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.