Journal, Diary, & Blogging / Revolutions
People disgust me. I don’t even think they mean to, I don’t even think they realize when they’re doing it, but they literally make me sick to my stomach. Sometimes my mom will come home from wherever it is that she goes during the weekends in those nasty, too short and too tight clothes she always wears, with sweat dripping from her waves of razor-burned, lard-spitting armpits and three-day old cigarette residue crawling in her hair as the one little gift her chain-smoking, motorcycle-riding boyfriend ever gave her. And she’ll look at me with revulsion as she picks a fight about the fact that me looking at the wall and biting my lip when she says, “The blacks don’t adopt kids” is the same as me hurling insults of stupidity at her in my never-ending, self-indulgent attitude of mental superiority towards everyone around me (I would be concerned about her reading this but chances are if she tried she wouldn’t get very far before giving up and asking me whether or not I’ve arranged for the revolution yet). She’ll then experience a series of brain aneurysms that cause her to throw her expensive dishes and yell nonexistent curse words at the window and then quietly reverse back into a silent hatred of her spoiled, non-revolution-starting daughter as she desperately grasps her forehead in a fierce attempt to keep it from splitting open with her igniting brain. And I could apologize but I am not one to say a word of repentance when I’ve not even said a word of assault in the first place, so instead we’ll just ignore each other for the rest of the week until Wes comes back from Seattle and she can go back to pretending she never had a family and I can go back to having two day binges with strangers on her nice sofa. Despite the fact that everything she does I find somewhat nauseating, she also has a shitty personality, so I’m okay with the current ‘arrangement’ of things, so to speak.
It disgusts me that she always has to make a big plate of her rotting carcass feast for dinner and doesn’t even have the courtesy to eat at the table like civilized human beings. No, she insists on eating in the living room with her plate of dead animal right next to me so I can hear her chewing every inch of that miserable cow that deserved its death by slaughter so it could end up in her bacterial mouth like everything else. And she actually has the nerve to ask me why I would go on a diet when I’m ‘so beautiful’ despite her calling me fat just a week earlier and me spending all my time obsessing over how revolting she looks when she eats. She really is stupid.
There are some people that don’t disgust me though. Julien doesn’t disgust me at all, he’s always clean and never eats too much or picks his nails or talks too loud or breathes too heavily. And I never have to pretend to be a good person when I’m with him. I mean, Julien isn’t my boyfriend or anything, but I always have to have him come get me when I feel like I could just jump in the Pacific and swim to Tokyo at any moment. He was my sort of boyfriend before he started university two years ago and then it became pretty clear that he was a chronic listener and I was a chronic complainer and we were just indulging each other’s addiction in an absence of anyone else remotely interesting to talk to, so we mutually agreed to be addiction buddies when everyone else was too sober to understand. Plus he’s one of the only people I’ve ever met who knows exactly who Devendra Banhart is and loves New Weird America as much as I do, and we can drive around listening to Caribou albums for hours, discussing the shape of the universe and the crack head that always tries to sing to us when we go to the Alley Cat.
I have yet to arrange for the revolution… I disappoint myself sometimes.
Sometimes I think a novel is a lot like a song. I hope if someone reads mine they’ll sing along even though they can’t hear it, they’ll close their eyes and see it, they’ll bite their lip and taste it, it’ll drift around their fingers and make them feel it.
I like to write letters, over and over. 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a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aa aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aa aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a aaa a aha aha a a a a a a a aaa a a a a a a a aaaa a a a a a a a a a a a a a a a aaa a a a aaa a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a aa a a a a a a a a a a
I’ve lost my mind.
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It’s like hitting a brick wall. More or less the same after feeling, more or less the same state of mind. Or maybe you never hit it; it’s more like staring at the remnants of a brick wall that’s found its equal. It’s left broken and shattered into pieces, it no longer stands in the way of a million different challenges; it no longer presents itself as an obstacle. It is completely stiff and unwavering, and though it makes a moment flow like water through the gaping holes of reality, that water is continually frozen and dead. It’s not poetic by accident; it tries to hard and falls too short.
She is not a child, she can’t be. She never was and never sought to be. Ever be the moment she observed for that is all she could ever do. This is not a girl that lived through actions; this is not the girl who needed every eye in order to make a moment more important, make each second seem more lived, she could live through those eyes. More through a fascination with the people around her than an unwillingness to be noticed, she watches. More than within the steady quiet that surrounds her, she lives through an unwavering appreciation of every little tick and trick of every single person around her, and she sees them for what they are no matter how much they hide it. This could be any park bench on any cobblestone street in the world. This could be a world a million times familiar or a million times unknown and yet she’d still know it better. Such is a silence so comfortable and at ease, no clumsy attempts to fix it with the use of unnecessary words or actions. This is a beautiful stillness, the kind she exists in; and though her feet can’t touch the pavement and her arms don’t reach the bench, she is established. This is her world, a customary tale of youth clashing with its elder future and the product of its battle. There could be a million cars or just two sitting behind her and yet she is immovable, she is the brick wall and the remnants of it after its collapse. This is a girl that creates a million different thoughts all thrown out the picture at every on-looker and brutally pressed into their minds. To look away or breathe her in is to see nothing, and that time, she’ll dive into your eyes.
I don’t know. Its nothing to be down about, I’m nothing but happy. I mean, not necessarily happy, but content maybe. It doesn’t matter, what I’m getting at is I am certainly not going to forge an immediate alliance with sorrow just because this dress makes me look ridiculous, she always puts me in them so I may as well suck it up and live. If I could write a song this would be the words. And if I could dance a step this would be my leaps and twists. Silly is what they’ll say. Silly is what they’ll scream but I can’t hear them, I’m singing my song and dancing my dance. My life is choreographed and beautiful. And terrible, so terrible I hate every moment. So beautiful I don’t want to pollute it with myself. So beautiful I could dance every moment away but only when its found it‘s stagnant and I‘ve found my place. “Maybe when you’re older you’ll see the world, maybe when you’re older you’ll understand. maybe when you’re older everything will find its place. Maybe then you’ll find your place.” Oh, these hopes and dreams make for the greatest of life and the strongest of love and the worst of all that could ever be. And oh, these hopes make for a world that can only exist if I let it, singing my song and dancing my dance as I use you as my twists. Those silent hopes arrive at the door, I guess they left me with nothing but the miscellany of a beautiful past and the looming glare of an ugly future. But I need this. I don’t care that it can’t last and never will. I don’t need them to remind me of reality ever again, I hate it when they do. This is who I am. This is it! This is everything, it is beautiful. I should feel amazing, I should breathe the ecstasy and pump it through my veins. If they could only hear! If they only knew the cries of laughter circling my mind, they’d just close those ever-open eyes and swallow the world. Lift that drooping neck and look toward the sky, it is everything and it is completely mine for the taking. No one can tell me anything, no one can say a single word, this sky is mine for the taking. And I’ll stand up and I’ll breathe every drip of air that drops from that blue and feel it in my soul, this is the greatest time I’ll ever exist in and I need to make it perfect. Twist it like I do my dances and bend it into perfection. There’s no other lifetime like this, it is its own heartbeat and it exists completely independent of every other person in the world and any little spill of time and blur of moments, we are our own pulse. Today was a good day, and it really could have been the worst day of my life but I can’t remember. That’s how good it was.
I let the words speak for someone else, a drunken thought or a long farewell. I watch the tops of cars and the glint of windshields sail into the light; I heard the sea of cement swimming itself around me. I promise to fight with wind, block its path, if it ever means anything to you. If it ever meant anything to you, for I can’t recall either a presence or an absence. I assume you were me, at one point. You must have been. I bet you felt like you were lying to me all the time, though. I bet you never really meant for any of it and it just rolled itself into a never ending monster of unpleasant feelings. It sucks doesn’t it. But I remember, I remember I’d thought that the whole time; I just ran into an impossibly difficult race that I can never win. It wasn’t self-doubt, it wasn’t an ominous need to feel different and unique, it made no difference to me. I wanted this, I wanted freedom and the security of never being secure. I wanted to start a racing well a knowing that I would lose and get the unsurprising satisfaction that I never even bothered to finish. That is a good way to lose, I suppose. And I thought I could hear you, as I casually quit. You came and left a cold front core upon the mess I’m in. You looked down and said, “Now the greatest days and the talking town speaks voices and games I’ve never seen, I’ve seen your bravery and I know it’s there.” You always believed in my bravery, you always maintained that it was there hiding under my reproachful looks and stead fast “imagination“. This isn’t losing your mind, this is art! You’d said things like that, like we could stand for a century in bodies that don’t speak and voices that couldn’t scream and the whole world could hear us and know we were there. I still believe in you. I know you’re reality, or lack there of, is the making of everything that I am. I know. And I thank you.
It’s like hitting a brick wall. More or less the same after feeling, more or less the same state of mind. Or maybe you never hit it; it’s more like staring at the remnants of a brick wall that’s found its equal. It’s left broken and shattered into pieces, it no longer stands in the way of a million different challenges; it no longer presents itself as an obstacle. It is completely stiff and unwavering, and though it makes a moment flow like water through the gaping holes of reality, that water is continually frozen and dead. It’s not poetic by accident; it tries to hard and falls too short.
She is not a child, she can’t be. She never was and never sought to be. Ever be the moment she observed for that is all she could ever do. This is not a girl that lived through actions; this is not the girl who needed every eye in order to make a moment more important, make each second seem more lived, she could live through those eyes. More through a fascination with the people around her than an unwillingness to be noticed, she watches. More than within the steady quiet that surrounds her, she lives through an unwavering appreciation of every little tick and trick of every single person around her, and she sees them for what they are no matter how much they hide it. This could be any park bench on any cobblestone street in the world. This could be a world a million times familiar or a million times unknown and yet she’d still know it better. Such is a silence so comfortable and at ease, no clumsy attempts to fix it with the use of unnecessary words or actions. This is a beautiful stillness, the kind she exists in; and though her feet can’t touch the pavement and her arms don’t reach the bench, she is established. This is her world, a customary tale of youth clashing with its elder future and the product of its battle. There could be a million cars or just two sitting behind her and yet she is immovable, she is the brick wall and the remnants of it after its collapse. This is a girl that creates a million different thoughts all thrown out the picture at every on-looker and brutally pressed into their minds. To look away or breathe her in is to see nothing, and that time, she’ll dive into your eyes.
I don’t know. Its nothing to be down about, I’m nothing but happy. I mean, not necessarily happy, but content maybe. It doesn’t matter, what I’m getting at is I am certainly not going to forge an immediate alliance with sorrow just because this dress makes me look ridiculous, she always puts me in them so I may as well suck it up and live. If I could write a song this would be the words. And if I could dance a step this would be my leaps and twists. Silly is what they’ll say. Silly is what they’ll scream but I can’t hear them, I’m singing my song and dancing my dance. My life is choreographed and beautiful. And terrible, so terrible I hate every moment. So beautiful I don’t want to pollute it with myself. So beautiful I could dance every moment away but only when its found it‘s stagnant and I‘ve found my place. “Maybe when you’re older you’ll see the world, maybe when you’re older you’ll understand. maybe when you’re older everything will find its place. Maybe then you’ll find your place.” Oh, these hopes and dreams make for the greatest of life and the strongest of love and the worst of all that could ever be. And oh, these hopes make for a world that can only exist if I let it, singing my song and dancing my dance as I use you as my twists. Those silent hopes arrive at the door, I guess they left me with nothing but the miscellany of a beautiful past and the looming glare of an ugly future. But I need this. I don’t care that it can’t last and never will. I don’t need them to remind me of reality ever again, I hate it when they do. This is who I am. This is it! This is everything, it is beautiful. I should feel amazing, I should breathe the ecstasy and pump it through my veins. If they could only hear! If they only knew the cries of laughter circling my mind, they’d just close those ever-open eyes and swallow the world. Lift that drooping neck and look toward the sky, it is everything and it is completely mine for the taking. No one can tell me anything, no one can say a single word, this sky is mine for the taking. And I’ll stand up and I’ll breathe every drip of air that drops from that blue and feel it in my soul, this is the greatest time I’ll ever exist in and I need to make it perfect. Twist it like I do my dances and bend it into perfection. There’s no other lifetime like this, it is its own heartbeat and it exists completely independent of every other person in the world and any little spill of time and blur of moments, we are our own pulse. Today was a good day, and it really could have been the worst day of my life but I can’t remember. That’s how good it was.
I let the words speak for someone else, a drunken thought or a long farewell. I watch the tops of cars and the glint of windshields sail into the light; I heard the sea of cement swimming itself around me. I promise to fight with wind, block its path, if it ever means anything to you. If it ever meant anything to you, for I can’t recall either a presence or an absence. I assume you were me, at one point. You must have been. I bet you felt like you were lying to me all the time, though. I bet you never really meant for any of it and it just rolled itself into a never ending monster of unpleasant feelings. It sucks doesn’t it. But I remember, I remember I’d thought that the whole time; I just ran into an impossibly difficult race that I can never win. It wasn’t self-doubt, it wasn’t an ominous need to feel different and unique, it made no difference to me. I wanted this, I wanted freedom and the security of never being secure. I wanted to start a racing well a knowing that I would lose and get the unsurprising satisfaction that I never even bothered to finish. That is a good way to lose, I suppose. And I thought I could hear you, as I casually quit. You came and left a cold front core upon the mess I’m in. You looked down and said, “Now the greatest days and the talking town speaks voices and games I’ve never seen, I’ve seen your bravery and I know it’s there.” You always believed in my bravery, you always maintained that it was there hiding under my reproachful looks and stead fast “imagination“. This isn’t losing your mind, this is art! You’d said things like that, like we could stand for a century in bodies that don’t speak and voices that couldn’t scream and the whole world could hear us and know we were there. I still believe in you. I know you’re reality, or lack there of, is the making of everything that I am. I know. And I thank you.
It’s like hitting a brick wall. More or less the same after feeling, more or less the same state of mind. Or maybe you never hit it; it’s more like staring at the remnants of a brick wall that’s found its equal. It’s left broken and shattered into pieces, it no longer stands in the way of a million different challenges; it no longer presents itself as an obstacle. It is completely stiff and unwavering, and though it makes a moment flow like water through the gaping holes of reality, that water is continually frozen and dead. It’s not poetic by accident; it tries to hard and falls too short.
She is not a child, she can’t be. She never was and never sought to be. Ever be the moment she observed for that is all she could ever do. This is not a girl that lived through actions; this is not the girl who needed every eye in order to make a moment more important, make each second seem more lived, she could live through those eyes. More through a fascination with the people around her than an unwillingness to be noticed, she watches. More than within the steady quiet that surrounds her, she lives through an unwavering appreciation of every little tick and trick of every single person around her, and she sees them for what they are no matter how much they hide it. This could be any park bench on any cobblestone street in the world. This could be a world a million times familiar or a million times unknown and yet she’d still know it better. Such is a silence so comfortable and at ease, no clumsy attempts to fix it with the use of unnecessary words or actions. This is a beautiful stillness, the kind she exists in; and though her feet can’t touch the pavement and her arms don’t reach the bench, she is established. This is her world, a customary tale of youth clashing with its elder future and the product of its battle. There could be a million cars or just two sitting behind her and yet she is immovable, she is the brick wall and the remnants of it after its collapse. This is a girl that creates a million different thoughts all thrown out the picture at every on-looker and brutally pressed into their minds. To look away or breathe her in is to see nothing, and that time, she’ll dive into your eyes.
I don’t know. Its nothing to be down about, I’m nothing but happy. I mean, not necessarily happy, but content maybe. It doesn’t matter, what I’m getting at is I am certainly not going to forge an immediate alliance with sorrow just because this dress makes me look ridiculous, she always puts me in them so I may as well suck it up and live. If I could write a song this would be the words. And if I could dance a step this would be my leaps and twists. Silly is what they’ll say. Silly is what they’ll scream but I can’t hear them, I’m singing my song and dancing my dance. My life is choreographed and beautiful. And terrible, so terrible I hate every moment. So beautiful I don’t want to pollute it with myself. So beautiful I could dance every moment away but only when its found it‘s stagnant and I‘ve found my place. “Maybe when you’re older you’ll see the world, maybe when you’re older you’ll understand. maybe when you’re older everything will find its place. Maybe then you’ll find your place.” Oh, these hopes and dreams make for the greatest of life and the strongest of love and the worst of all that could ever be. And oh, these hopes make for a world that can only exist if I let it, singing my song and dancing my dance as I use you as my twists. Those silent hopes arrive at the door, I guess they left me with nothing but the miscellany of a beautiful past and the looming glare of an ugly future. But I need this. I don’t care that it can’t last and never will. I don’t need them to remind me of reality ever again, I hate it when they do. This is who I am. This is it! This is everything, it is beautiful. I should feel amazing, I should breathe the ecstasy and pump it through my veins. If they could only hear! If they only knew the cries of laughter circling my mind, they’d just close those ever-open eyes and swallow the world. Lift that drooping neck and look toward the sky, it is everything and it is completely mine for the taking. No one can tell me anything, no one can say a single word, this sky is mine for the taking. And I’ll stand up and I’ll breathe every drip of air that drops from that blue and feel it in my soul, this is the greatest time I’ll ever exist in and I need to make it perfect. Twist it like I do my dances and bend it into perfection. There’s no other lifetime like this, it is its own heartbeat and it exists completely independent of every other person in the world and any little spill of time and blur of moments, we are our own pulse. Today was a good day, and it really could have been the worst day of my life but I can’t remember. That’s how good it was.
I let the words speak for someone else, a drunken thought or a long farewell. I watch the tops of cars and the glint of windshields sail into the light; I heard the sea of cement swimming itself around me. I promise to fight with wind, block its path, if it ever means anything to you. If it ever meant anything to you, for I can’t recall either a presence or an absence. I assume you were me, at one point. You must have been. I bet you felt like you were lying to me all the time, though. I bet you never really meant for any of it and it just rolled itself into a never ending monster of unpleasant feelings. It sucks doesn’t it. But I remember, I remember I’d thought that the whole time; I just ran into an impossibly difficult race that I can never win. It wasn’t self-doubt, it wasn’t an ominous need to feel different and unique, it made no difference to me. I wanted this, I wanted freedom and the security of never being secure. I wanted to start a racing well a knowing that I would lose and get the unsurprising satisfaction that I never even bothered to finish. That is a good way to lose, I suppose. And I thought I could hear you, as I casually quit. You came and left a cold front core upon the mess I’m in. You looked down and said, “Now the greatest days and the talking town speaks voices and games I’ve never seen, I’ve seen your bravery and I know it’s there.” You always believed in my bravery, you always maintained that it was there hiding under my reproachful looks and stead fast “imagination“. This isn’t losing your mind, this is art! You’d said things like that, like we could stand for a century in bodies that don’t speak and voices that couldn’t scream and the whole world could hear us and know we were there. I still believe in you. I know you’re reality, or lack there of, is the making of everything that I am. I know. And I thank you.
It’s like hitting a brick wall. More or less the same after feeling, more or less the same state of mind. Or maybe you never hit it; it’s more like staring at the remnants of a brick wall that’s found its equal. It’s left broken and shattered into pieces, it no longer stands in the way of a million different challenges; it no longer presents itself as an obstacle. It is completely stiff and unwavering, and though it makes a moment flow like water through the gaping holes of reality, that water is continually frozen and dead. It’s not poetic by accident; it tries to hard and falls too short.
She is not a child, she can’t be. She never was and never sought to be. Ever be the moment she observed for that is all she could ever do. This is not a girl that lived through actions; this is not the girl who needed every eye in order to make a moment more important, make each second seem more lived, she could live through those eyes. More through a fascination with the people around her than an unwillingness to be noticed, she watches. More than within the steady quiet that surrounds her, she lives through an unwavering appreciation of every little tick and trick of every single person around her, and she sees them for what they are no matter how much they hide it. This could be any park bench on any cobblestone street in the world. This could be a world a million times familiar or a million times unknown and yet she’d still know it better. Such is a silence so comfortable and at ease, no clumsy attempts to fix it with the use of unnecessary words or actions. This is a beautiful stillness, the kind she exists in; and though her feet can’t touch the pavement and her arms don’t reach the bench, she is established. This is her world, a customary tale of youth clashing with its elder future and the product of its battle. There could be a million cars or just two sitting behind her and yet she is immovable, she is the brick wall and the remnants of it after its collapse. This is a girl that creates a million different thoughts all thrown out the picture at every on-looker and brutally pressed into their minds. To look away or breathe her in is to see nothing, and that time, she’ll dive into your eyes.
I don’t know. Its nothing to be down about, I’m nothing but happy. I mean, not necessarily happy, but content maybe. It doesn’t matter, what I’m getting at is I am certainly not going to forge an immediate alliance with sorrow just because this dress makes me look ridiculous, she always puts me in them so I may as well suck it up and live. If I could write a song this would be the words. And if I could dance a step this would be my leaps and twists. Silly is what they’ll say. Silly is what they’ll scream but I can’t hear them, I’m singing my song and dancing my dance. My life is choreographed and beautiful. And terrible, so terrible I hate every moment. So beautiful I don’t want to pollute it with myself. So beautiful I could dance every moment away but only when its found it‘s stagnant and I‘ve found my place. “Maybe when you’re older you’ll see the world, maybe when you’re older you’ll understand. maybe when you’re older everything will find its place. Maybe then you’ll find your place.” Oh, these hopes and dreams make for the greatest of life and the strongest of love and the worst of all that could ever be. And oh, these hopes make for a world that can only exist if I let it, singing my song and dancing my dance as I use you as my twists. Those silent hopes arrive at the door, I guess they left me with nothing but the miscellany of a beautiful past and the looming glare of an ugly future. But I need this. I don’t care that it can’t last and never will. I don’t need them to remind me of reality ever again, I hate it when they do. This is who I am. This is it! This is everything, it is beautiful. I should feel amazing, I should breathe the ecstasy and pump it through my veins. If they could only hear! If they only knew the cries of laughter circling my mind, they’d just close those ever-open eyes and swallow the world. Lift that drooping neck and look toward the sky, it is everything and it is completely mine for the taking. No one can tell me anything, no one can say a single word, this sky is mine for the taking. And I’ll stand up and I’ll breathe every drip of air that drops from that blue and feel it in my soul, this is the greatest time I’ll ever exist in and I need to make it perfect. Twist it like I do my dances and bend it into perfection. There’s no other lifetime like this, it is its own heartbeat and it exists completely independent of every other person in the world and any little spill of time and blur of moments, we are our own pulse. Today was a good day, and it really could have been the worst day of my life but I can’t remember. That’s how good it was.
I let the words speak for someone else, a drunken thought or a long farewell. I watch the tops of cars and the glint of windshields sail into the light; I heard the sea of cement swimming itself around me. I promise to fight with wind, block its path, if it ever means anything to you. If it ever meant anything to you, for I can’t recall either a presence or an absence. I assume you were me, at one point. You must have been. I bet you felt like you were lying to me all the time, though. I bet you never really meant for any of it and it just rolled itself into a never ending monster of unpleasant feelings. It sucks doesn’t it. But I remember, I remember I’d thought that the whole time; I just ran into an impossibly difficult race that I can never win. It wasn’t self-doubt, it wasn’t an ominous need to feel different and unique, it made no difference to me. I wanted this, I wanted freedom and the security of never being secure. I wanted to start a racing well a knowing that I would lose and get the unsurprising satisfaction that I never even bothered to finish. That is a good way to lose, I suppose. And I thought I could hear you, as I casually quit. You came and left a cold front core upon the mess I’m in. You looked down and said, “Now the greatest days and the talking town speaks voices and games I’ve never seen, I’ve seen your bravery and I know it’s there.” You always believed in my bravery, you always maintained that it was there hiding under my reproachful looks and stead fast “imagination“. This isn’t losing your mind, this is art! You’d said things like that, like we could stand for a century in bodies that don’t speak and voices that couldn’t scream and the whole world could hear us and know we were there. I still believe in you. I know you’re reality, or lack there of, is the making of everything that I am. I know. And I thank you.
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