I'd tell it almost like an excerpt from a book. I also thought that it would be a good way to let the people I won't be seeing as much anymore, know about what's going on in my life. I'm also kind of bored of the way I write here. In conclusion; I feel I will need to start an entirely new blog soon, for my own peace of mind, and for my friends. But what do you think?

Art

This is a response to a post by The Wizardress, which was at first a comment, but then it got too long and I figured it should be a post. In order to understand my post, you're probably going to have to read hers.

_________________________________________________________

Art becomes shared and appreciated when people can relate to it - which I think is what you just said. I like art more than nature, and I guess we're talking about human made art because I dont understand why nature cant be art. even if it happened without any prompting, it still causes emotion for people and people see beauty and emotion in it, as they might a painting or sculpture, etc. Those two aspects FOR ME, define art.

And what's wrong with seeing multiple ways to get inside someone's mind? Tying into what i said at the beginning, relating to people makes people feel better, as does the creation itself. I think that art that does not convey emotion in a way that people can read it, is just one-ended art. Because if it has ANY emotional value, the artist can feel it and use it. That's much different than tissues.

Unsafety

A sense of unsafety

My own words on the attack

After a virtual sigh

Virtual silence.

These minds are screaming you see

Screaming in non verbal ways

These minds are wondering

Misunderstanding

As of that moment I was standing in space

Caught enegry dancing

But don't say a word

Cuz you say one more thing

And the energy explodes

Gone from it's encasement

Like three satisfying words

Suffocating in every way

A misty whirlwind in the middle of nowhere

And no where left to go

No more breathing now

Cling to every word

Until the storm abruptly stops

With one final message

Our ghost

Repeated

I was just trying to write how I felt in my journal, in normal paragraph form. Then this slipped out. (this is from a few weeks ago)

_________________________________________________

And why does my life feel like the same thing

Repeated year to year

The only thing changing is the characters

But the lessons are the same

Cause I have the same feelings

And I never learn.

I look back at old journals

That tell of a time

So long before ours

Before simplicity was devoured

And while the setting was so vastly different -

Essentially

It was the same.

So what am I doing here but walking in circles

Scratching with pencils and searching for words

To find a phrase and complete a poem

So I can turn the page

Think about -

And go on.

Nonspecific

It would suck to wake up one day and find out that some one other than Lola has been reading this blog for the past year. Oh, and Melli and The Wizardress too. It would seriously mess with my life, to find out that I've been screaming all this s***, thinking I was releasing stress into the open air and with those that I love. I'm not even entirely sure how I'd react if that happened, I guess it would depend who. I just have this horrible feeling that some one's been checking up on my emotional state and I have no clue about it. That's what I get for putting this on the Internet! But since when is paranoia a new thing for me? Shoot, I just missed 11:11. I wish on every 11:11, just so you know. It's one of those things I believe in. Sorta. Kinda. Hey! So this is actually how I think, and talk, when I'm not being all official on my blog. My blog is just about the last place where I use correct spelling and grammar and etc. And I also usually use big words and concepts, which are actually what I think about... it just sounds really official? I guess? I can't come up with the right word...

So. Now that I'm almost done with this post, I need to give it a title. It's kind of random. But that's not the right word for it. Thank Spirit for thesaurus. Nonspecific. This post is nonspecific. But I find it so interesting that I'm not making a big deal about the future, the past, regret, love or adolescence, that I'm actually going to publish this!

Happy

This is my attempt at writing a post when I'm happy. My hair is flying out of a ponytail, I have one of my favorite outfits on, blasting music, clapping and dancing in a way that no one has ever seen me dance. Ever. I'm talking to people and I'm relishing in the fact that everything went my way today. That just everything about the world looks so perfect and going for me, that I can't even believe it's happening. And the chain of events that are so blissful, send me on a high that has me looking to the sky unable to breathe. Even something that has been known to bring me to my knees crying, is simply invisible at this moment, and I'm convinced it has to do with the sunlight streaming, and the gentle wind. I can't tell you much else about what this feels like, or anything going through my mind, because everything in is a heated whirlwind. So this, relating to my earlier post, is what I'm like when I'm happy. I don't care if the neighbors bother me 'cause the music is on blast, and I'm stomping my feet. What I'll do, is I will go out on that fire escape, and I will shout until they can hear me down in Harlem and up in Inwood cause I am SO DAMN HAPPY.

2/23/10

Like most of the stuff I post nowadays, I wrote this during Science.

________________________________________________________

Some days the words come out easy

Other days a look is like a scream

Some days call for death

Same days to forget

Filled with regret

Nothing left

And yet

Every day begins

As if there was something worth living

For

Every word I write summons more

Used to say rhymes limit

Now they are a blanket

Avoiding the word "I"

Avoid having to cry

Sitting under a tree in the rain

Why can't we all remain

Asking if everything must change

And they don't hear these words

Trying to drown them

Live without them

Is it so impossible to rise

Create a compromise

Between

Time and me

Hate and Hate

With no debate

What's dead is dead

What you see is what you get

But not forever

Security

What is this destruction that is bringing down the structure of our lives? What is this communal "our" that is supposed to put us all in the same position? Why are there scars on children's faces that can only teach them about the darkness in people's troubles? Those liars who don't preach to raise awareness, but only to hide their own problems...

I don't know what someone could say to put together these pieces I'm holding in my hands. See those fibers like paper ripped apart that were once a face. And not the face of anyone I know because security doesn't have an identity. Security is a liar too - preaching examples of places where you can be unharmed. But everywhere is dangerous because you can always get hurt, but to say you're safe hides how vulnerable you really are. Every step taken is putting your entirety on the line, and we are more easily destroyed internally, before anything external can touch us. So as I hold these pieces that used to be Security, I am thankful that I get to breathe, and to stare down at my bare hands thinking. Because like those liars who are hiding their own problems by trying to act like they're solving everyone else's, I am sitting back and letting knives dig into the weakness of my own soul. Because I am the greatest example of one of those liars.

Satisfaction

I do not function well under happiness. I think I've mentioned this before in some other post, but I guess I'm going to reitterate: when I'm happy, my productivity level sinks. Some people, I've heard, are more capable to commit to things, and be creative, when they're happy. My problem is, when I'm happy, I'm too distracted to be creative. When I'm happy, the sun is too bright in my eyes, my heart is too light my head is flying, and I can't actually focus on creation. For some reason, when I am left dissatisfied with ANYTHING, it becomes a drive for me to write, or drum, or just to work. There suddenly seems to be more inspirtation, and a deeper view on the world - which sounds like bullcrap to me when I say it, but it's true. I'm not one of those people who will purposely throw themselves into a depression "for the sake of their art", but I will admit to being frustrated when I'm having a really great time of it, then I sit down to write, and I just can't. It doesn't come out. I guess writing solves my problems, and creates little safety places for me to be comforted or for me to work them out. When I have no probelems to work out, when life is satisfying, the creativity slows down. Still, it makes more sense to me, that being sad/dissatisfied would be too much of a downer or distraction.

Wall

Like staring at the outside wall

Of my own world

Last time I was here I was inside

Now staring at red-brown bricks

I hear the sounds of the club from within

The bass like a heartbeat

Drums are like a voice

Heard faintly

Whispering

A reversed setting to dwell upon

An awkward vacant room

But that story is beyond us now

Winter draws to an end

Didn't want to see time go

Tried to stop from

Slipping away

Slowly I allow nature to take it's course

Promise I'll forget one day

Future

Pain is a barrier

preventing motion towards your future.

Happiness stimulates

progress towards the future.

Memories exist

to allow the future to be the future

and not a repetition of the past.

Before

I wrote this in Latin class.

______________________________________

Remember when the world was so hopeful

Nobody could know

What would happen

Remember before anyone knew

Not even me

Amo tu

Spring was so young

The sky was so high

Things were just beginning

Happy still will be

Little left for me

Stories so old

can't be told again

This springtime

All things end.

Traffic

As far back as I can remember, there was a fruit roll-up, a snowball, a confused smile, and a traffic light. There were no words being said, only images. While most will remember words, and I of all people, should be dwelling on the words, I stared at my shoes, I stared at the pigeon, and then the traffic light. I try to listen to my memory, but I only hear the sound of wheels on pavement, if anything. I try to remember feeling, but the cold didn't bother me by then.

While the world was being set back on it's pedestal, I was blanking out, words spilling out without a security check, because the guys we have in charge of that, got distracted by a light. Security check had a sudden emergency - a fire in the main control center. Fire estinguishers were blown in vain, as the visual receptors were staring at a traffic light. The verbal printer went through unedited, and the guys on security check were struggling to keep the base from burning out. They called for help from the guys they have in charge of sound. So while the main base was burning, the visual receptors, verbal printer and auditory center were all left unattented, and the memory was damaged. Instead of wise speculation and response, there was nonsense being said. Instead of picking up the most important message yet, there was nearly absolute silence. And instead of seeing a face that spelled out - everything - the only image to be found, is that of a red, flashing, traffic light.

Bathtub

You know something? I like to screw myself over. It's just something I do, and I wouldn't be me without it. I guess that's why I couldn't recognize myself then. O shit. I think there's a mouse somewhere in here. I also discovered, no matter how much I try to relax my face, my face will feel relaxed, but my true emotion will be written all over my face. Oh, I'm surprised i haven't written this yet. FML. *rolls over onto back*

"So Lil, what are you gonna do now? Just lay in the tub all night doing nothing? Huh Lil? What's the plan?" "Die," she replies. "No other way out."

"You can't die Lil. You know that. You're gonna stay alive, so what are you going to do?"

"Vomit," she replies.

"You're too weak."

"Starve."

"You like food too much."

"Cut." I don't reply. I am Maisy, the version of Lil that took over some time ago.

"Cut up those pretty legs?" I ask her.

"I'm lost," she replies. "Where am I?"

"You're coming back, with a job to do," I tell her. "It's almost midnight on a Friday night and this is gone from your life forever. What are you going to do Lil?"

"I can't feel enough to cry. I can't remember: do I hope?"

I ponder this. "I doubt, so yes Lil, you hope."

"Do I hope that this hasn't happened? Do I hope to wake up tomorrow to the sound of snow shovels and faint bachata? To see that-"

"I don't know," I cut her off. "I am Maisy and you are Lil. This bathtub is where we meet worlds. I'm handing the power over to you Lil. What do we do?"

"Look at what a mess you've made," she exclaims.

"I know. I'm sorry. They were trying times."

"And you lost the game; right? That's why you came. You've come to take me back to my realm of misery. But I can't face the light."

"No worries Lil, there's no light left - it's all darkness."

"But see dark is light for me, which is why the bad times are my day, which is why I belong where you can't survive. But Lil, you know what makes us the same?"

Silence.

"We both will still be always thinking about-"

"You're right."

"So what are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna lay in this tub till I'm cold as shit, then light incense and pray and go to bed. If tomorrow comes, and I do still wake I sort it all out then. Because nothing matters until tomorrow comes."

Stories

Sometimes, stories about things that never happen, or only happen to a handful of people in the world – they get a bit over told. Stories about wizards and vampires and alter-universes, people with supernatural powers, kings, queens, - all very interesting, but when you close the book, they’re not really there, and they’re not coming back to help you.

What about stories about people. I don’t like stories about outcasts either; I feel they get a bit preachy, and you walk around feeling horrible about every weakness in someone that you’ve ever abused. As true as it may be, and even if the problem should be addressed, I don’t like reading stories that open my eyes to world problems.

Stories about people, they show how people don’t understand, come to understand, or maybe never understand. It’s okay to never understand. It’s what differentiates between heroes, and life. But even if people never understand, they change. Time has it’s affect on people, and watching them be changed by time is something I like to see in a story. I appreciate equality between weak characters and strong characters. People who succeed at everything except the one, quirky weak point, and then it’s that which either makes them or brings them down. I love that feature that defines them, and the people who celebrate just as much as they struggle.

One of the things that messes stories up, is perspective. There are too many perspectives and not one even can be passed – or even taken in – by the human mind, without the corruption of perspective. The corruption of perspective is everywhere, but it, along with misunderstandings, is what makes stories go on. Makes them interesting. It pulls apart from the “given truth”, usually presented by the narrator, and draws attention to the many “potential truths” which could or could not be “given truths” depending on whom you talk to. When “given truth” and potential truth” clash, there we have action.

Paths

I somehow realized, that we are each individuals, with personal stories that are going on right now, even when I'm not around them. I only come into contact with their stories when my own path crosses theirs. But when I walk away, every one else's story keeps going. And even those who you are close to, your friends, are entirely different beings than yourself. Sometimes, I lose the sense of who people really are, and start to fill in things about them, which are pretty much fictional and based on my own impressions. So I have to wake up and realize how far apart I am from everyone. You can't live in anyone's head. And misunderstandings/miscommunication alone can create that huge distance. Once accepting the fact that we are entirely different and independant, when stories do come to interact and meet, it seems like a miracle. That people that could be running around on entirely different paths of life, somehow find each other for split seconds in time, and let their stories touch.

Fragile

Yall remember this. But I was rereading it, and decided it was the right time to post it here. (originally written December 8, 2009, in math. This was not my assignment.)

______________________________________________________

Run away and hide

Away from world order

Winter known to bring

Worst of luck

Say something wrong

Do something reckless

Leaving winter to blame

Looking to next month

Wishing for next year

If there is no way to return from which you came

In my past I fear

This season of detatchment

Still

Too fragile for winter winds

Could you get lost in winter?

Lose true meaning

Succumb to foggy memories

Only to rise again

And may springtime bring us peace

Fluidity and understanding

But when November clouds taunt -

Too fragile for winter winds.

Sleeping

I like to think of people sleeping. Not in a creepy way, i just like to think of people in a peaceful state. When they are weak, and barely in control of their minds and bodies. It creates feeling of innocence and truth in who, and what they are. This is not because I am some power-crazy being who wants to see my rivals vulnerable, it's just because there is something about people when they are sleeping, that is beautiful. Don't people usually say "aw, how cute," sometimes, even if the subject is over five? Isn't a sleeping human something to be revered? Something about the clear look in their face, free of set emotion, free of the effects of the outside world. At that moment, they are living inside of their own thoughts and ideas, operating independently, even if the thoughts are spawned from outside ideas; the life that they live when they are awake. The moment before sleeping, is when there is a moment of reality and emotion, where there is comfort and finaltiy in the day ending. So, I like to think of people sleeping. Makes me feel better. Even if they are far from me, I picture them at peace: sleeping.

Numb

The feeling is numb. The feeling where feeling is lost. Having so many thoughts waiting to be processed, but having the inability to do such is drowning. And I can't breathe because I don't want to hurt. How backwards would it be to say I was happier before? This severely disrupted the healing process, and I swore I wouldn't regret it. Now I am sitting, waiting for the air to come through my lungs, for the smile to come to my face and for the goosebumps to come when I realize that it's time to make the decision. Who knew that saying what was in your head could be so difficult? Especially when what is in your mind is contradictory to what it's supposed to be. To tell the truth, I'm being harshly contemplative and on the edge of disorder because... because I'm afraid. I hate putting part of me outside of myself - it's too dangerous. While I know what's coming, I don't want to wait for it. I don't even have to. Because they are already living, they were living hours ago when they were being born in the darkness. But what is It? It is mistakes, It is disappointment, It is knowledge, It is silence, acceptance, It is... It is embracing the end. It is wanting a cleaner definition so that this messy scar doesn't have to sit all night. If nothing went wrong, then why do I feel so sick already? I can feel it in my bones, and last time I felt it, I was right. I. was. dead. right. But as always, I will go to sleep tonight, and wake up tomorrow morning and truth will not have escaped my grasp. There is nothing worse than waking up in the morning feeling like the day has already been ruined, I promise you. Have a good one.

1/28/2010

Does it hurt less To see by day

And know by night
Nonexistent echoes
Of empty words
What do I see
Power gone
But ego is strong
Wake up one day
and cry
Still Breathing
In and out of dreams
Can't change a thing
Passing days
Just for the sake of
Killing time

Happiness comes in waves

Sunlight has never been so dry

How come

Weather changes so fast in this town

Find I'm constantly

Loosing ground

Heart aches for freedom

More than satisfaction

Every word

Emphisizing hope is dead

Tell me again

Blue fire

Black coal

Don't know where to turn

Let the fire burn

Wrist

Her wrists were so innocent. White, soft skin, like they were the day she was born. Veins of life seen through the surface, perfect and untouched. No tension, no hate, no devestation that would be obvious at the sight of the rest of her. But feeling around in the darkness, she picked up her wrist, and felt the inside of it with her fingertips. Her hands were cold and her arm was warm. The blade was cold, and the blood was warm. It slowly came in, and the sensitive skin over the veins reacted to the slightest touch. The skin was tight and unmoving as the blade stroked it, sinisterly toying at her fate: two inches down, two inches up, pausing at the base. After a while, this rubbed a sore spot. She clenched her hand, and unclenched it. The blade came down, pinching the first millimeter of skin it came in contact with. Then it pressed harder, leaving a whiteish-pale green mark that eventually melted into the pale pale rose pink that they use to describe kids' clothes in magazines. She was left undecided what to do with the knife.

23

That night, she kept walking. The black door beckoned as it had every other night, but she couldn't go through it now. The wind brushed her cheeks and summoned unemotional tears, despite the cirucumstance. She didn't have the want to go, but she didn't want to do anything, except get somewhere cold, somewhere holy, somewhere that would tell her what to do. Past the black door and ignoring the red light, the darkness ahead was as looming and inevitable as it had been when she woke up that morning, her fate already decided, but her being unaware of it. It was a tunnel that called to her, because wherever she was wandering that night, it was far better than from where she was coming. Something about the cold darkness was comforting, gave her a sense of belonging. Belonging to the cold is to belong to nothing, to loneliness and that little black part in your heart.
Every breath had weight that questioned if another breath would ever come. Then, it came, rushing all too fast into her lungs, and the woman, the girl, almost choking on it, before suffocating from lack of it. Without any consious choice, her legs proplled her forward, away from a shattered world, and towards a world she didn't know yet. She stopped at the wall.
Looking over the wall, snow was shoved up around the fences, once beautiful innocence, now packed into the uniform truth of what it means. Light reflected off the glistening concrete, from the street lights, creating a white and golden hue. The mini bowling ball in her chest rose, and fell. The wind grazed the top of her hair, and she lifted her head to the sky, to look for the moon. Once located, the familiar white curve shone down pressing truth onto her face.
Frozen in her mind was the sight she'd seen so often before, and taken for granted. Now, tonight as it appeared, it stopped her heart, her breathing, her head spun and she stared at the image in her head. It took over and she asked - why. it was the happiest sight of her life. And given previous events, it was questioned, if it too, were real.

Want

What is it about humanity that wants more when it has everything? Why do we strive for the most difficult goals and dismiss the simply gained ones? When you were seven years old, what did you dream about for your future? And now that you've reached some higher place, now that life is practically perfect - what's wrong? There is always a flaw in the picture, that no matter what else you try to surround it with, there's still that hole isnt there? There's still that thing in your life you would fix if you could, there's still that reason you'll be sad tonight, or tomorrow, or eventually. Living in a cloud of happiness is a lie... and even if you really, really do feel 100% happy, there's a lie to that too. We would not be human if there wasn't some gap to be filled by the mysterious key. Remember me talking about this key? This key is different. This key is EVERYONE'S key, and how are we ever going to find it? My frustration is with one thing, simply: living with the constant distraction of wanting with all your heart, the one thing you cannot have. Why can't other things in life make up for it? Why can't you fill the space with an alternate substance? Why is human desire so specific and impossible to satisfy?

Teenagers

You know how you're bored of reading about love, hate, and regret? Well I'm sick of writing it. We are all a bunch of infants right now, because we're teenagers, and if by some strange event your are not a teenager reading this, you will probably agree with this. But nothing we do right now, (as teens) actually accounts for anything. We're all about 3 years old right now, wandering around playing pretend with our oh-so-dramatic lives. Big deal. Do you think anyone will care in about eight years? Or like it will really matter? Or that concepts like goals, commitment, love and polynomials, are something that people OUR age, could ever really understand? Of course not!
The flaw in this form of thought, is that if you go about life, convinced that none of it counts until you turn eighteen, how will you learn to cope? How will you be motivated to live another day? And when our infant minds are stressed by the infant situations of our daily lives, it doesn't quite help to say "oh, by the time you're twenty, this won't matter". Because until then, what exactly are you supposed to do? You can't just wait it out, let yourself get beat up, while saying "it won't matter in a few years". So for why, do we even bother with the idea of "childhood is practice for life"? It is a tool to use now and then, to put the complications of growing up, into better perspective. So that we don't let it get to our heads too much. But by all means, take youth seriously because how else will you learn to take adulthood seriously?

Rhymes

Let go of the words, there's no going back. don't try and find reason, because the reason is dead. And when all that you can remember has lost it's meaning, get rid of those memories too, and then you are free. This is not an epiphany this is simply a chant, used to prevent a hopeless rant. This isn't poetry this is a part of me that bleeds. Rhymes just seem to appear, making me nervous about posting here. I could go on forever with this perpetual doubt, others guessing what this is about. But I tell you you're wrong, this could mean anything, fit any situation with the right reasoning. Today is the day that I'm over the hill, after bridges crossed, I have met my will. I used to remember to an overextent, spacing out on the world, didn't know what people meant. Walking down broadway and 158th I reached a point of neither love or hate. Trying to remember how it felt, things that once made my heart and mind melt. Realizing these were my feelings no more, I felt my inner existance begin to soar. For this is the freedom, the start of my new life, seems it's all going by, in about three-week-sized bites.

Drown

There are those things in your mind that sometimes you would prefer to be a guest, and not a resident. There are some thoughts, some memories that are better seen every once and a while, and then can be shoved out the door. Or maybe they can just be exiled forever to live in some remote corner of the intellectual universe where they don't have to be leeches to my mind. Some things are just not meant to dwell here in my head, because they are too powerful to allow the rest of my brain operate in the way in which it needs to. So this is about those thoughts.
If I don't get rid of them, I'll never write again. I'll never read another story that doesn't trail off into some daydream, I'll never live a day without the fun being interrupted by a random daily event that triggers a flashback. And in the last two weeks, I've learned to stop these flashbacks, let them play and then shake myself out of it before I fall too deep. Before people realize exactly what I'm doing and it's a bad thing. Living off of memories is sick. I don't live off of them either; the plague me. I want to live life where I can fall asleep every night without random disturbances, where Jamba Juice cups, wet gravel, snow and car alarms, are not haunted by the same idea forever. I will drown these memories forever. I will write them down, every detail that my mind can imagine, down to the very temperature, slightest brush of air, every immaculate movement. All the tiny memories that rule my life, will all be written down on papers, until there are no more left. Then I will drown them. Whichever body of water I can, even if it's a street puddle, even if it's the bathroom sink. I will soak these memories into the water and watch the ink and paper crumble, and then I will be free. If they are all said and all gone, then like getting rid of the lip gloss that tasted so good, all evidence of the story will be gone and liberation will have come.

2010

I realized, looking at my blog archive, that I had nothing under 2010, because I had not yet posted in this new year. So here it is. I feel like I've been living the idea of 2010 for so long, yet writing it feels overtly like I'm writing in the future, moreso than any other year. Maybe it's because I've been looking forward to this year, because I graduate this year. I've given it great importance for the last four, so now that it's finally here, it has it's own persona. In a way. It's also a new decade, which really makes me feel old. Because now, I pretty much have a whole decade of memories, since most of my complete memories begin circa age three. And on New Years Day, there were many memories haunting me. But I said, they don't count anymore, because now it's a new year - which is a load of bull, but it certainly makes you feel better. And if I ever need to push those things out of my head, may they be embarssing moments, or mistakes, or unfulfilled goals or wishes, or lack of insight or simply not seeing something coming. Now, I can just think, that they are part of a whole different year, and a whole different decade, and they don't need to touch me, or the life I intend to live. Happy New Year.