beauty is a state of mind

i use that phrase too much. or maybe it's just so perfect.

have i mentioned how good this week has been?

i went to fallen angel today after school and had another awesome talk with sawbones. honestly, this is the kind of guy i'd want to have all my work done by. he's great about being truthful to you and telling you (young people, that is) that tattoos will affect you later on in life, mostly job-wise, even if you think nothing matters now when you're young. the wrist is a highly visible place, and i know that. and i would be totally open to covering it up if my employer wanted that (my cover-up idea was to make a wristband/bracelet with the same design silk screened on it). i've thought of that a lot over the past year, and actually wanted people to see it. it's gonna be a part of me, so you should see me.

anyway, sawbones and chris both agreed that it would be a lot better if the design was bigger, bigger design would have more clarity now and as time goes on, plus it would be easier to do. so they scanned the design and printed it bigger and showed it to me. and i have to say, it looks just as awesome bigger as it did small. bigger though, i couldn't get it on my wrist. i could get it on my upper forearm (right below elbow), and they suggested other placements for it. i honestly never thought about another placement for it than my wrist. i've just always seen it there. but it does look good bigger. suggestions were: lower back, forearm (as said), calf, pelvis area. i really want to see the tattoo every day, so lower back is out (for now. it would look good there). i never thought of having it higher on my arm than my wrist, so the forearm thing will have to be thought about... in depth. i really dislike calf tattoos (have i mentioned how much i dislike large leg pieces? kind of on the same wavelengh as surface piercings), so that's an immediate no. pelvis area - no one will see it ("you could show it off in a bikini" yeah uh-huh sure...). it's a really good canvas to work with, it's just that i really want this to be a visible tattoo. plus, i don't in any way show off my body. i'm the kind of thinking "if you've got it, flaunt it", and i don't have it. i'm not into the low-rise pants and the bathing suits and the "check out my thong!" or anything of that sort (granted, that's halfly my doing, being so lazy and all, halfly my big hunk of a woman german genes. gotta love you grams).

the only reason why i talk about the last scenario is that it's the only other one that's quite plausible.

so, the dilemma!

no back, my back is definitely too messed up and scarred for any work any time soon.

no legs, ankles, feet. creep me out.

no bicep, too hardcore for this piece.

no stomach/belly/whatever you call it, too expensive (double) plus the showing it off/visibility thing that won't happen as i "don't got it".

you know the design. any advice on where would look good/work for me is greatly appreciated, because i am definitely getting this tattoo.

all this hasn't brought me down at all. the bigger design does look awesome, and it's always good to go bigger.

something else made me really happy today. like, take a huge weight off my shoulders happy. i think i might've wished it though, what with all my anxiety over the decision the past three weeks. i think when i get the letter i'll just tell my parents "it doesn't matter" and burn it. see what they do.

i didn't mean to post non-"writing" posts this week, but this is just so good and in my mind that i had to.

while i'm on this non-"writing" post... i bought a crow left of the murder on monday and i'm really into it. it's really helped put me in a chill mood.

mmm. off for food and physics homework.

make revolutions in your heart and mind

smash break and snap in two. what the hell? think of the rhythm, the pure beat and backbone to the art. insane and love and music and tattoos and piercings and person underneath it all.

dom's left the band.

what? huh? no! noooooooooo! snap out. life is life is life and people move on. good on ya. may life and love and prosperity see you throughout your days.

i don't listen to doosu. who is this todd anyway?

snap back. cross that bridge when we come to it.

a two brownie day with no physics and a desire to write and write and write and then look back at what was written and then write some more. life isn't tainted, at least not this week, at least not so far. anticipation and aggravation and letting it all float away in the warm sunlight and comforting riffs.

sexy and smooth and warm breezy nights, stars and not a care in the world. this song sounds so sexy. the kind of song you listen to a new cd one time through and the track stays in your head. a swaying salsa hips in a slow vibe.

what is this relaxedness. it feels so nice to the chest and neck and wrist. gliding on my skin and the tip of my tongue. better than brownies because i don't want myself to have chocolate or sugar. like coffee or a glass of cold milk. smooth fluid texture, pleasing chill taste.

if paint were my medium i'd want warm colors. warm and swaying and soft swirls. it looks like the rays of sun and the changes of color. i want to be able to paint a picture of an emotion so i can look back on it and say that's what it looks and feels like. do you remember? be the painting and fall back into the lifetime.

like not wanting to be someone else. a wall of paintings. books of words. you can point and say this is me. look around you, this is me. how awesome would that be.

is this feeling what it means to be high on life.

hold on to it as long as i can. little things throw me off, but not today. be in the moment. be in the life.

i want to paint a mask of stars and moons, on blue and black ground, with sunburst and metal and lotus petals. silver spirals and this feeling of serenity. but is that me. i don't know if i'd be lying. that is me right now. i change with my moods and thoughts and feelings. who knows who i'll be next wednesday. i had a vision of a mask with razor blade cuts, but i don't know if i'm artistic enough to own that. tears and scars and black and rain and locks with no keys, self imposed chains that are a part of my skin. what now. it changes so readily i seldom get a chance to reflect objectively. i want to do both, do both and right now.

i haven't seen motivation in months. feels good. i want to write and create.

it's coming. i can feel it coming. don't let me lose it. please i can't go back there. please. this feels so good.

i'm writing something and it feels so good. i don't know which way worked it, but i want this lifetime to last forever.

i wish someone could see me right now.

leave propriety out of this

had a week of a week, a lifetime of rest and restlessness, winding up my body like a top and then letting it slowly melt away. a rush of exhiliration and heat and twitching pissed-offness. you don't know me don't know me don't know me i'm not doing this for you. the confusion and the overpowering desire to just get it over with. but interviews and tank tops and people get in the way. to write, to write, to wait it out and drown slowly in the ever rising emotions and assertions. cold and hot and oh so tired. leave me alone. i'm on top of the world. i'm fading out of existence. leave me alone. i can't say, i can't say, since everything i say takes away everything i live for. life and the warmth of sun on skin, light passing through eyelids, relaxed driving in a crowded road, being exactly where i need to be in the moment, smooth music gliding over my body and through my mind, a pure embrace and soul of clarity. peace and peace and peace. write because you mean it, write because you feel it, don't bullshit yourself or anything else, be pure, be real. it's not like you're going to be here ever again.

snap in two and look down to see cold fingertips shaking, arm twitching. leave me be. hot and cold and i don't want to be here, let me go just let me go. let me slip out pass out into another plane and i'm gone. irritated. angry. leave me alone. i can't take care of myself, i can take care of myself. this is me, me, get it through your head. my body is mine own, it's the only thing i have. this is me. let me at least be me for me. i don't need your permission. it's not a disease, it's not a problem, it's not a product. it just is. and now i can't do it any more, thank you very much. and what then after? after? when? when is not soon enough. it needs to be now. and what then? putting an experience on a pedistal never works out how you want it. downplay everything. downplay sex and jobs and college and words and feelings and piercings and tattoos and parties and birthdays and days off and downplay everything. take it all as one even line. what? it's not the answer to your problems (not problems you have no problems) it's just another mod in your skin to make you more you. so why not just do it now?

good question. ups and downs have gone from extreme back to dull with little bouts of life. i don't like the dull. i'd rather when it was crazy, when i felt horrible and awesome and back to horrible. at least that was real. i'm getting off these damn pills. they make me crazy. going to a doctor won't help. doctors are incompetent, especially in my case. i'm good for a case study, if anyone cared enough when they were so fucking generous in taking one ovary. i don't want pills. i don't want talk. i just want to stop being avoided. and if not stop being avoided, why don't you just leave me altogether. disappear and fade from your life forever.

what? writing is writing is writing. i don't want to do school. i block out everything except cw. i want to block out everything except cw. work is only beneficial when one wants to learn.

starry night and warm breeze, swaying to the music of souls on the same color, feeling your touch and feeling your soul. i'm safe and not tired anymore. lifetimes pass. is this what death is like?

it's just time to go out
and scream from the top of the moon
one more time

well, what do i say.

i was able to write a really awesome piece of prose two sundays ago. it was the cw assignment that we had to do for exams, and i didn't want to write a bad piece again (i've pretty much blown off all of our assignments so far), so i figured i'd just sit down and write, write like i used to when it all came so easily.

it didn't come very easily. some lines were strained, a lot of pauses were made in the process of writing a one and a half page "story" in the notebook that i currently do all letter and story type writing in. i had to stop a couple times and really think about what i was writing, but i never, ever, considered not writing it.

when it was done, i felt really good about the writing. i still feel that i could have made it much better than it was, but it is good as it is. it was writing, real writing, something that i've rarely accomplished in the past few years, and i felt good about it.

as it turned out, everyone had to read their story in class. i already knew this, i was sure of this when she first gave us the assignment, i was sure of this while i was writing. i was sure that, as a supposed creative writing class, i would view all stories first as stories (effectiveness of language, etc.), and second as real life experiences (or not). because of the content of my story, though, i wasn't sure that my writing would be criticized in an objective way, in relation to style and effectiveness, instead of just a big freak out.

and so i read. as is my nature, i didn't like being the center of attention, but after i started, got into the flow of it, i forgot that anyone was around me, listening to me. and i kept thinking, before, how i disliked the mode of repetition that i chose for this piece (i use repetition a lot in my style. it's just always been like that, and it works for my writing. at least i think so). cold night, hot night. i knew there was a reason, somewhere in my head, that i wrote it to begin with, that i didn't delete it in the rewriting. when i was reading it i remembered exactly. i had just come back from being raped by the physics exam, and i was cold. my fingertips were cold, and my nails (skin under my nails) were turning blue. the coldness ran throughout my body, and i started shaking. and when i got into the reading, got up to the switch, i could feel it. i could feel the cold turn instantly into heat, the heat in my face, in my chest, in my hands. it was such an awesome experience. and i felt good about the cold night/hot night repetition in my paper, because i could feel it. i finished reading, thinking that i came off pretty good, writing wise, and there was this dead silence. and it wasn't regular silence, i can deal with that, i feel quite comfortable with that, it was a loaded silence. like you can feel the air pressure in the room pushing on you with all the force of what other people are thinking. but no one was saying anything. just the customary "true?" from t and the hands that went up. and honestly that didn't surprise me at all. not at all. what surprised me was the speed in which it was all swept under the rug and they moved on. no criticism/comments from anyone. not even t.

and this is supposed to be a writing class?

and i went on like always. it was over, no one opted to bring it up with me. and honestly, that's what i like. writing is writing, we can have an intelligent conversation about it or take it as it is (writing) and go on like always. i don't like clouding the line between writing and reality.

i'll explain more on the writing vs. reality thing later, when it becomes more of an issue (which i'm sure it is).

come today. things were over, exams were practically over for me after wednesday, and i was feeling good.

here's your letter of recommendation, and ms. tapia wants to see you after exams.

and i automatically knew what it was about. and i figured that she'd be cool enough to talk to me before she took the issue to the next level. and she did.

i'm concerned about your short story. like that came as a shock (actually, it did throw me a little off. i was always in the way of thinking that writing was taken as writing by a creative writing teacher. but hey, go figure). what do i say? i don't talk about myself. i'm a listener, not a talker. but one of my rules is that if asked about something (reasonable, by a reasonable person), i will always tell the truth to the best of my ability.

[rant] i'm watching this little green bug walk across my screen . it's got these little suction feet, and it's cleaning its antennas one at a time, like a cat would, seeming like it's licking its feet and then wiping down each antenna to its end. it's got green transparent wings and a long thin body. what the hell kind of bug is this? anyway, it reminds me of a cat. i was about to smash the damn thing when it started acting like a cat. weird little thing. [/rant]

sorry. had to do that.

so, i did, while trying to talk as little as possible yet make her slightly understand so she wouldn't drag it out any longer than needed. she seemed sincere, as sincere as a teacher can be in a situation like this. i'm afraid that something might happen to you in the future. i know you are. you're afraid because if something did happen to me, you'll be the one who gets blamed. but trying to explain that nothing will ever happen to me in the way of suicide is a futile act. honestly, like she'd believe that i made a promise to myself to never do that and stick to it. because i could never keep my word like that. ugh. i'm getting sarcastic. back to the point. i'm sure that she is sincere to an extent, but just as she said she doesn't know me. and just as i tried to explain to her (in vain), no one can really understand anyone else. unless you could merge your soul with someone else's, i don't think it's possible to truly understand someone.

i wrote the story from my point of view. from what i felt at that time. it's only supposed to make total sense to me. other people won't know what i mean when i talk about noise in my head. about promises to myself. about instant gratification. about almost daily thoughts of death, mine, others', everyones'. about sensations. about control. about how the body doesn't exist. about how nothing exists. about the act itself. other people don't know the events leading up to, the idea behind, the reasoning, or the present thoughts about the act. and for the purposes of the story, they didn't need to know.

it seems the need to know thing has changed.

things i realized during the conversation with her: 1) objective people can really see my mood swings. i know they've been way out of hand for the past couple of years (which i'm pretty sure is because of the birth control pills and my whole hormone thing), but i figured i was pretty good about keeping things... even. apparently i'm visibly all over the place. at least in that class. 2) people have become more comfortable with crying for help for other people. instead of talking to the person first and seeing where they are, they head to authority. hey, i get that. they don't know me. people that do know me don't know me. i'd just like to get a little headstart before i start getting called into people's offices. 3) people view this as a symptom of a bigger problem. a problem. i've recently gotten over the whole "something's wrong with me" trip i've been on since seventh grade, and don't see any problem anymore. i just see me. this is me. it won't change. and sometimes i think i don't want it to change.

so, what now. i've been instructed to write, and rest, and see thirteen, and talk with her again after break. and then she'll decide if she's going to take this issue to the other authorities at school (as is her job). and i'm positive that that's going to happen, for the simple reason that i don't see anything wrong in the act. people see s.i. as a cry for attention, a cry for help. i just do it for myself. i'd rather not bring attention to myself, and i'm not asking for help. i wanted help a long time ago, and i'm over with that now. and so i can say, honestly, that i see nothing wrong with that. that it isn't a product of my "depression" (not my word). that it's just me. you tell that to a bunch of therapist nuts and "adults who care" and they just think you're in denial, and that by denying it you're crying out for help even more.

so i know where i'm going to be in the days after spring break. and i'm fine with it. yes, it's a big inconvenience. yes, they won't believe me. yes, my parents will be made aware of it. yes, it will totally obscure everything i was wanting for the next five months. basically, i'll have to become the center of attention and deal with it. but i'm going to be very honest about things, try to explain things as clearly as possible, and tell them exactly what i think about them (if it comes to it). i'm actually going to try and put this off as much as possible (six weeks of school, being busy with homework, "sorry i don't have time today", and flat out refusing to comply). i figure they're not going to want to kick out someone who's third in the class and only has one quarter left to graduate.

long rant. well, it had to be said. i think only two people from my cw class read this blog, so you know what i'm talking about. for you that don't, well, i might as well post it. let the chips fall where they may.

keep in mind, i'm doing this because i feel good about this writing, and a bit of understanding is needed for those who don't know what i'm talking about.

The Clarity of Pain

Cold night. She sits alone in her room thinking on the day, trying to shut out all the background sounds that seep under her door, trying to figure out which sounds are real and which come only from her head.

Cold night. She sits on her bed with her legs crossed under her, sits up straight with the palms of her hands facing up, the tips of her fingers cold. She can’t sleep. She’s tried laying down, staying still, relaxing, staying calm, but every new position brings an ache in her joints and a burning strain at the base of her skull, brings more noise and confusion.

Cold night. Confusion turns into frustration, anger, sadness. One emotion gives way to another, each one more powerful and soul shaking than the last. Thoughts race through her head, crashing together and gaining momentum like waves, leaving her weak and powerless.

Cold night. She feels the sting of tears on her cheeks, looks down to see that her open palms have turned to closed fists, nails digging into her skin. But it’s not enough, the noise is still there, the emotions slowly tear away her soul and mind bit by bit.

Her shallow breathing makes her sobs come in waves, first small and stifled, then full and hysterical when she has to gasp for air, body shuddering as she coughs and cries at the same time. She needs to make this stop. She can’t control any of the situations she’s in: what other people want her to do and want her to be, what she can wear and what she can say, what beliefs she’s allowed to own up to. She can’t control what emotions she feels and when she feels them, she can’t control the endless thoughts that zip through her mind every second that make it impossible to think or listen or remember or function. The only thing she can control anymore is her person.

Hot night. She stands up, heat pulsing through her body. She walks to her dresser and with a shaking hand reaches into her purse, fingers searching for the one thing that she knows can make the noise stop and let her get some peace, if only temporarily.

Hot night. She walks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her. A wave of dizziness makes her grab the sides of the sink to brace herself so that she won’t fall. She looks into the mirror and sees a familiar face, a familiar expression, familiar tear stained cheeks. Same face that’s stared back at her too many times before. Too many times.

Hot night. She rolls up her sleeve past her elbow, working quickly. Her right hand holds the answer to her problems, and she’s going to fix them the fastest way she can. Right thumb slides out the top two razor blades and replaces the top one. Never use the first one, only the one after it. The second blade changes hands, the cardboard cover taken off.

Hot night. She takes a look into the mirror and back down to her arm. It would be so easy, so easy. One long cut down my arm, one deep cut, just add water, and all of this goes away forever. Shut up you idiot, you know you can’t do that. We’ve been over all this before. Before isn’t now. Before isn’t now, but do you really want to go back on your word like that? Just hurry up and get this over with and we can go to sleep.

Hot night. She wipes her sweating palms on the front of her pants. She raises her arm with the rolled up sleeve up and holds it out, clenching her hand into a fist. She brings the razor blade up to her arm and makes a horizontal slash. Red blood seeps out of the fresh cut. But there’s no pain. Another cut, and another, and another, all next to each other, all uniform. The pain finally starts to kick in as the blood starts to run slowly down her arm. But it’s not enough. Five, six, seven, at an angle to the rest, more reckless than usual. A wave of pain shoots through her body, and for a moment the pain is all she can feel. She focuses on it with all of her mind and soul, makes sure that she experiences every facet of the pain, the heat and the sting and throbbing sensation on her skin. The noise in her head stops, and she feels free from all emotion. She looks down at her red arm with a sense of peace and accomplishment.

Cold night. She washes the blood off her arm, watching the red streaks lighten and disappear under the steady stream of water. She covers the cuts with large bandages she bought for times like this. She looks into the mirror, looks at her eyes and the blank expression on her face, looks at the reflection of her wrapped arm, watches in the mirror as she rolls her sleeve back down.

Cold night. She opens the door of the bathroom and turns off the light. She walks across the living room and tells her parents good night, as if this night was just as calm and normal as most every night before. She walks to her room, climbs under the covers of her bed, and falls asleep.

but we loved with a love that was more than love

cripes and now i've been googling more poe stuff. and i really, really liked that research paper.

updated my blogroll and switched most people around, some by preference and some by if you update at any regular interval. but mostly it's just so i won't have to type in the url of each page that i want to visit.

and again, if you don't want the link, just tell me and i'll remove it.

ah yes, i added hibbity jibbity. which should actually be pecan sandies rock my world, but i didn't want to have to abbreviate it. so.

i've been pondering lately posting the story i had to write for creative writing. not funny, not amusing, not even that well written, considering how easy it should've been for me to write. and i was thinking about reading it in class, but i don't think i will. not because i'm afraid of anything or anyone's opinion of me, i actually feel that i can say most things i wouldn't even bring up with my friends in that class. but it's just that i don't think the class (as a whole. there are exceptions in individuals) would be on my same wavelength to appreciate it as a story, and not the "is it true??" question that will come from it. and i don't know if they'll actually react that way, everyone might be really mature with the whole thing (mature? more like calm). i don't know. i'll see how it goes tomorrow.

and here. well, i have a paranoia theory going on lately about this blog, but i've been too lazy to track the ip's coming in. basically i have a feeling that member(s) of my family have found this thing. and hey, it's public. it's the internet. you can find it through links. you can find it through google, although it's gonna take you a damn long time even if you do know what to google for (i've tried). i'm fine with it being public, but i'm not fine with my family treating me differently according to what i say in this blog. honestly, i have a problem with my family in general (honestly, i have a problem with people in general) knowing who i am and what i'm doing. i have an even bigger problem with them getting misinformation about who i am and how i'm feeling and what my plans are (and who my friends are) and what i'm doing. misinformation from my mother. because she doesn't know, and i'm at the point where i really don't want her to know who i am. ah, the dilemma.

so no posting the story (or story related things) until i get this resolved, or at least am more secure in my habitation and pending job.

it's getting harder waiting for the tattoo.

a thousand thoughts running through my head, and i just need to talk to you. i just need to write it down.

revolving life. in color.

my dad and my uncle are tearing up some more of the house. taking down a wall, putting up some sort of closet contraption thing. but hey, it doesn't affect my side of the house, so they can saw away all they please.

as far as i am concerned, i never left anywhere. actually, i don't want to deal with people talking to me with a little ticked off sound in their voice because i'm far from enthusiastic about this whole ordeal.

seriously, if my mother tries to talk to me again i think i will escape into santa fe for a few good hours.

and none of this is for you, but i haven't written in three days, and it's making me talk to myself now. and i don't like talking to myself. my mother talks to herself. um, yeah.

and now i've forgotten what i've been thinking for the past hour. i hate when this happens. i should just get started on the homework i have. off.

the ending of a life

i remember when it started.

drama club wasn't really a drama club, it was just cameron coming over to school (probably for credit for his theater major) and playing games with the small group of kids (most all of whom were speechies or future speechies). ms gregory didn't do anything except walk in the room a couple times because there has to be a school sponser for a club. meetings were never announced, if you were lucky you walked into the auditorium after school one day and saw that cameron was there. and then the performance, which consisted of endless duos and help, with maybe one rehearsal in the little rehearsal room at the college, which held the performance also. and yeah, it was fun, but it wasn't drama, it was speech.

and my mom saw that i really wanted to be a part of drama. sports were too much of a pain to participate in since i had so much homework and we lived out of town, so she decided to get back into drama, so that i (and people like me) would have someplace to go and something to do.

the first meetings we got the basic group: tim, natalia, dan, andy, catte, saraphia, jess, me. shortly thereafter we rounded out the group with alex, steph, matt, and paul. for the first play we put on the largest play we've ever done: our town. and we had to beg people to be in the play, especially guys, and we pulled it off, and it was awesome. our town bred the first drama inside joke (damn george!), as well as some friendships that have lasted though now.

our town was followed by rest assured (and the birth of mrs. shmaltz and dan as the devil), tim's last play. tim was the first senior from our initial group to graduate.

in the next year or so we adopted scar and peter into our group, followed by sarah's little brother mark and a little crazy squirt of a kid who wore awesome shoes and a shirt of a tuxedo (by far the coolest seventh grader we've ever adopted).

plays came and went, i went on a major recruiting binge in tenth grade, and then it was time. the last play ever with the seniors. and what play was it? rememberin stuff. i still have mixed feelings when i look back on that play, but andy, catte, and saraphia definitely made that play so much more awesome than i ever thought it could be. they knew it was their last play, and they worked for it, and did an awesome job.

dan wasn't in the last play, but it was ok, because he was in a production, a type of poetry production. i went to it with my mom, and was just blown away by the content of the minds of these performers. and i saw dan, this awesome, talented, funny, crazy guy, and remembered the shy quiet kid who played basketball with my brother in eighth grade. was that a transformation.

and then they were gone. i had a hard time with that, them leaving, me knowing i'd probably never see them again in my life. but memories are good, and i still have memories of the past them, and can still share some of those memories with a few people.

last year. the year of the junior high boom. there were more little children at that first meeting than i knew what to do with. insane? yes. especially when we all thought back on our town where we had to beg people to be in the play. i again went on a slight recruiting binge and procured a kyle and daivd for drama club. and they fit in in about two seconds. and so it was: we fortified our happy family of drama club.

and i think it's safe to say that the diary of anne frank made a big impact on all of us. more than any other play that we did at school. it was just right place, right time.

and then now. i remember thinking last night that i had to remember the name of the foundation i was using, and then realizing that no, i don't have to remember. i won't ever be doing this again. and that was it. i didn't feel sad about it. i remember missing the seniors that had graduated before, but now that i'm a senior i won't miss drama. and it's weird. drama has been my life for the past five years. drama is all that i do. but... i've never felt like a part of drama. just like i'm watching all these other awesome people develop strength and confidence and a place to belong, but i'm still in the background. and i saw that even more this year. i've been in drama for five years, but people don't know it. and i guess i'm fine with it now. i took drama seriously, but i'm not an actress. i don't have the mindset for it. i can figure out blocking, i know when you say a line, how you say a line, where you look, where you stand, how you turn, when to pause, how to fix upstaging, how to project, how to walk, how to pantomime, how to react, how to use your body to communicate what you mean. i know how to do that because i know what feels wrong, what looks wrong. it's like my only instinct. but i'm not supposed to act. i'm not drama, i'm not a legacy, i'm just routine and procedure.

and so i'm not sad that it's over. we've been building up to this point for five years. i just feel bad for the ones we're leaving behind. but i know they're in good hands.

and now on to other things. projects, stories, trips, exams. acceptance letter and full tuition scholarship, the reinforcement that i don't want to go anywhere, i don't want to do anything, i just want time to stop. the reinforcement that no, i'm not dead yet and no, i won't die anytime in the near future. the reinforcement that i have to go through the motions because other people are expecting me to. and that's a thousand dollars down the drain, to a place that i don't want to see and people i don't want to talk to, and classes i don't want to miss and confusion i don't want to put myself through. and i don't want to see it and hate it, and i don't want to see it and love it. and sometimes i wish that i had never applied. the only thing that saves me for now is that they haven't sent out acceptance letters yet.

and i don't like to think about the future, the future that doesn't exist. and i don't want to think about graduating and quite possibly never seeing my friends again in my life. but i do. and that's where it all came from. i love you. i've told that to you before and i'll tell it to you again. i love you, and i'll always love you, because that's what love is. but you're leaving. and some of you are already gone, have been gone for a few months. and you're a different person, a better person, as it is and as it should be. and the fact is, i'm me, and i've regressed a few lifetimes (even if i do progress a lifetime a week). and i want you to have a full and happy life, i want you to love people, to have people love you, to find someone who makes you happy and understands you. i want you to live.

i want you to live, but deep down i still don't.

and that's where it came from. where the letting go of relationships came from. i've depended on you to keep me sane, to keep me here (mentally and emotionally) for the past three years. and because of this i haven't had to cope with myself. and yes, i love you and will always love you, but even though i maintain these relationships, i won't be able to fully count on them. i won't be able to look into your eyes and have all the noise in my head stop, i won't be able to feel your aura when you walk into a room and feel safe. and frankly it terrifies me. and i figured that the only way to keep myself sane was to start disconnecting now, to start letting you go little by little so it won't be such a kick in the head when you aren't here.

and i have to be able to write. i have to be able to say this, to say what i'm thinking, to say everything the way i want to say it. to be able to write in my blog and my journal and still mean it afterwards. "... but writing, writing i can put down all my thoughts and feelings as i come to them, i can go off on tangents and write everything that i mean, that i feel, that i'm unsure of. and it's all there. no forgetting or getting confused. and it can be read and read again, expanded on and explained as much as i need to. i can get my soul down, get the noise out of my head. when i can't write i can't fully express myself, which ultimately means that i can't fully understand myself, even if i am happy and content in the moment. but i overlooked one huge thing. if i'm content, if i'm happy, if i feel other people in my relationships and don't have any question about it, then i will be able to write. it will all fit into place, and it will be pure. a blue moment within itself." and i wrote this, and i meant it in the lifetime that it was, after thinking on what i wrote before and what i meant, on why i need to write. and i read it now and think about it. when i am happy, when i'm content, in theory, writing should be no problem. but when i think back on it, it's actually the other way around. when i can write, then i can be content. and all i seem to write about is death, pain, confusion, time, sleep, pure emotion and pure feeling, all the noise in my head. and i've been writing about that for years. and i think that's just who i am. i can't write about stereotypical happy cheery things because they don't move me, they aren't true to me. and for me, that's fine. i'd rather write about death and pain and pure emotion, because i feel wrapped up in it sometimes. and in truth, i like the feeling of something pure, even if it is pain and darkness and death, because it's pure.

and that thought alone makes me feel that i'm different from people. not all people, because i'm positive that there are people like me out there. and i feel fine about that. i've learned that that's who i am, and i don't expect other people to understand me or try to understand me. when i can write, i understand me. when i can't write... well, i indulge in other acts that get the same feelings out. which i think is fine for me, but again other people might not understand it, and i don't expect them to.

and i don't know if you'll understand this, understand what i'm trying to say or what i think i'm trying to say. but dialogue is good, it sets up points of explanation. and i'm willing to explain as long as i can, if you still want to understand.