when all i can dream of is you

here's the deal:

i started writing because it was the only way i could escape my reality. i didn't want to hear it anymore, be in the middle of it, i didn't want to have to deal with it at all. so i read constantly, and when i wasn't reading i was writing. fiction. because that way at least i get to control the world inside my head, put it down on paper where i could marvel over something that no one else understands, has any idea what i mean or why i did it, but to wonder how the hell this little shy girl had such a fantastic and slightly morbid imagination.

i started reading less on my own and stopped writing altogether when i got to st mike's. why? i don't know. i was miserable and pissed off and couldn't do a thing to change my situation. i was forced to soak in reality daily, to live in it and deal with it and accept it. and one night i just snapped. and i can remember it exactly, i was alone in the house at night, blaring busted, sitting on the couch with my notebook and a pen, and i just started writing. and i kept going, and going, with the song on repeat and my legs crossed under me and my pen raging on the paper, small words, very small words written in my real handwriting at the time. i always write small when i really mean it. and then i looked at what i wrote and it was exactly how i felt. it wasn't finished, it still isn't. a thought just hanging in midair that i can never get back, and believe me i've tried. and i don't know what it was that hit me then, but i know that as horrible as i felt, everything was right with reality because i could write something down.

i have five spiral notebooks now in my collection that i keep by my bed so i can tell exactly if anyone touches it. all of them are filled with at least one poem, one has the original drafts of all the poems from my poem book in tenth grade. and i have two spirals on top of the trapper keeper that holds the rest, ones that i've procured from old schoolwork in the past couple years, spirals that i've tried to write in. both hold one insomniac revelations, both hold one story, one finished and one not, one has two poems. in all 36 poems (28 being from the poem book, 16 of them being valid), two insomniac revelations, two stories. I have one small dark blue unlined journal that i've written most of my decent things in since nov 2002. one dream, six pure writings, three of which i've posted in the past year.

i have a creative writing journal now, black sketch book, that couldn't be pure black (which should have been my first warning) so i put the hridaya on the front.

i have two blogs, the first one being an addition to my original website, when everyone thought blogs were stupid and i was a freak for liking it so much. i publicized the first one, and got horrible results. it was, just as i wanted it, an addition to my website, filled with meaningless crap about what i was learning about html and flickerstick rantings and other things about how i was having a hard time with my computer. and then i wanted to actually write on my blog. but i couldn't because i had already given the address to too many people (including a couple members of family). so i made this. and it was pretty much what i was feeling, avoiding particulars and getting deep down into the meaning of things, like how i ideally wanted to write. scatter in twenty or so pure posts and that's been how it's been.

with blogs it's always been the understanding that it's better to post now than to wait, that you post even if you have nothing to post about. that is, if you have the time. some people do that extremely well. some people can wait days or weeks between posts and it's ok, because the writing is good, at least has some thought put into it.

my theory for the past two or three years has been that if i write enough, even if most of it is really crap, i'll get some really decent posts, some pure thoughts and feelings. and for the most part it's proved to be true. this blog is filled with so many bad posts, and a few really awesome ones, ones that are my goal.

i got into creative writing with the knowledge that i'd have to do journal writing every day. and i wanted that. i wanted to write every day, to force myself to filter through all the confusion in my head and explore a thought completely. to be able to get back to the point where i'm not hiding and i'm not censoring myself from other eyes. to get back to the point where i don't care.

it hasn't happened how i wanted it to, that should have been a warning to me the moment i thought of it, planning ahead, no matter what, never works out. all we've basically been allowed to do is write on topics, topics that mean nothing and are more junior high than anything substantial. that and i've been writing around 10:30 at night, and i've been tired almost to the point of breakdown the majority of the time lately. i've stopped writing on the topics that she's given us, thinking that maybe i'll be able to write. all i've been able to do is write about how i can't seem to write. that and death, but i've been writing about death for years now. and now that whole journal is tainted with fake writings that are assignments, and daily writing isn't going to help me at all.

i go through extremes, sure. i'm not really content in anything anymore, not that i was content before, more like i was just trying to ignore reality even though i was trying to live in it. the fact is, i can't write on my blog when my family is around, just like it feels with nails on a chalkboard when they touch me. writing on paper is so pure and true that to write anything fake makes me feel horrible. i write in a few pages in a spiral notebook, and then move on to another one months or years later, a spiral for different lives. a blue journal that i've hated yet seems to be the only place where i can write pure. a blogosphere that i don't want to be a part of anymore, because every little troll with no respect for anyone can flame people they don't even know. and i'm not in the middle of any of them, it happens every day outside the computer world, but because i've been so caught up in this whole thing for two years now it makes me feel so, jaded. to the point where i want to disappear. and i might, i've been contemplating it for the past couple of months, every time i see more anonymous comments and trolls and plagiarism and fake people (as in people that don't exist) and people accusing others of being fake people.

i've tried to come out of myself, let people see me, speak my mind and participate in discussions and be a part of life, at least a semi-social one. i've been to the other extreme, and i felt totally alone. now i've tried this extreme, and still feel totally alone, and i think that's worse than trying to be totally alone. i've tried the middle way (oh my research paper is running through my head right now, and it makes my head hurt because i believe in it), or at least i've tried to try the middle way, but straddling two different universes (universi) makes the noise so much worse.

i've put myself out there more than i ever have, and i feel nothing. there's no release, no contentment, nothing. i'm not paranoid about anything really anymore, because i just don't care. i'm only seriously paranoid about the one thing, and that's only because most all people in authority don't understand and will definitely use it against me. my friends, i'd like to think they wouldn't freak, because i wouldn't freak, but it creates a line of question and mistrust that kills a person. and i'm keeping it from them, not because i'm afraid, but because i don't want to have to deal with it. i'm at the point right now where i don't want people to know who i am, because it does nothing for me.

and right now i feel that i have to let go of these relationships. i can't feel you anymore, i can't feel anyone anymore, and it's not fair to hold on to something that you have to let go of in the end. everything is transient, and i shouldn't get attached to anything or anyone. i have, and it's not right.

i hate looking into the future, because it doesn't exist, but i have to now, i have no choice. and the fact is that i have to change back to be able to survive with any sort of sanity. i have to be able to write, but i can't write meaningless things anymore.

i'm not trying to live a happy and content life. i'm not looking to live a full life with companions and lovers and meaningful work and improving the world. i'm looking to make the noise in my head go away, and if i can't do that, at least be able to write the noise down. i can't do that right now, so something has to change, and the only thing i can change is me.