Synedoche.
For the once all of you who I once wrote about, you are no longer here. All your shadows have played out and danced passed in the flickering of my screen. I read your typed words of intrigue and I passed on your meanings to the forefront of my thoughts. It has all been kept for too long. Now, when I wander to and fro across coast to coast of this state I realize I am not a rooted theme but a paradox of unruly states. It is fine. For now when I realize that I cannot settle down I am treated with dreams of things I know I would hate. Things I would hate for myself- me, to do. I used to dream of complex situations for a future that in the end all equaled happiness. I used to realize that I couldn't own up to it because I doubted myself too much. It is a complicated thing to accept at a young age; the fact that I could not be enough. I wrote about it all, here, and I leave it all here. Finally the periphrasis doesn't count, that which this has all been. The parts that equal the whole, this. It all plays on to an end. I breath to exhale and I experience to reflect. I would walk around campus thinking that I could not be a writer because I could not live the writers life style- to be a loner and to commit myself to being that. To experience but always be out of the experience. It is fine; now. I realize it all as I sit here and by the morning I will forget everything. I started everything in an effort to be reflected upon as interesting in the eyes of so many. I used to try very hard to impress all of you. I knew and still know that I was a crutch to lean back on; you never expected me to have those experiences so you could turn to me with them. You knew. I realized and still do that I changed over night to a more introverted person which meant my exterior would become a wanderer which can so easily lead to follower. I followed. And I was fine with that. Not necessarily fine at the time but I learned to adapt. I forgot my old self until I was forced the time to reflect. I can never relate to any of you for you never experienced it. And that is true for all things: you can never fully relate to those who have not been through what you have. You can like them, appreciate them, but you cannot relate to them. You can not have the full respect for that person or deep level of understanding for the very basic fact that their experiences are different. It is not negative, it just is. And I am fine with that, now, too. I will never be able to understand my experiences. Time can leave space for manipulation of the distance between now and then. There can be what I think happened, what happened, what I would like to have happened, and the difference of it all. The more time that goes by the more hazy the truth will be. Or more revealed- the difference is hard to see.It's all a caesura, in real life that is. A caesura from what though? From these words? From all words? Or are all breaks just prolonged endings? I fear my worst self revealed and lying naked on the public floor. I cannot take a break from my fears so I sit with them, or lay with them, but they still always follow me. I pray for them to transform themselves out of my mind. I pray for them to hold no truth. Atheists- all Atheists- believe in something. I believe in that. When I leave again I hope for not perfection but a natural state with him. I have learned to expect so much of so little. I guess that is fine, right? I think my problem is, is that I am my problem. I don't know what I want but I want him to know for me. I've grown up, or settled, or just lived for a prolonged period of time. All these words have become a verisimilitude of nothing. Of space and time and how nothing can become so beautifully something. How a diary can become a book of prose and poetry words lingering. It's a truth of air.
It's an illusion, you all.

Did you see me out there, waiting? And you- you- who could have said me. Looking at how good your hands looked grasped in prayer, than at the words you speak. Oh to sea the things that over their could bring. You are my trouble. I leave again and the words fall flat to the floor- scattered. Nothing that I could try to put together could make things right. I feel an emptiness. A fester of doubt invades all feelings of the heart and breathes there forever. I am sorry. I am so sorry for who I am. All I could ever hope for is nature- whom we all blame- to invade our essences and make it all right. All natural. You and me intertwined like vines, growing and feeding off what each other says. I could drown in your presence.
If Jesus hadn't frozen out in the street could you still believe in me? When you stepped over him, on your way back from the bar, if you hadnt- would you still have faith in me? Could I have stopped you from all those horrible mistakes to bring you back to the boy I once knew? Nothing can save you this time.
And I pray.

will continue, writing rather quickly

Because I did not get to finish The Islamic Tradition I want to put down the passages I underlined in case I do never get back to this book. I like to use my books; to write, underline, fold them because books are real and most of all interactive. So to memorize the essence of what I have taken so far from this book I want to copy these captions.

In addition to required beliefs and rituals, the faithful are called upon to practice virtues such as charity, humility, patience, contentment, and sincerity, as a means to reforming their moral character. The beliefs, the rites, and the moral reformation were deemed to purify the soul of man and to lead to salvation at the hour of death through entrance into Paradise. The Hells were reserved for those who lived in disbelief, impeity, and immorality.

Muhammad's mission, as both a Prophet who foretold future events and a Messenger who founded a new religion...

As we shall see later in greater detail, the Qur'an was revealed in piecemeal fashion to the Prophet over a long period of time.

That being so, revelation is, among other things, a reminder sent to those who have forgotten the true nature of the One:"We have not revealed thee ths Qur'an," Muhammad is told, "that thou shouldst be distressed, but only as a Reminder to those who fear, and as a revelation from Him who created the earth and the loftly heavens, the Compassionate, who is established on the Throne"

The One is above the world and its imperfections; it is within the world but not of it.

So Islam, in this respect, recognizes the validity of pre-Islamic revelations and recognizes other Prophets and Messengers, apart from Muhammad, also has celestial support of their missions on earth.

By rigorous mental discipline, they eliminated within themselves even the subtle shirk that is like an interior obstacle, or set of obstacles, blocking their path from towards perfect spiritual Tawhid.

The spiritual extinction of the ego is a logical consequence of Tawhid and an aspiration of the Sufis.

This is illogical; therefore the illusory ego, the human "I" has to go. In some respects Sufism is the art or science of eliminating the self or the "I" in order that the Divine Ego or Self may shine through the purified psychophysical nature of man.

With this in mind, we grasp why shirk is the cardinal sin in Islam- all others are forgiven.

wuthering

It is all on an account of an insecurity. That makes me want to cry. For why? - Why must I speak out of self discontented woe? For I know myself so little that I try to find my reflection in others. My words are in others. My words are their words. When I say my I mean you and when I say you, do I mean you? Who am I to make such a jest? All I want, all I’ve wanted, is a fact, a known fact of who I am to be; a fact of prosperity or at least content. When the other little girls were asking for money or designer purses, I would pray for happiness because I had already experienced a place of such deep self loathing. I never thought I would live this long. And I don’t think for a period of time that my parents or the doctors did either. I never wanted to live this long. As a child I saw my life as a dead end line of fast experiences ending in a fast way. I was rushing to the end and now that I by some shame have lived passed that rush I’ve been living in neutral hoping for a force to kick me back up again. Back again- back under. I see myself more clearly now in the mirror. Remnants of the disease of mis-figure are beginning to become a more distant memory and my reflection has cleared to show me who I am. I am the same person I hated so much when this all began. I see the same things, the same measures falling just short of what I want. Just short but far enough to never make it. I will never have a healthy mind. I feel too much of whom I am to ever have moments outside myself. I have stripped myself bare of all exterior layers and lived for an extended amount of time naked. Once you have seen yourself you can never escape what you know you did. Can I ever get out of my mind? No.
I am at a point where I can feel his hand on my body and for once I know that he can be enough. That if there is any hope for me it is outside- outside of my world of words of worlds- and he is it. His honesty is piercing yet correct. His words are sometimes not enough but just what I need. He doesn’t treat me like I thought I deserved but I find myself okay. I love him more for he sees me as a person while everyone else I know has known me for sick. I can never make him understand but on some levels I don’t want him to. I just hope with any distinct amount of will of future in me that he and I last.

dare you

I do not create paradoxal words of wisdom. I can not write a self to discover a self. I can not write structure. I dont write a being as a mere breath in a plot of time. I can not recreate that way. I see shadows, shadows are my words of writing. I see breaths that represent my thoughts. I am halted by periods and graphs- pictures and symbols called grammar. I am stopped by my own limitations of skill. I am lost in a journey of finding my soul. I can not understand a day to day tick of time but I do understand how one can manipulate words to create images. Intangible images. Painters are to meant to recreate the tangible, writers are meant to write about the beyond.

We have not met in awhile. Hello my little coke doll.
Ashamed, I rise.
I was not expecting you till late.
My lips, parched petals, a rose. Pursed open by your silken touch.
I was not expecting you till late.
Only you, my little coke doll.
Don't say that.
Only you.
Don't say that.
Why?
Because I don't know who I am. Because this is not about you.
Black legs unending, wrapped around forever. Interwoven at the waist in your overabundance and my lack thereof.
You are wearing your mask.
I never took it off.
Lose yourself, do not speak.
Shy.
The rose opens, you pull out the silken string. I was choking on it. Your too good. I like your taste.
Don't speak.
Shy.
But I have to.
Close your eyes and do what you always dreamed.
I'm alone there.
There is too much space. Spider legs wrapped closer, my jaws open to clench yours.
You never took off your mask. My little coke doll. I can see through you.
I was working hard on that.
Could you grab me?
I open my eyes, your fingers are wet.
Don't speak.
My rose opens, pull out your silken string. You taste so good. Too good.
I'll lose you when the lights fade.
Don't speak.
Shy. Space weighs too heavy with time. I clench closer.
I'll lose you when the night fades.
I never took off my mask
Why?
I don't know who I am.
My little coke doll Emaciate yourself.

our fathers brought forth

I am angered, increasingly, by a lot of things within this new election. Voting. To vote or not to vote is American. We have the choice to go either way and to say not voting is un-American is ignorance to the original ideals our country was founded on. Our Founding Fathers did not want all of us to vote. To see the common people, so to speak, voting as we are now would scare them and move them to further action. White men, who could vote, only made up 1/4 of the total population of white males. Jews, Catholics, Minorities, and women were excluded also from the voting mix. We are a country founded on the beliefs of a Republican Democracy, because originally for us Democracy failed. It failed miserably. If you do not believe me simply look at the Articles of Federation. Women have only been able to vote in the last 88 years. So for anyone to say voting is your American God born right, you are wrong.
For people to vote just because they can is a waste. I would rather go with our Founding Fathers and only have a selected few vote than have a ignorant vote count towards our country. To have voted because one is Republican and the other Democrat or because Barack Obama is black and you are too, is another example of an ignorant vote. To split a ballot and then have a write in of Chuck Norris or Mickey Mouse (which gets 3,000 write ins each year) is also ignorant. I do not understand.
To not vote because you do not like either candidate and feel you must choose between the lesser of the two evils is a cop out. America is not a two party system and to say that your vote wont count if you vote for a third party is contradicting those founding ideals so many preach. You want a Democracy, you got it, now make an educated write in and vote for a third party if you do not like the Democratic or Republican candidate.
To not vote because you feel that it is man trying to substitute God is a confusion. Voting is not a replacement of God and to believe so shows insecurity. God is above all else but in all else and voting will not replace him unless you already have a doubt seeded in your mind about him.
Not voting because you do not like our government is wrong. Voting has nothing to do with the core of the problems in our government and perhaps those who think so should redirect their attention to detail.

The young will vote to make their difference, the old will vote to accept the change.

Movie night

I couldn't write this again. I tried. When I saw you in my door frame. Each captivated in images projected on a screen. I scream for freedom, windows too small, roof does not reach up high enough. I could break that space, touch your finger tips, and crawl for my sins. Your voice penetrates my ear to my brain and makes my heart beat ever faster. I just want to be your lover, and you, your friend. I try to remember all that I wanted to be. If I could stay in that space forever, could I? Just because I wouldn't be anywhere but there. I wouldn't matter. I could be enough for no one. That's enough, for me. I want his touch, not yours- present one. I want his love, not yours- present one. I could want him forever.
I want to drown my sorrows out of a pixel of thought, forefront in all other extremities. I could afford to be absent from me. It might be beneficial for us all. But I want to be better for you. Only you.

Compose

I am home. I left early, yet again, and arrived late last night to a warm bed and familiar surroundings. The exhaustion that I felt made me want to write; to funnel my energy into paper for remembrance. I am obsessed with fragments, I always have been in my writing. I feel that what ever you write should reflect an inner soul and not seek to recreate, purposefully, the outside world around you. I sometimes break my writing up into two categories: the interior- where I let the soul transgress and whether abstract is a word or not is of little concern- and the exterior- where I use what I feel on the inside as a motivation to captivate my surroundings. Either way both need the other to survive. I did not write last night, I never write when the inspiration is there. Instead it comes randomly and is very fleeting. Most of the time I lose the thought before I can ever write it down. I suppose all those past words are floating lopsided out in time. Is it correct to say that I am halted by my words and confused on where to write them? Either way, I know what is a calling. One can not dwell on the interior so much and not need to recreate a fallen era of words that is lost in the modern books called "literature." Seriously, if I see another Stephanie Meyer book called "the best book I have ever read" I might consider hitting them with an extra copy of Faulkner that I have lying around.

He that shall

As I was walking back from class today on campus I heard someone speaking that sounded relatively like Barack Obama. Curious I go over to the crowd to discover someone speaking about homosexuality. I did not stay long enough to hear his speech for I walked away when he raised his Bible and said "The Bible says that homosexuals shall be damned." I got so angry. The Bible is not a weapon. It is not a means for anyone to shout their opinions as right or wrong. The word of God is not a bullet to be used to spread your crusade of what is righteous to others. No man can pass a judgement on another man that says the way he lives is wrong and damnable. I hate when Christianity turns to hypocrisy and God is used as an excuse to shout insecurities.


"What is it that you want when you go to church Gabriel?"
"I want others to know that God should not wear their face. "
His eyes paused and came out of their trance to look down at me.
"Why do you ask? What do you want Shelly?"
"I desire a nameless church."
"I think that is bordering atheism"
"Aren’t you one?"
He looked at me for the first time as if he saw me, and looked within me and saw my confusion.
"I am not an atheist Shell. I believe so deeply within God that I do not need to shout my insecurities about him so loudly like others who are unknowingly bordering disbelief. "
I was ashamed. How stupid could I have been so stupid to not realize.
"I do not know what I look for."
Go with what you said. Look for a God that has no name.
"When I question God I feel like because I am questioning him my belief has faltered. And so I stop. "
"God has given us the knowledge to question him. Do not feel ashamed when you look out in the world and question what you see. "
"I do not know what I see. When I think of God, I see you. "

source

I'm doing what I do best- procrastinating. Today has been one of those days where I just sit around. Although I've read two chapters and am on my third for my exam on Monday, I have no remembrance of what I've read. My mind is boggled by someone far away.
What I always feared about relationships is the fact that someone would get to know me. I like the chase. Just exposition, not the story. The more you know someone the more they disappoint you and I didn't want to be someone's disappointment. I fear that once you give yourself over to be viewed as flawed that person can walk away with your flaws; that I am no longer myself but shared, broken into many different pieces. I fear that things between us will not work. I know that my mood on this is because of my overall mood lately. There is nothing wrong with me but yet I feel this way. My relationships with all people are failing and my social skills are falling into yet another low. I don't feel like trying. I over think conversations and what is said. I think into the future and plan it out and all the time it ends up short and fleeting. I think about and plan what I would do if we broke up even though I should be enjoying this time we are together. I plan things that I will hold off telling him till the future, till the right time, for maximum effect. I don't say what I feel when I'm angry for chance that it should end. I am a lap dog. I fear that he does not know me, all of my layers of me, and I fear his misconception. I am so ashamed of myself, of my past, that I don't understand how anyone could still love me if they know. I don't want pity I just want an understanding that I am not weak. I want to be held but not out of necessity just for the closeness of feeling. I want to be small and fragile but not a child. I just don't want to lose him and my paranoia is ruining my relationship with him.

I could write you into being

This is not the sound of an unraveling. This is the sound of words mixing, love protruding and leaving a space. In its absence a time has formed; one of empty bottles and barrels that were once filled with satisfaction. I drank them empty of their sins for lust of things. The liquid of your mistakes seeps into my body and I have made you whole. I am left in a state of inertia and stoic becomes my phrase of mind. If lack of movement was a mood, I am in it. If you were a choice, things would be much simpler. If humans were an object to be found and bought, meaning would cease to be important. There is not quality and quantity, there is no need for satisfaction. Just the unending sound of numbers marching and fingers typing to form one single thought for the mistakes of t-
Each sentence is a fragment- a fragment of a thought- independent of the other, making sense in sound but not together. They tell a story, separately, combining to form an essence- not a story.

Common Sense

I am a variation of self locked in self. I am an item of clothing thrown over a shoulder forgetfully- by need of want for normalcy. I am the unwanted smile on a face wrinkled in frowns- gestures unfamiliar always seem unnatural- I am forced. I am the fungus on your skin and I grow, fester, and bleed out your insecurities for the world to see. I make you known. And I leave you naked on the pavement, skin stretched and legs wide open revealing all your subtleties. I have made you forgetful of your past. Things you once knew you now know you have forgotten. I am that knowledge of inadequacy. I have traded your innocence, for it came out of a man driven by lust. I was his reason. I have raped you of a soft touch on skin, of a love of quiet places and contentment at home. I have left you battered and bruised thinking that everything is not enough.

What if I had never met you? Would you be the same?

Wallow in your own blood sweat and tears
For in all those years
I missed you
You never came back to say you were gone.

A remembrance of your fingers
Of your impression
Which lingers
On my skin and in my mind
Which holds it there for all of time.

I could have loved you not like the rest
but I measured it out
and can now say at best
Ero's is a fool at love-
he counted but then lost his mind.

To drink is to...

I had a weekend away. In a hotel room in Orlando. Where did I go though? I will never know. I suffer from anxiety and depression which I refuse to treat, so on a daily basis an equilibrium is something I can barely try to achieve. I know I cannot drink. Past addictions should tell me so. But I do anyway. I do, and oh how I did. I am still recovering from the depression drinking gives me. It puts me in a frame of mind not worth going for. When I drink I see myself, magnified. I see myseflf under a magnifying glass in the spot light of my mind and what I see I do not like. Plus as a personality trait contradicting my feelings I am a very physical drunk who wants someone there and wants to be alone. I am in a relationship. But I insisted on having a friend, whose relationship with myself is complicated, stay with me the whole night. And I told him everything. How I think. All thats happened to me. I told him things I have never told anyone- no one- I told him things I have just recently figured out for myself. It hurts that I did this. I feel exposed and my feelings violated. But I did this. Whats worse is now I feel a bond to him; something ties us together that we only know. Now when I speak, he knows most all my secrets. He knows them all. I haven't even told my boyfriend these things. And that hurts. These things are something I want him to know but how, when I am so ashamed. I know in a sober mind I would never have told anyone, but I won't use drunk as an excuse. I feel exposed, he knows of my sadness, and he honestly thought I would kill myself. How do I show my face to that sober?

You cannot "follow" your dreams

How far within can I go? To retreat within beyond the exterior levels of skin and soul? In sleep one can go deep. I can go deep. Just to lay on my bed and retreat farther inward; within myself, outside myself. Such isolation's are irreversible. How can the mind dig itself out of the mind? How can the soul find clarity when walls built and nurtured stand in its way?

I always get an imprinting sadness when I know I am doing this. I always say don't make me retreat farther within. Don't make me lose myself. For I do. Whenever I am being bothered when I want to be alone, whenever I am awake on nights when my anxiety is flaming, when I see things others cannot perceive- I go deeper. As a child I played it like a game. I wanted to hide myself from the night and I realized that if I could hide myself on the inside that the night could never get me. I was night blind and my eyes could never adjust, so what lay beyond when day ceases to be light, I could never fathom. So I painted a picture of a wall around my soul and built it up thinking You can never breach this, and they couldn't. They, it- it's all the same now.

The reason for all of this is realities. Lately I am sleeping, but I am not sleeping. I am consciously asleep. I know what I am thinking but I am asleep. I am aware of the variables of the outside world. If I am expecting a phone call I think about it as I sleep. I cannot move to check my phone, I cannot wake my body up, I can only lay there thinking of the phone call. It is as if half of my mind is awake. So is sleeping a different reality? If you think about it you are no longer in the real world. When I say you, I mean you-your soul, mind- is no longer in the awake reality, only your exterior- but that ceases to count. So when you close your eyes and are asleep have you entered a different state of reality? And if so, is it possible to breach them? If anyone has ever read Charles De Lint or knows a little of the tales of the world in-between- our world and the old world- how it lays just beyond the brink of our awareness, all around us. Only a thin vale stops us from entering. Could this be said of sleeping? Is it possible to breach?

I declare

we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes, and our sacred Honor.
This stands out in my mind. Part of the last line of the Declaration of Independence. If you actually read the whole thing, it is slightly exaggerated and in open form refers to Indians as savages, but all in all it is still the most important document of our country. But to me the first line- We hold these truths to be self evident that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, and that among these are Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness- this line is not as important as the last line shown above. For in the last line a "we" is evident instead of an "I." We as a country as a whole. In no other place will you find a government say "we" and not mean "I."
And this brings me to ask: Why does everyone hate our country? Why? Why is it that in the minds of our youth Europe seems like such a greater opportunity? Why does back packing through Europe sound better than exploring America? We criticize our government but what we do not realize is that we are allowed to criticize our government, and openly at that. I am not a God rearing nationalistic banner of American pride, all I am saying is there is nothing wrong with being an American and one should not feel ashamed in being so.

Also another thought for your mind to wander upon is this: Agriculture is something grasses did to humans to conquer trees. It puts the birth of agriculture in the perspective of the plants. It makes me realize that the belief that we have as human history being a steady growth as wrong. This is first evident in our biggest mistake- agriculture.

noise

I'm home again this weekend. Came home to an empty house smelling of food. I looked at the hardened spaghetti left to dry out on the stove and I turned my nose away. After a collapse on my bed I immediately let myself fall back to the silences of the world. It no longer feels like home. Already so much has changed while I've been away that it is no longer the place in my memories. It is changed. Like I knew it would be, like I expected.

It's his birthday and..

I finished all my work! Agh, can you believe it? Now, I'm not going to think about the nauseating large amount of reading I have to do over the weekend and that half of the work I completed today was late work. Positivity right? Right......

Well on that positive note (sarcasm) my dog died. After having her since I was eight she died today. Her kidneys and pancreas were failing and she had lost all control of her bowels. On top of that she was diabetic. So, my parents had to have her put to sleep. What makes me sad is that I wasn't there. When my cat had to be put to sleep, I insisted on being in the room and watch as she died. I didn't want the last thing she saw to be unfamiliar faces laying on a cold lab table. So I petted her as she died. I just would've liked to have been there to say goodbye.

This has not been a good week, couple of weeks, but strangely right now I'm not upset. I think after having drained so much out of my self these last two weeks, I'm out of emotions to feel. I hate highs and lows and in between's and how they repeat themselves. I noticed when I was too young to be noticing these things that it is all a circle.

And this leaves me to the question that I ask quite often: Where did I lose my childhood? I reflect back and I can only remember being free and feeling alive when I was outside. I know it was short, no matter how much others tried to preserve it. I think it was the fact that everyone tried to hide things from me because I was so young that I grew up faster. I knew anyway and not telling me only shows a sense of defeat at the characteristics of humans. A sense of defeat in myself. For how was I ever supposed to understand?

Long wrong turns

I promise to update on here more. Just side tracked lately. New lows. To be perfectly honest and to not doll things up, I've had multiple mental breakdowns and a slight overdose. But I'm back. I will not reflect any longer on it, I don't want to. The future is not immenient; as in it is not foreboding and blissless. I have to keep a second to second outlook. I have to learn to live more in the present.

Will update more, contribute more, try to make this the creative place I want it to be and am searching as an outlet for.

I have seen you through various stages of madness

Your love is an innocence
stripped of its right.
Battered and bruised
left living in fright.

Your love is an innocence
taken.
Red blood in snow
contrasting and forsaken.

Your love is an innocence
lost
thawing snow
left naked in the morning frost.

What have you done? Where can I go to make you see? Words seep out through my eyes- looks like teardrops on your cheeks, that rain. Sorry is a sorry word that can mean nothing. It leaves you empty. It never does its job. No words can amount to describe the regret I feel. I don't think you will ever understand my love.

I rise to meet you and I cry. I rise to meet you. I rise up O'Lord make me rise up to meet you, self. I touch you and I cry. I shy away and I am burned. Help me rise up O'Lord to meet you, self.
Youth I have lost you. Floating on a string of time, past. Accidentally reappearing in images created in my head. What I thought you were. What I would like to think you could have been. But Youth is gone, floating, tangibly out in space, gone.
And I cry O'Lord because you won't help me rise up to meet you, self. Because you gave me a chance in the form of another, a redemption, and I am constantly haunted by the image of him gone. You showed me goodness in the chance for me to be reborn, but I am not. I am the same with or without him, but he makes me want to be better. NOW do you see the difference? I could never grasp it before but now that I have wrote it I know it to be true.
And I cry O'Lord because I can't rise up to meet you, self. I look right at you and through you. Deep within you crawl. I crawl to you within to escape to mold out me within you who came up to the surface but for three years now submerged I within I you are. And I'm sorry. For no matter how many times I cry I can never rise up to meet you, self.
Because if I lose him I have cried a beautiful love, gone. And through the thorn the Celtic bird cries out its song of life. I will never love another like I have loved you. And I'm sorry because I always feel so small around you, so unworthy. Because I have been to the place to see just how worthless I really am. Because I know. And those that live when they wanted to die are faced with how worthless they are. And I am left to live with it, I punish myself every day just by being who I am. I can see your goodness and if I could take all your trouble away so you could never have to know it I would, because if time ever weighs down on you like it has on me I could never learn to forgive. Because I want you to never have to work or experience anymore of what you already have. There is not much life left for me to give because I starved it away, so I want to take all of your pain so you, an untouched goodness, can have that right to the pursuit of happiness.
Help me rise up O'Lord.
I give up if you are gone.

Consumption

This is not something that I like to talk about and I hate those that use outings such as these to do so but tonight was what I would like to call a bit of an "excess." Insecurities can lead to side affects of all kinds. But when the insecurity is a side affect of something else- something bigger- then what is it that I am to do? I hate talking about food, my struggle with "food" and my past bodily issues. I have yet to accept them for what they are because I know not what they are. What is it that I'm supposed to be accepting? There was what it was before and then there was what I was told it was, and what my young mind accepted. All of this is pointless rhetoric and the point that I am trying to get at is tonight. I do not live at home anymore and I do not know if it is because I am not in my safe zone that I feel these night time cravings but I get them. And I know that they are more for something to do. Because for so long the only way to please people for me was to eat and so eat I did. So I now recognize feeling better with eating. But I need acceptance- still. I need someone to eat with; to tell me its okay to eat and eat a lot. Tonight I got my wish when my friend "pigged" out with me. For her its normal, and it probably would have been for me too if my state of mind(s) were healthier. But for me it was a binge, and I get disgusted with myself because I know, I know I am above that. Binging and it's term was something made known to me after the fact that I was sick, after it was a disease and not just something innocent, after I was medicated, therapi(zed), and "cured." Even the term "anorexia" disgusts me because that is not what I am. I am not that term but forever more I will automatically associate and be associated with it. An unwanted shadow. It is frustrating to try to untangle myself out of a mess of thorns I myself did not create. I once told my mom that I have never been the same since and she agreed. And that's sad. I get moments of motivation- motivation prompted by sickness- to be better. To exercise and clean and look, feel, and be better. All in the ending goal of a better outward image that will in effect make my interior feel good. But I know that it will not, that in truth it is the other way around. But four years later I am still struggling with this. I shall never get it because sickness was implanted in my mind and I can not shake it. I would not take it back but I would do it over to wish that I could be in more control.

Echo

Haha how old this picture is. I honestly am unsettled (?) by my appearance. My hair is much shorter now and is only in the process of going even shorter.

I have noticed that there is a distinct notification when people "come into their own" (at least that is what I call it.) When they are no longer searching in their teen years for that right look, no longer swaying between what they know they are and what they want to be. They just woke up one day and all of a sudden are. Not doubted, not unsure, it is something so natural that you seem to think that it always should have been.

I wonder when my time will come. I wonder if I have already passed this transitional stage and have came into who I am and am left unsatisfied. I wonder if that is the same for everyone. I wonder some days if I am even the same face in a mirror, in a picture.

What words of what worlds?

You can always completely tell when a writer is fascinated with something because they write about it over and over, seemingly repeating the same thing, as if they are trying write whatever it is they are thinking out of them. It is such a frustrating process to be utterly hooked on an idea, a passing fascination that wont go away. For me I have an attraction to making thoughts tangible in my mind. Every idea or ideal has to become a tangible substance in my mind in order for it to be processed, to be picked apart and written in imagery. I need the image to create the imagery. I am fixated on time for example. I can not make time tangible. And because I can not make it tangible in my mind I cease to understand it and it allures me and alludes me at every fragment of its being. At one point during this process I was fixated on words. And the word, word. What are words? What levels of what meanings of words make them what they become? In my mind I would put a color to a word to try to make them more relatable but then I became fascinated with the colors and what they meant until the whole process became frustrating and head ache producing. It's all a frustrating circle. Is this a process of writing? What am I meant to get from such thoughts and fascinations? Will I finally work my way out of this and will the end product be one of beautiful use? Or am I just going insane? Silly, being fixated by the processes in her own mind, selfish and praising of what can be her downfall.

Balance act

What is it with moving? Is it the newness or the unknown element that makes me both excite and shy away at the thought? I move in a couple of days. Moving away to college. So final it all seems. Here lately I find myself always asking the question: what happens to those who wait? Who neither want to move forward into the "real world" and find themselves a reflection of an older person they do not like. But it is impossible in the schemes of time to stay where I am; neither a child nor an adult but struggling to keep the perfect balance. I feel cheated out of a childhood that I want back. I don't want to "grow up" become "educated" and be thrust out into a catapult of expectations that I don't know if I can meet. I can barely wrap my mind around the idea of what do I want to be? For you see its not just about want but meant, what am I meant to be. What do I feel is right. When asking oneself this question I can see all the things I could have been but now can never be and the things I could only hope for but am halted, struggled by the normalises of my own self. I have no idea what to do, except pack, for that is the only action I can take. I'd love to run away, far far away, where I am not known and start a new life. But I feel regrets would follow me in that decision no matter how much a part of my soul wants it.

Disappearance

Where have I been? Honestly I forgot I had this blog and not until a passing wave of curiosity did I decide to stumble back upon it. I laughed a little outloud when reading my past entries. How can I explain what has happened to me since January? In an innocent way I'd like to go back to that time just to re-experience what I was going through. But I have met somebody since then and my life has changed. He is beautiful in every sense of the word. His goodness is indescribable and I love him truly. There is something about a person like me where love is not a natural expression. He makes me want to be a better person; he makes me want to get better, to stay healthy. He makes me want forever.

As far as inward change all I can ask is: is that ever possible? I think a slight metamorphosis can happen but its a linked change that blends all past to all future selves. I am starting college in less in a week. Such imposing circumstances that are supposed to hold so much promise. Will I capture the moment and hold it for all that is mine? I know not and I doubt I ever will. I need a direction in my writing because I am so insecure as to where it stands.

Passages

"Describe it." She said.
"Describe what?"
"Describe to me how you feel."
"I dont think you really want to know."
"Yes, I do. I want to know what its like."
"Its like....its like a dot in your vision. Just a little tiny dot, barely noticable but always there. During the day its easier to ignore, to look around it because there are so many other things to distract you. But at night, when you cant distinguish the dot from the darkness- when your entirely alone, that is when it gets hard. All you want to do is be able to see clearly, to live clearly, but you cant. And at night when you cry yourself to sleep because your drowning in it; when your trying to swim up and see the light. It is at that moment you get that feeling. The feeling of what it feels like to be entirely alone with yourself and hate yourself for what you feel. That is what its like."

Poetry for thought

The sun is setting in the east-
everything is wrong.
The ground I'm walking on is turning red,
the earth has changed its song.

The clouds are moving in the sky-
the birds are joining in one big cry.
The leaves have abandoned all their trees,
with eyes that wait for us to see.

The earth is shedding one big tear-
it is us that we should fear.