you make my need to explode overpower my need to implode.

I fall victim to this need.
is this treason?





Do you remember that one time I took a Sharpie while you were half-sleeping on my bed, and right underneath your belly button, I wrote "MINE" with an arrow pointing downward?
You opened your eyes, looked down to read it and laughed before catching my eyes and murmuring, "Okay."
I smiled back and told myself that it may not necessarily be a good thing. I think you knew that already, though, so I said nothing and tossed the Sharpie on my desk before crawling over the length of your body as I grinned, almost frightened by the emotions I felt as I watched you close your eyes and lean back, a lazy smile on your face. I kissed your chin, you nose, and the space between your eyes before putting my head on your chest and pressing my body close, lying on top of you. Your arms enclose me, and I think we sighed together as we relaxed, ready to fall asleep but knowing that we never would.


I once taught myself what worth was.
This implies that I once knew.
(Yet
so often the mind wakes and unravels at once, losing beats and phrases, leaving the body and consciousness to falter with what's left--
halves of emotions and the empty memory of having once been satiated--
leaving the rest of me to fall under the weight of my own palm.
So often the mind works like a swelling tide against the direction of what one desires.)
But now
I feel as though I've left myself: my better half has decided that I no longer deserve attention. I'm worthless.

it is entirely possible to desire too much

Journal entry. Monday, 25 May.


Every day I'm preoccupied with the struggle of producing something new--a defining moment, a voice, an action--to mark me as unique to constitute an answer to the question of "who are you?" or, more often "who were you?"
Every day I'm faced with the same question and I wonder if I'm destined to be remembered for refusing to answer. But still, my "answers" are no longer answers--no single solution could possibly gather up all the loose ends and frayed arguments that result from my human presence in this world.
So instead of answering I end up producing an enormous supply of commentaries and ramblings on questions of myself, but the nagging insistent thought that remains is how long this pathetic commentary could stay useful, or even entertaining.
Am I worthwhile? Do I make sense?
So I continue to look to seek while suffering at the hand of my own self-awareness, even as this suffering unfolds a kind of existence that makes such awareness increasingly impersonal and difficult to reconcile with the self. I don't know if I should thus abandon awareness to live solely for the self or pursue awareness to replace the self.
It becomes so difficult, therefore, to imagine me.
It becomes so difficult, I mean, to reduce my life to a single, allegorical truth.
I am both the narrator and the spectator of my experiences, although I desire to be neither.

ERIC

happy now?

this guy's one of the two people in my life i've ever called "oppa," so i will acquiesce to a blog entry, at least.


what's odd is that we don't necessarily talk all that often. ever since i've stopped technically being his student, the majority of our conversations take place online, but when we do talk, for some reason i end up wanting to transfer bits of our discussions into my personal journal. even though most of what he says is just.. half-witty commentary.
he makes me think, is what i mean.

i really hope he doesn't buy me that book for graduation. i can't help getting slightly emotional when people buy me books and journals. call me a nerd, but that will never change.
i suppose he won't, though, since it's rather difficult to get.
self-preservation, really. that's all. i don't like feeling emotional weight with people i can't afford to have such a connection with, and as i told lily earlier, i'm somewhat of an expert at cutting off any burgeoning emotional ties. but i usually accomplish that through distance, harsh honesty, and intentional wrongdoing, and i don't want to do that with him.

i react to him as i would a natural event. like rain, or the crevices of light in between dark clouds. or a moving tide. he reacts to himself as a realization waiting to happen. at least that's what it seems like from the time i've known him.
i could be wrong. see, he's another one of those people i know who always seem as if they're waiting for something, but sometimes it turns out that those people already found what they were looking for, they just didn't like what they found.
if he is waiting, though, he waits more patiently than others, not faltering before the spectacle of life like a lot of people do.

to be honest, sometimes i feel small around him. particularly when we come into physical contact. yes, i realize that that's rather contradictory to my nature; when i see a boy i like all i want to do is touch and feel. but with eric, even a accidental brush of the body as he passes by makes me want to lean, not necessarily away from him, but further into myself. this could be for a lot of reasons. i'm not sure of any of them, so i won't take the time here to talk about them.
last time we saw each other, he gave me this half-hug, and it's not like i saw stars and felt explosions, but it was too surprising for me to actually register until after the fact.

but i think i've gone through a lot of quiet little discoveries like that around him.


During moments like these I faltered. I tricked myself out of desolation; I could not tell if I was moving or moved. And such feelings seemed to contradict me, the way love seemed to contradict itself and its lovers with a sweeping gesture that traveled as much as it trapped.
--pamela lu

the boys i've kissed

Today I went to school at in the middle of 5th period. I was walking down my block, smoking a cig, then off in the distance I saw a car coming up that looked suspiciously like my father's Audi TT. No one ever drives that car, so I was fairly confused. I hid my cigarette behind the clipboard I was carrying anyway. The car came closer and pulled over to my side of the sidewalk, and I thought, Holy FUCK that's my mother.
I slipped the cig in between the pages of my agenda and put it out as I waved hello to her.
Dammit.







When the earth was still flat, I met a lovely boy named Pascal. I told him that I'd be whatever he wanted me to be, just because he was beautiful enough to listen to without feeling guilty about it.
And then I think I did become what he wanted me to be. I spent a few weeks that way, moving this way and that, dancing with him. I don't know how it happened. Suddenly we were one.
My steps were his. His steps were mine.
It's wonderful. It's all kinds of amazing. But I'm only who we wants me to be, not who I was before. Had to lose myself in order to clear out my insides for his wills and dreams for the two of us. You give and take and end up here. The view's great, but sometimes the way the clouds lift makes you think of nostalgia and the person you were before.

entertainment rather than salvation

After we were done, I went to the bathroom and tried to vomit. It didn't work, unfortunately.



I was flipping through Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close today, reading over my highlighted sections, the little phrases I've marked, and I noticed this one:

Being with him made my brain quiet. I didn't have to invent a thing.

I immediately thought of C. I called him today, but he seemed so tired that I just told him we could talk later. The other night, I found an old picture of him in my room, from when he was in eighth grade and I was in sixth. We had gone to New York, and we were sitting in Hard Rock Cafe. He looks so different, so young. I remember he said that I was such a tease on that trip...





Dear Neil,

I've reached a definite standstill. The only directions that are open to me are the ones I'm sick and tired of. The only way I want to go is still closed to me, as of yet.
And what can I do? Stand still? Turn in circles? The pause of time, its laziness and intolerable quiet, ebbs at the edge of my bones... It's tiring in the worst way possible: I'm drenched in an exhaustion that results from doing noting. Doing nothing and waiting.
There's no cure for this.

service

I get home at 5:20am. I still can't sleep.










I am the inside of an oil drum--black, thick, resistant sludge drips the length of my bones like soiled perspiration, like the rotting sap of a tree riddled with the carcasses of chewed insects, like spoiled honey, and like saliva from the lips of someone who has just vomited.
I am this empty.
I am this dirty.
On the inside, I accumulate mold and bacteria, dirt and body fluids. The scum reaches outward, seeping out every orifice--I'm blinded, muted, deafened, immobilized...
This is suffocation, and this is my life.

reformatted poem from ages ago

metro centre parking lot

He called her anyway.
The air outside the car was cold enough to make her conscious of her body as she stepped out of the back seat, pulling her cardigan back on.
“Go ahead and call her. It’s okay.”
During moments like this she let herself give in to the stereotypes of her gender, saying things that she didn’t mean and always expecting the man to understand her true intentions. He didn’t; he never does. But she understood that he didn’t know and left her thoughts unsaid for the moment because she was tired of her saying what was on her mind when he could only meet her halfway, even when trying his best to understand.
He walked away as he dialed and faintly heard him say hello over the sound of her feet dragging on the cement. The street light cast a heavy shadow as she walked toward the nearby gas station. The sounds of car engines and people talking grew as she got near, and the sudden presence of strangers made her feel isolated. She had gotten used to the quiet and the stillness, the voices of two people, the intimacy, and the softness.
“Could I get the keys to the restroom, please?” The cashier pointed to the counter where the key lay, strung onto a rusty piece of metal that looked like it had been chewed on and dropped into the toilet too many times. The inside of the restroom had the same air of soiled indifference. The soap smelled too harsh and mold sat comfortably in the crease where the sink meets the wall. After washing her hands she leaned against the empty paper towel dispenser, wiping her palms on her jeans. She didn’t want to go back yet.
They had too deep a history to be rid of each other, even if they wanted to. She had moments when she wanted to forget his presence in her life, when she needed to create some distance. Even when they didn’t speak for a year because of all his betrayals and the layers of tension he refused to resolve, he still had some presence in her life. She always wrote about him, and so much of her creative energy stemmed from their relationship. When she painted, she could tell that he was, in some way, her muse. And she supposed it was the same with him; she never apologized to anyone as sincerely as he did to her, and no one made him feel more ashamed for his past actions. Although, she had to admit, he had never done anything so shameful to anyone else either.
Now they were at a point in their relationship where familiarity transcended intimacy and anger, where they still didn’t understand each other, and sometimes they didn’t want to, but ignorance was just accepted as another aspect of their closeness. They had gone through so much that whatever was to come couldn’t be significant enough to pry them apart.
Constantly, she asked herself if she wanted this. What did he think about their relationship? She never knew, and any serious talk about it couldn’t avoid the mention of the past, the history that was the ever threatening ghost, drifting in and out of their relationship, sparking anger and mistrust at awkward intervals.
Earlier in the day, she had told him, “I hate it when the guys I fuck talk with their ex-girlfriends or some other girl in their lives right after sex. I hate it. I don’t know why—it’s not like I even care about the emotion in sex or its sacredness and shit, but it makes me feel like nothing more than a whore when that happens. It’s so fucking… disrespectful. And dirty.”
That was less than seven hours ago.
The fact that he called her anyway made her question so many things; did he remember, or was he just insensitive; did he feel sorry again, and was he planning on apologizing. But this was one of those nights when she couldn’t think about questions like that. The handle of the restroom door was cold, and as she walked to the car, she slowed down when she saw that he was still on the phone. She hadn’t waited long enough. She lingered underneath the street light, watching that shadow of hers.
When he hung up he started to walk over to her, but she turned around and reached him before he came underneath the light. She didn’t want to see his face. In the car it still smelled of him and of her, of sweat and of sweetness, and the hint of warmth reminded her of home, for some reason.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sorry about calling her.”
“It’s okay. I told you to.”
“I know.”
She lit a cigarette; the flame cast her face in a strange orange glow, and he thought that she looked beautiful, but that she had lied when she said she was feeling okay. But that was alright, since both of them told small lies to each other, leaving truth for bigger things because in the past, big lies had bled them dry.

unlikely at this point.

want is too complicated. i wish i was free of it, and i wish i really could travel to the edge of the earth and jump, without holding anyone's hand, without screaming, without thinking, just falling and feeling the weight of the world drift upwards, off my shoulders.
i wish i could be so free, just for a moment or two.



maybe because of my deteriorating relationship with my mother, or maybe because i'm so ready to leave, or maybe because i've been trying to quit smoking, i've been kind of down these days. i was walking to school and i passed large outgrowth of honeysuckles; i smelled them before i saw them, and i almost smiled. i love that scent. i was about to light a cigarette, but i felt bad about ruining the smell with the stench of tobacco, so i walked to the other side of the street and lit it before turning around to watch the little yellow and white flowers, softly dancing in the morning breeze. the sun hadn't shed its clouds yet, and i felt this small spark of uninhibited bliss. i realized that i haven't felt that way in a weeks.

whenever i feel like this, i make an effort to find out what the problem is and fix it, get back to my fast-paced self again, but it's not working.

the fact that i need adderall feel halfway decent when taking my AP tests doesn't help. the fact that the season finale of house ended so sadly didn't help.

as of now, i just want to stand in front of a Rothko and lose myself.

current read: valley of the dolls, jacqueline susann (don't judge me)
current listen: lykke li



stretched on the floor with our underwear on, we looked up at the sky, the night's wind drifting in from the window to lift our hair. we didn't touch, flattened against the white carpet, silent and eyes wide open. we burned the roof with our eyes, blood pumping and thoughts flatlined. i didn't know what to say, and you didn't know how to feel. it was cold and it was dark. the city wasn't brimming in the same way it used to--it was teeming.
but it was quiet and still inside. i wanted to tell you that eventually, this endlessness would go away, but i wasn't sure enough to say anything.

i don't care what you say.. i like love story.

i say that proudly, too.





and who can pass up coldplay?

red cactus

.


my eyes hurt.

the weather's been so off these days.

i've realized that if i don't want people to judge me, i should stop telling them things. i hate feeling as though i've disappointed people; someone will judge my character negatively based on very superficial things, without truly knowing who i am, and i'll feel as though i have some obligation towards them, as if i've done something wrong, when i shouldn't. they're the one's being judgemental. i don't owe them anything. i shouldn't feel remorseful in the slightest.
but for some reason, i do.
and i kind of hate it.



another one of mine, using sheet music:









i heard that a covenant was made using my blood, without my knowing; the earth split as the words were spoken, the birds flew higher than they should in awe, and the sun repealed its efforts, leaving the cities empty with only the vague echo of light.

tell me what you see

i have this urge to look into his face and find something that will come nearer to me without my beckoning. i want to touch the bridge of his nose and feel the slope that rests in between the eyes; i want to brush a nail against his eyebrows and trace a line from his lower eyelashes to his chin; i want to crook my finger and fit my knuckle vertically along the dip above his lip; i want to run the pads of my fingers slowly across his mouth.

i want to do this all without wondering what he's thinking--i want it to be that familiar, that close, that intimate.





one of mine. inspired by kaoss/chaos pads: