January 10, 2008
· Filed under Old Writing · Tagged English, Life is Beautiful, Poetry, The Pianist
I wrote this for a class I hated. Therfor I can’t fully appreciate it. But at the same time, I still think it’s well crafted.
Today I watched more life slip away.
Deafening, was the silence;
that filled the absence it made.
And though I knew it was wrong,
I was relieved.
That absence was not me.
My life should not be this illuminated.
Not with so much gray.
But it is.
I place my life in the future,
when the gray will no longer consume.
That is the only tomorrow for me.
And every night before I sleep,
I feed myself obscurities with a spoon
to keep myself shielded from the sharp points of reality.
Then I turn on the light
that warms my core
as the cold eats away at the remains of my human image.
The light fills me with music.
The light fills me with innocence.
This light is the heart of all humanity.And as I close my eyes to sleep,
clutching the light to my chest,
I hold in my hands what I hold in my dreams:
Hope.
January 10, 2008
· Filed under Old Writing · Tagged Marshmallows, Socks
I keep a bag of marshmallows in my sock drawer.
Everytime somebody needs to borrow some socks they find the marshmallows.
Their first question is always “Why do you have marshmallows in your sock drawer?”
Their second question is, usually, something along the lines of “Do you mind if I have one?”
I’ve yet to figure out what possesses people to take a marshmallow from somebody who keeps them in her sock drawer.
I’ve also yet to figure out why people need to borrow socks from me in the first place.
Maybe the people I know just happen to really enjoy other peoples socks .
Maybe the people I know just happen really enjoy marshmallows.
But I keep them in my sock drawer for you.
Marshmallows are sugar. Pure sugar. Pure white. Pure goodness.
Socks are cotton. Pure cotton. Pure white. Pure goodness.
Steal my socks and steal my marshmallows, you probably need them more than I do.
[P.S. I really do keep marshmallows in my sock drawer. Marshmallows kick so much ass]
January 10, 2008
· Filed under Old Writing · Tagged Life, Writing
Despite the fact that I don’t know where here is, I know one thing:
I don’t belong here.
Not because I’m different though. I’m probably the most undifferent person you’ll ever meet.
I’m intensely average at almost everything. Possibly below average at a few things as well.
But I feel worn out by the tedious tendancies connections always seem to take.
Not that I don’t need connections.
I just feel my connection doesn’t lie within the realm of human existence.
I’m not connected to us.
I don’t like us.
We’re too strange of beings.
I connect with other things around us though, the earth and other animals.
If I take humans out of our known context, and view us as animals, I can connect with us too.
But it’s usually so superficial because the connection always seems to relate to some sort of vanity.
Things so trivial to our existance that I feel disheartened, almost pity, for our kind.
I’ve just come to find that there is hardly any substance to our minds.
Or better, there is more substance than we know what to do with.
I watch this obsessive pride take over mankind.
Like we deserve so much more than the rest.
Why? Where did that fucking mentality come from in the first place?
Our complexes are too complex. It’s too hard for us to attach to anybody…or anything.
On a purely emotional level at least.
Because our emotions are completely obscured by what we’ve been taught to think.
All the words they put in our heads. Words. God I hate them.
Don’t get me wrong, I talk a mile a minute, I know.
But when I talk I convey nothing of what actually goes on inside of me.
That can’t be felt through words. Words are too superficial.
Feeling things by other means is the only way possible for me, crazy as it seems.
So here’s me, staring into the eyes of some fish and feeling every emotion on the spectrum.
Like this little fish understands me, like he knows exactley what’s in my head. Like I know exactley what’s in his.
I feel intrusive like I don’t belong here, but I can’t look away because he’s feeling the same thing.
And so we just stare at each other for awhile entraced by the serenity of another’s thoughts.
Until we finally look away.
Then life continues like nothing happened at all.
But it’s so strange because you’ve just glimpsed another creatures most personal being.
Bonding yourself for eternity with another’s soul, or whatever you want to define an infinite spirit as.
It’s so intense, like a great wave crashing down. Sweeping away your empty, hollow, self and replacing it with a sense of purpose.
I crave this connection at all times. I must have it. It’s what ties me to all living things around me.
But I don’t feel like I can have it here, wherever here is.
It’s too narrow. It’s too similair. It’s too transparent.
After I find here I’m gonna find there and that’s where it all becomes clear.
I’m connected somewhere to something; many things, all at once.
And all I can do is feel them, seeing is out of the question.
I’ve never been of the extreme religious nature however…
There’s some evident truth in not always having to see everything in order to believe it.
January 10, 2008
· Filed under Old Writing
So I write a lot…probably more than I should.
I keep it all in various places: On the computer, on myspace, in journals, on my homework…I find things that I’ve written everywhere. I want to start posting some of it on here. I think that most of it’s more fascinating than my boring days.
Not that I’ll quit writing daily blogs about my life-because I will.
But I think that’s more for me than it is for anybody else.
So I’m just gonna dump a bunch of stuff I previously wrote into different blogs tonight.
And that’s the story behind the beginning of this category.
I’ll post new writings on here too eventually
But until then it’ll just be stuff I’ve written in the past couple months.
Yup. And that’s The End of The Beginning.
