Step 1 : Shatter

Step 2 : Avoid shattered

Step 3 : Find another

Step 4 : Breathe

Step 5 : There's always the sky.

PS. Lethargy is my long-lasting, ever-loyal companion. But we can't anymore.

Someday This Pain Will Be Useful To You

I am in love with the sun, the sky, and dusk's dramatic arrival.

PS. When the desert ends, I ask the dust.

Keeping Roots In Mind

Dear World,

I have the key to the door that I will never find.

A door that if I find, the key won't turn. The key will stick. The key will steady itself unamused and indifferent. The key will plea itself mistaken. The key will beg me to stop. The key will stay there with me, stranded and planted unknowingly and aimlessly.

Then it will sadden me, because I will always know that this is the unmistakable, right key. And that I will always be unable to open it because I choose to open the wrong doors with their right keys.

That is...until whenever.

Unattainable

And it hurts tonight.
Like the prime of the quiet dawn, the passion of the afternoon, and the heart ache of the twilit sky. Like the breaking could never break as broken as this, as I am, as you are, as we are.

"Sometimes it just feels better to give in..."

What worries were willing to wait even for winter to end..

Chances; like the warped withering of a stray's hope. Wrapped in the attentive ways of welcoming the weather that so generously windowed an arch through this apparent wasteland of filthy cleanliness. That of whispering to the awake would miserably find the proper manner to begin again from the waist up to the waist down, and then waste away the familiar clarity that we'd be asleep anyway. In a sleepy kind of wariness that isn't aware of a witness at all, but of a self-absorbed watching then disregarding.

I am bewildered by the things I wonder and the things that I know are the only things I know. Way down an alarming defiance of the natural being that it is I should be. But suffice to say that I've let this impossible be the probable forward for me to slowly sweep enough dust for my treasures.

This is wired. Wired like we're ready to untangle from a fatal togetherness that will burn us down a whist kind of screaming. And then we'll whisk away the airy empty that a wishful thought like us, and a desperate keep like us will inadvertently wilt away back to the haunting vibrance that I'd once thought would be the way out.

It was one of those moments when you feel you have never heard the word before, and you cannot believe it means what it means, and you think how did this word come to mean that? It seemed like a bell or something, shining and pure, disturbed, disturbed, disturbed, I could hear it pealing with its true meaning, and I said, as if I had just realized it, "I am disturbed."

-Cameron, Peter

The tides are coming in and coming up, rapidly for us.
...

A tease of rays and of intimacies and of breathless full demands undeniably distant and remaining the count hashed by the urgency of my very heels that I cannot be grounded. I cannot be taken. And I cannot be tamed. Like the beast in the dark that only peeks through small to the light. Maintaining a quiet moan and quiet demand, and the shrill cry of breathing depths within the constructed reaches of abandoning the pack. Like the beast.

A ray of playful sounds and of reactant nerves and of careless intents of keeping my heels off the ground, with my chin searching the highs of the heat and the seeping red devoted to lend me a brand of deserving arms. Acquainted like an old, childhood friend with the face that conveys solely of smile-worthy recollections. The way it had been when embraced the innocence of being undisturbed and untouched by adversities of all our collected drudges. Like the nearing dusk of a summer sky. Darkening gray and warming orange and a scattering of a well-spent day calms down at a central park. Shoulder-to-shoulder, limb by limb.
...
These thoughts alone ascend up my spine, nudging red and raw, and to my skull. Like the inhale of the most sensational, prime breaths you will ever take before the water flows over pass your nose, and the last you see is the sight of light blurring you right into darkness.

A change in the key feels like a change in the season

Let's call this the hole that I'm digging. The gape that I'm hallowing. The rain that I'm fighting. And the laugh that I'm taking.

I hurt him all the time..

Shuffle

I still feel like I'm in Scotland. Where ever that really is in my mind...

It is safe to say that I continuously lose touch with reality, with the present, with the tangibility of my very life. This I refer to as "life" doesn't even seem vital to me. It just is, and it will be. I have a problem with escaping myself. And I have my own solution to escape some more.

It's in here. The planed shapes of 6 that I'm so confined by. Confined in a sense that I don't feel imprisoned. I just know what matters out there, and until I know I can grasp it, touch it, feel it, and let it engulf me, then I remain attached to my roots as I build myself and fend for my ever growing desire. The dream that seems to find me delusional and mystified by the possibilities of optimism and pessimism and realism, I'm studying to separate those of which I know, those of which that are probable, and those of which will never be. But if I listen to myself well enough, if I kick a little harder, breathe a little more, and look out there, I can't think of those that will never be. It is all mine. Realistically, I guess not. But if reality is all we'll really accept in this life time, then who'll it be that kills the impossible, and tells the shit of this world his story that there IS such thing.

My appetite for life will probably never exceed those that strive for a successful life with their professions, their house, their income, their car, their fame, their fortunes and misfortunes, and what ever else will let you believe you'd live a good life. I am as simple as a wooden pencil, plain as a plane probably. I know what matters out there. Do you?

Daisies make me want to play.

World,
I want you to know that mon petit copain is always so.good.to.me.

J. Gorbel

Stolen

Dear --,
I decided to make this direct to you because you are my right-hand man, my wing man [er, woman?] And when I get like this, I can only imagine venting to you because you know me when I get like this.

Yesterday, the very words were threatening to burst out of my very lips. And mind you, it frightened my very core that I wanted it very much. Astonished, I pressed myself to him to close up what ever infinitesimal space we had there, and hoped that he'd somehow know. And he did it. He always does that. He looked at me with his squinting, caramelized eyes that relentlessly know to soften my knees and tighten my hold on him, and I lose it. I forget why I'd been so apprehensive and why I'm waiting for time to stop so that we were all that mattered.
Do I even deserve this? I want to be better. I have to be better. And now that I realize it is possible for me to...love him.. I question myself. And I beat myself up that I'm being more selfish, more wrong than I've ever been.
It always feels right to do wrong, and wrong to do right. "We all look like we feel..."
I can't go back now. I shouldn't turn around anymore. Because this song is playing now. Playing over the song before. I'm sorry...
"Tell me you're happy, one more time," he said. And that's enough to him. Because I'm enough to him.

WhoElse.

PS, Thank you for listening, --. I knew you'd understand.

World,
I'm trying to write a Valentine-related French poem pour ma classe, but nothing is coming out of me. It's like I don't have any love in life. Which is completely untrue because I'm afraid that I might have..tooo much love. Or maybe I just can't of mignon things to say. C'est vrai.

"I wish I had a heart like yours." That really made me happy.

I had a nice day. My heart crashes and the car crashed. I kiss and I kiss and hold and I touch. And I'm such a mess, it must be something to watch.

PS, Forget those deep baby-blue eyes, or a magnificent pair of olive-green eyes, or the hypnosis of silver-gray eyes. I am so in love with brown eyes that I put myself in trouble.

I need to get back to work.
Bonne nuit, je suis desole about my lack of soulful blogging. Je ne sais pas. My witto soul is in hiding since the rain.

Doesn't Make A Difference

Quand il pleut, je suis triste...parfois. This is my rainy day music.
-
I am lacking some sense of a muse. It's irritating. I feel like listing.

1. Everyday I wake up, I come across the thought of my being so dull, so lifeless now. I don't know, it's like a blue moon that a fire burns inside of me. And when it's set, I swear I can't put it out till I flame it out into one explosion. Then I burn down.
2. I still doubt that I'll live passed the age of 20-something.
3. Anxiety is one of my companions. I'm like goddamned Happy Feet when a clock ticks at me.
4. My tear ducts have dried out or something. Maybe not dried, but I can't find myself crying. Like I've become so exhausted that I just let a tear fall, not even fall but well over my eyes, and I'm done.
5. I play Tetris to keep myself from daydreaming. I think I might do too much of it.
6. I can't look at a guitar with out hurting anymore. I know I should have taken the chance every time I had it, but every time gets me closer to a little too late.
7. Ty and Ry keep my feet grounded. If they didn't bring me back down to reality, I'm not sure where my head would be most of the time.
8. I can be so mean to mon petit copain, I wonder how he puts up with me.
9. People are either grossed out or fascinated by my feet. But honestly, I love them more than any other part of my body. I love my outrageous arch...
10. My impeccably soft hands are softest in the morning, and the warmest. I want to wake up with the right someone beside me, so they can see I'm not so cold...
11. I've been waiting for summer since the last day of summer.
12. Scents hurt almost as much as songs.
13. Sometimes, I want to share my love for The Honorary Title with someone. I just want to love it together.
14. Zooey Deschanel reminds me of Katy Perry. Katy Perry reminds me of Zooey Deschanel. They both remind me of Peyton Sawyer.
15. I might name my kid Peyton.
16. I might or might not have a kid.
17. I might or might not get married.
18. Ironically enough, I have this weird thing for wedding rings. I want to wear one! I just do. A pretty, shiny, silver band.
19. This one Jason Mraz song gets me every single time. Guess which one[:
20. And now, I think I've spent too much time sitting here hoping something brilliant and profound comes to me while making a list of insignficant and significant things about myself. And nothing. Irritating.

Ou est ma muse? Ou-es tu?

Bonne nuit.

PS, I lied. I trimmed my hair. I couldn't have the long length. Reminded me of being just a little younger..

It's 3:52 in the afternoon and I am in my room, like I have been for the past 3 days working, sitting, listening, playing, and thinking. Thinking is dangerous.

The reason for my being home so early is an aggravating thought. I feel like my school life has never been busier. It's as if it has all just dawned on me from the corner of my walls and I am now taking it head on. I chose school over badmnton! That is unlike me. But I know that if I chose badminton, I'll never get to my work. Maybe tomorrow will be a better day. And by better, now I'm starting to hope for warm and sunny. Forecast reads rain. Rain showers in the morning that will evolve into a more steady rain in the afternoon. Doesn't that sound lovely? Mm, I can't tell if I'm being sarcastic either.
-
World, I love eyes. And eyes love me. I'm in twouble.

Shuffle

Color! The influence of color is washing over me, neatly, pleasantly.

Beside me is a mutated fist of an orange that keeps me quite happy. Behind me is the blue chill of the outside of my window. Pale blue eating bluer blues, and white, respectful clouds making nice. Under me is the comfort of my stiff, cold, and brown wooden floors. They seem ecstatic to have me for three complete days for themselves. And all around me is the green that elevates and descends down on me. The green that could solely look and sound and feel and smell like the summers gone by and the summers to come. Pink lips are the effect of my greenhouse cause. Black hair browning and growing, like an introvert, aimless growth of a tree. The edge, post-hardcores; dying for a scissor and excruciating heat. And gray, I'm lookin' grayer than gray. Or pale, or a washed out brown. But I feel better than I look. Maybe.

This is like a filler paragraph. The intro's of the beginning of chapters when the author begins describing every leaf of a tree and every grain of sand on some cold beach. I might be very well bored.

500 Days of Summer - Something to look forward to folks. July 24, 2009

iPod on Shuffle

The good news is that I've just finished my geometry homework, and yes I did the complete assignment, oddly enough. It was a liberating feeling, like it's the first time I'd ever finished a math assignment. What a funny thought.

Tetris is my new friend. We are a two-headed, self-antagonizing function. I think the whole game is bettering my focusing skills, and my strategical and logical decision-making skills. Every time I make one minute mistake, one wrong square, one false finger movement, all the pieces lose place and intention. And one wrong goes on top of another and another. Then I repeat in my head, "You'll dig yourself out of this hole, you'll dig yourself out of this hole." Like it's some life-changing dilemma that requires me to gain my senses to scope through. And I prevail! For a second or two. Yeah I feel silly.

But now my iPod is messing with me or something. I put it on shuffle and it is playing strictly my most painful playlists. From summers to winters, bad days to vacations. Taking Back Sunday to AFI to The Strokes to Tegan and Sara to MCR to The Used to Paramore and every single other song in between that pins a needle in my little heart till the next song begins. It's telling me to reminisce or something, but I'm refusing. Aha, right now, I need bigger distractions.

Just felt like blogging.

Bloodflowers - The Cure

I feel the frustration of losing absolute signal and connection when I plant myself inside my greenhouse, where all the heat falls when the sun is enticed. I can feel myself losing it. I lose it. And I always lose.

It's like a heaven kind of loss. Like I've died. Yesterday was just a dream, and today's production was the hour of my death. Amen?

Stepping foot through the threshold is my kind of pearly gates, but instead of being welcomed and invited, I crashed this fucking place. It's like the forsaken collection, a prison where you are freed when you please to be. You'll be damned, in front of me, beside me, on me, under me, with me. My regrets will be yours to regret while my memories are yours to wash your hands with. The sins I've committed that let the outside of this place be a reality that makes you as human as possible. Possibly primitive, and maybe you'll pray away the dirt off your feet.

But I won't.

I let the acid burn of my wrong become the tight skin I wear now. I peel and squeal and curse for it away as I always take it out of the closet and put it back on again. My teeth bare themselves so hungrily, angrily. Intensely, the intent of the famine in my chest, down wholly to the trickling echo of my very core, I clench them sharp on top of one another, shut myself tight with my jaw, and hope that I won't spill out and over the edges. Not now. Not today. Not when the sun is watching me. But here, tonight, any night, when the sun knows to trust me, I disobey, I rebel, and I lash. I take, then I grab, then I stare. I hold, I beat a thunder out of my chest, I breathe, just to lose my breath. Then I lose my words, open my mouth, and keep them apart. My hands know to do it wrongly right. And here I am, shattering and breaking apart inside as I become. Yes, I become the being of the only thing I know.

I'd rather have the whispers, the secrets, the sighs and the moans, and the grazing to be with here, tonight, any night.
The mirrors turned. The lights off.

In darkness we trust.

Je suis tres fatigue.
Mais... je suis heureux
Parce que !

I know it's not a big deal, but it is to me. I am the beating epitome of mediocrity. I can strive all I can in my mind, and dream the biggest dreams, but I don't apply. I never apply. I find reasons not to be, not to have, no to do. That's just me! It's not an excuse, it's just something I know of myself. I am just proud of myself, that's all. Because I excel above everyone else for the first time in a long time.

If you're proud of me too, then thanks so much.

"I was thinking to myself how could someone be so happy"

He's lucky. He had the chance to see me at my prime moments first hand, with out the exposure of my monster.

Ange Yesterday: "So tell me, is happiness a choice?"

Dean Today: "Right now, I don't think happiness is a choice. I'm just so happy."

I want to shut up. He's making me run out unintelligent. My brain thrashed around with gooey, heart-shaped thought-clouds. My embarrassing admission.

PS. Eye exams are way too intimate.

PPS. Rich brown eyes, intense.

"What the hell Angie! So ungrateful!" My goodness, his plan was well enough to make ME seem ungrateful.

I am spoiled. It's bad. I'm getting it bad. I'm losing me. And I can feel him dissolving in me. Or maybe it's me that's just dissolving at all.

Note to self: Get a fucking grip. He.just.loves.you.

Goddamn? Those very words scare the living shit out of me. I just squirm inside, like trying on a new pair of shoes after loving my ripped and torn and amazing Shitties, my trusty 6-year-old Converse'. I am reluctant to let my instincts take the damned lead. I am reluctant to let my guard down. I am fucking reluctant.

I just squirm inside, like when I first let MCR go after I'd translated my all into them, loving them so strange enough that it actually hurt me. But I had to, like I always have to. It always hurts too much when I stick around by myself, waiting for a guitar solo that takes my breath away for some beautiful seconds, then the song ends, and i limply lay, shattered.

That's how it goes everybody, songs end. I'd led myself into making it through by living in the moments. That moments could be perfect on its own, with out the thought of its past or future. It's hard you know, 'cause you're reluctant sometimes. Just so fucking reluctant.

Why it scares the living shit out of me? Because I'm just not ready for it. I can't say it, I can't begin to say it, and I can't say it back. And I never want to tell him something I don't mean. No matter how good he makes me feel..

Sigh.

I just have to tell myself, I've everything I need.

So tell me, is happiness a choice? Because I can take it right now, and forget about everything else. But I tell you, I'm reluctant. So fucking reluctant. Because MCR made their mark on me, my shoes meant something to me, and all that was then can't make it now because of inevitability. Understand what I'm saying?

I need some sign. I need to know if to keep it going forward, and forget about...everything else.

Mrs. Lake's class exudes everything that makes me feel summer is here. Her voice, the threshold to her class, the tennisball-ed chairs, and the memories that come along just sitting there. I just felt good in there.

Makayla and I shared an insightful conversation today in Geometry. And I learned something about myself again. But sadly, this new found self-knowledge makes me a little sad. Like I should have always known this, which I'm sure I did, but'd done nothing about it.

17 years of my life and I still am not quite sure who I really am. The influence that I keep soaking up is so impeccably contagious, it's hard to help. Being with someone different every time means I become someone different every time. Some days, I can't even grasp who I was for that day. I tell myself that everyone must have multiple personalities. But I get so sucked in the endlessly changing characters I play, that I must be doing something wrong. I must be all wrong.

Very rarely, I find myself acknowledging the moment when it feels like this is probably me. This is who I am. But like day turns into night, I change. In some sense, I'm getting the feeling that I might be afraid to really be who I am. Even though I continuously make a firm claim on who I know I am, as to who I think I am. It feels like it isn't true, so I have to repeatedly remind myself just to keep my feet on the ground and my head on my shoulders.

Then of course, the concept of my passions tag right along. Do I find my passion when I figure out truly who I am? Or is it the other way around? I find my passion, and bam, there I am. Maybe? Maybe I've even found it, just not fully acknowledged it. Maybe?
The Seaching for Oneself Crisis.

Like always, I'm only ever certain of one thing. That's all I can fit in me anyway, at the moment.

In this place, I thought I'd lost.
They thought they'd lost,
We thought we'd all lost.
In this place, no one relinquishes,
No, not ever really.

PS, Infinite tomorrow

The sun is quite friendly today, and I intend on spending some time on my porch, like I know summer will be here. I've been buried under books all weekend, just how I like it. With my companion Jose Cuervo, and the slight anchoring of a wonderful voice that I can't figure out.

The first book I finished was very empathetic. I felt everything, even having to pause because for a second or two, it felt like someone'd been watching me and I'd been exposed. I learned something new about myself, which I tend to when I read. Last night, I understood the concepts of falling and lack of communication. I was actually a little creeped out at some point. I'd been dug up, or so it felt like. And the little pieces that I needed were somehow right in my grip. I had to repeat to myself that I AM capable of continuing to reading. And now I just feel silly. I'm not much of happy endings, but I beared it. I must admit, one of the most difficult books that I'd read.

And now, I'm alone dans ma chambre verte, waiting till I'm ready to step out.

I held the dark, and it held me back
Soft breaths to last till the morning, I thought
As the sun cries out to me
I see my roses starting to die
And I ache a different way I'd ached
That night before.