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A little less conversation. [11 Apr 2006|06:33pm]
[ mood | distressed ]

   I'm finding it more and more difficult to believe I have any courage in me whatsoever. That being said, I'm at a loss for words to do the most important thing that I may do this year. And it requires nothing BUT words. Well, some action. Not only will this...thing relieve emense amounts of stress in my life, but it'll simultaneously close/open a door, and allow sleep, for once, to occur peacefully. For me, at least. Then again, I'm jumping the gun. I'm assuming by doing this...I'll sleep better, when in fact, I might sleep less, or uneasily. Because I can't make myself get up and do anything regarding this...struggle. For lack of better words. No, I'd call it a struggle, because, truthfully, it is. Woah. Comma splice. The Pera would be disappointed.

I'm losing a bit of my sanity each day that passes. I'm fighting for words, I'm fighting for peace of mind, fighting for air, happiness, strength, and will power. When all is said and done, will I have lost more than I gained? I'm not out in the world to do whatever it takes to make it to the top. I don't even like the top. I'm comfortable with common ground. But who's to say that I'll feel better in retrospect? Maybe for a short time, but if the conclusion beings me to more suffering, possibly anguish, and leave me frustrated with dirty knees. But "why do we fall, master Bruce? So we pick ourselves up." Or something to that extent.

I can tell that I've grown. I know that a year ago, I was not who I am now. I think a year ago me would annoy the now me. Hell, the now me annoys me. But I don't think I've digressed, I think I've progressed, ascended some stairs, shedded some skin. Some tiresome, old, tattered things that weighed me down. It took a while. But that's what the whole point of this grievance was...except the seperation wasn't planned, it happened without warning, quite suddenly, and to my disappointed alarm.

The point is that I know what it is. I know that this is the period at the end of the sentence. There are no "if's" involved, there is no excuse involving time, distance and personality. I know...because it's planted itself inside of me, and years from now, if I never gain the courage, that seed will still be there, still no more than a tiny pod, and I'll still be wondering what would've happened if I'd've watered it.

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Waitresses all sing this: [29 Sep 2005|12:18am]
[ mood | blah ]

I do believe I'm going to die. Tomorrow. My epitaph should be written promptly after I post this. The reason for my demise, you ask? Why, twas psychology and trigonometry that combined their forces, and with one swift blow, took mine own breath from my lungs and my heart ceased in it's purpose.

I've only made out the cards to review for psychology. And I still have to practice math problems and make a review card. AND then I have to write a paper for Intro to film about something that really isn't important, because that teacher hates me. She gives me the death ray everytime I enter the classroom. And she belittled me TWICE last Thursday. For God's SAKE! I can't read EVERYTHING! Out of my group, I'm the only one to speak up, and I get VERBALLY ASSAULTED BECAUSE OF IT. Stupid Gabe. Stupid Steven Smith or some other really plain name.

My only break (aside from this) will be the wonderous Full Metal Alchemist. And I cannot wait.

I'm only waiting for this time tomorrow.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

OH WAIT. I forgot. I've been avoiding my art professor from the last year and a half because he's a left wing psycho path. And he was trying to push his painting I class onto me, when I distinctly dropped the class. I said I'd ask my mom to see if we could afford me taking a FIFTH class. And if I see him, then I'll give him the report that the money is hindering my artistic education, sorry, no dice. All that said, my purpose for that statement was because my Film professor requested us to come in early and see the art show. Where HE will be. And Lucie, who will probably ask me why I didn't contribute anything. BECAUSE. Not being in an art class, means 4 classes not-art-related that're taking up my time. omg.

it's said to make yourself happy before anyone else. but I don't think college professors or grades were put into consideration when that stupid proverb was stated. LAME.

lame.

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if i bite ya i bet ya like it. [21 May 2005|08:57pm]
[ mood | nope. ]

i'm aware of my reclusive nature.

4 took . take

lull. [11 May 2005|10:22pm]
[ mood | lethargic ]

being alone it can be quite romantic
like jacques cousteau underneath the atlantic.

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thee [21 Mar 2005|05:18pm]
the need for certain things keep
keep up the loss of words

and in the end there is a hole
full but not in the ends of

what can be never would return
it had been run off

transient though it felt
ever it remains sinking.
take

Existentialism [03 Mar 2005|06:38am]
[ mood | scratchy and misinterpreted ]

Who was to know that yesterday, when I woke up from a brief 2 hour sleep, that it would end up being one of the most intensely insecure days of my life.

There are those days when some emotions are heightened more than others. A day that's particularly sad, one that is overall painful, and the rare and elusive good day. But for some reason, it's possible for insecurity to be magnified more on one day then any other day of the week. Or even the year for that matter.

Yesterday ended up placing me in such a place...such an uncomfortable, nervous and insecure place, that aside from my usual never wanting to leave the comfort of my bed feeling in the morning, something about yesterday morning told me to stay in bed. Said that today just wasn't worth the fight, today wasn't worth being cut off in traffic, today wasn't worth getting dressed and wondering how cold it is outside, and today wasn't worth pouring a glass of orange juice to awaken my senses.

And yesterday was precisely as my thoughts lead me to believe it would be. I believe I walked around looking worried all day. A day where it would've been best to sleep past 4 and wake up and read. Or stare at the ceiling.
What a waste of energy yesterday was.

take

make me your selection [23 Feb 2005|03:57am]
[ mood | guilty ]

dear everyone: stop making more stupid people. thnx.

1 took . take

[13 Feb 2005|11:49pm]
[ mood | on the eve of a curious day ]

On the eve of Valentines day, you might think that, being single, I would vent about such a commercialized holiday. And in the back of your mind, after discussing the history and complaining about the one date I've ever had that happened to fall on the 14th of February 2 years ago, you would call me bitter, removed, and possibly a feminist. But I'm going to avoid such unknown yet acknowledged thoughts.

Instead of which, I feel as if I should share a "flow of the pen," if you will.

   What happened to the sunlight that was bent across the floor? It had shown through the back door with such golden brilliance that the pain of looking into the sun could not cease the curiosity of what the sky felt like around such a hue. From the back porch I could hear a car drive by, and I wondered what their destination was. There was no breeze, only a thought in the air, and the occasional child's laughter. Amazingly enough, the only thing that I feel racing through my head is what pair of shoes I would wear. What pair of shoes? How superficial. I stand on the edge of a day yet to reach half over and all I can think about is whether or not my shoes will match my skirt. But these minimal/inane questions rarely occupy my thoughts, and since nothing else clouded my mind, I dwell on the fact that nothing of worldly importance is bringing upon a possible headache.
For this reason, I suppose I begin to realize that I will never know what it's like to feel like a girl. A stereotypical, labeled thought, perhaps, but it spirals into past experiences. I was never the girl who was put into dresses with purple bows down the front (with the exception of my parents' wedding, and those were turquoise bows), I was never the girl to sit at the table at lunch and talk about crushes (except for Jonathan Taylor Thomas, and he was my one and only), I was never the girl who liked to paint her fingernails, wear tight jeans, or comb my hair (I still don't brush my hair, really). Who I was is irrelevant. Who I am now is directly proportional to my past experiences. Condsider the opposite of what I wasn't, and you'll have me. In a nutshell.
I still don't like to paint my fingernails. I'm not ambidexterous, therefore, my right hand looks as if someone seizured mid-manicure. I'm not a girl. Not really. Well...I know I'm not the only female that is this way. So I suppose, I am a girl. I don't mind getting my hands dirty, chasing chameleons, or not wearing makeup; I love snakes (no tolerance for spiders, mind you), can't stand dresses (except for the cancan), and I lack the butt for tight jeans.
I am, however, a hopeless romantic. I would wear dresses if I could afford them, and only on dates.

I only wish for lillies. Not every lily in the tri-state area...a single lily would be enough.

I wish I could watch Big Fish.

Sandra Templeton, I love you and I WILL marry you!

I realize those are daffodils. But lillies would be just as lovely, I like to think. Like snow that smells like a dream.

take

Give me back my point of view. [04 Feb 2005|04:59am]
[ mood | zzz. ]

...'Cause I just can't think for you.

So my fingertips graze the top of the pillow case and I blink vision into a darkened room. There's only light bleeding slowly from the tablecloth hanging over the window, and very little of it. I can feel a pounding headache, my jaw tightens and I kick my feet over the edge of the bed. It's one of those mornings when sleep is so heavy on your muscles, and weight seems to rest at the bottom of each of your appendages, pulling your fingertips, shoulders and hips down like weights were sewn to them. It's like you weigh 100 pounds more than you really do. I hate those mornings. It makes abandoning sleep that much harder. But what do you do when a deep pool and the glisten of the moon resides within your interrupted slumber? When that possibility of running your fingers over the softness of short, soft, brown hair is like a whisper on your eyelashes. Except you can't feel it. You think you can, but your mind fills in what it should feel like to have hair that short graze your palm. Like when you did it playfully to that kid in your Government class in your junior year after he made a comment on how he thought your hair would make the perfect dredlocks. Thats what your mind recalls.
Why is there only a vacant stare and a sideways smile in return? In the end, why don't you establish something that would have him laughing just as you are. I can feel him looking down on me. My head is at the foot of my bed, and I can hear the rain striking the porch softly outside my window. All he does is smile, and I talk; about what I can't hear. I can't hear myself talk, I only hear mumbling in my head, like I'm underwater and someone's speaking to me above the water. I feel myself laughing. There's mischief behind his gaze as he brushes hair out of my eyes. His jacket is steel blue and apart of me wishes he'd offer it to me, even though I'm not cold. That would be a waste. He looks so charming and his eyes are terribly weakening. What a breakdown of my defenses. The shadows seem frozen on his face, just on the left side, where it's just enough to catch the color of his eyes. He's sitting on the edge of the bed near my arm, and his hands are in his lap. He's slouched but the expression on his face writes no boredom. There's no lights on in the room, and the house sounds quiet. So quiet, I find it funny I don't notice. What am I talking about?
There's that feeling you get when you're watching a movie, and you know someone is about to profess their love for someone, and it's as if the words are hanging off your lips, eager for the response. Like you're the one doing the professing. And it's as if you don't even care if it's unrequited, because how can it be when the words seem so perfect? Who cares if it's unrequited, because they're the ones with the courage to say how they feel. And that's the feeling I have, but strictly in my heart, while he laughs for the first time. It feels so strange as he makes no advances, he adds no inclination of wanting to interupt. Whatever I say, his perpetual smile remains and he has this look of intent that leaves me curious. This is probably why I want to pull him down by the collar of his shirt and do unspeakable things. He still says nothing, even when I make a comment on his silence, then slide my hands over my face so he doesn't witness my violent blushing. Then I feel my hands being pulled away from my face, and I look up and his smile has been replaced by a scribbled sincerity that leaves me estranged. His lips separate and his eyes dart to the window, and the beginning syllables of an unuttered word or phrase start. My eyes become blurry, and I open them to see the light in my room is on. It sits haphazardly upon the hutch, and I prop myself up on my elbows. I shake my head in disbelief and begin for the edge of the bed. But I stop short at the edge. Why does it feel so warm on the opposite side of where I slept?

Sod off, alarm. But when I open my eyes again, after reclining for another 15 minutes, he's sleeping beside me. His hands are tucked under his cheek, and his eyelids twitch from a dream he must be having. That's peculiar, I think, when I realize my head is at the opposite end I was just at. his back is to the door and my hand is resting in between his arms. The silence of the house is ringing in my ears when I pick up on his heartbeat. It's so soft, and his cheeks are pinkert. I run my fingers down the side of his face and a smile cracks the corner of his mouth, when a shadow passes in front the door. His eyes open and he squeezes my hand. "You must close your eyes," he says in a hushed voice. Hastily, he pulls the comforter over our heads. The heat of our breath is building up underneath the comforter, then he pulls his face right up to mine. He begins to speak over my ear, I feel his lips open, and a small gasp escapes him. The heat of his breath sends a chill down my spine, I feel him wrap his arms around me, pulling himself against me.
"Lisa," I hear. From outside the comforter my mom is calling me. "Lisa, the doorbell." My eyes open for a third time. The light in the living room stings my eyes. I sit up, bewildered. But what of--...
"Lisa! The door!" My mom yells. I get to my feet, feeling the weight of sleep still upon my bones. Why am I now there?, I start to think, as I open the door. Chilly wind from outside breezes my face. When I look up, he smiles. "I was hoping it'd be you," he says. But those aren't the pools I remember.
The rain has stopped now. Finally I can get some sleep.

1 took . take

twice over [02 Nov 2004|01:56pm]
And I just voted. \m/ Kerry.
take

Flippin' sweet! [22 Sep 2004|05:26pm]
[ mood | ready ]

Whatever happened to the thoughts of neverending?
Whatever happened to those nights we were spending
The finely tuned instruments of the night breathing
And the air was so thick, you thought of leaving
But tomorrow was on the horizon, and life had made it's promise
Of the list of intangibles, and ephemeral losses.
So, you find yourself unable to breathe subtley,
Because of what has gone and left you utterly
Struggling, you go down without a real fight,
Essentially, you're blind and wound up so tight,
But the only thing you can't see, without losing a sense of self
Is what you know to be real, sitting right upon the shelf.

take

Concentration is gone. [21 Sep 2004|04:28pm]
[ mood | surprised ]

This has probably been the most surreal day of my entire life.

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If on a Winters Night... [12 Sep 2004|06:46pm]
[ mood | melancholy ]

I picture myself, when songs like these play through my mind, telling him, confessing the truth to him. But not on a day like today. On one of those cold nights in late December, I think my birthday, when there's a bitter, biting breeze rushing over the trees and a rustling of leaves can always be heard. I ask him, maybe over the phone, or maybe, because it's important, and to get my point across, I go to his house. Sitting in my car in his driveway, I'll have turned my headlights off, or maybe parked across the street. I don't want Murphy to bark. I'll stare at his front door blankly, listening to the sound of my breathing.

So I scuff up the driveway slowly, and reluctantly I tap the door. I rub my hands together and tuck my nose underneath my scarf as I wait for someone to answer. It opens with a squeak, and a smile breaks across his face, I'm hoping it's because of me. "Hey," he half mumbles. He makes a joke about Christmas carolling, I smile slightly and shake my head. "What's up?" he asks with a slight raise of his eyebrow. I shrug as I stick my hands in my pockets. "No, not carolling," I mumble, and I cast my eyes down to his feet. He's barefoot. "Do you think you could meet me somewhere later?" I ask. My pulse is shaking my whole body. "What for? Where is somewhere?" he asks. "Well--" I begin, but he cuts me off to pull me inside. "It's freezing," he says with a chuckle and a comment about how thin my jacket is. We walk to his room, he restrains Murphy until he can close the door behind us, and I sit on his bed slowly. His lamp on his drawing desk is on, so he must've been doing homework. Or a drawing. "What're you asking me, now?" He asks, spinning around in his chair. I bow my head and concentrate on a loose string in his carpet. "I just...can you meet me, I guess at the lakefront, a little later? Whenever your parents are in bed or not doing anything?" I force myself say, stuttering uncontrollably. "I guess. Why?"
"You'll see," I respond. "I guess around ten...if that's okay?" I can feel him looking at me now. "Sure."
And I leave, shaking on the inside, and more noticebly, the outside. My breathing is short as I drive home. Two hours and sixteen minutes until sleep can finally be a consideration, I think with a quick glance at the clock on the dashboard. My stereo is playing really soft, and I don't bother to turn it up. It'll cloud out my thinking.
The time in between then and ten o'clock drags by, and I practice what I'll be saying for the eighteen hundred and fifty-fourth time.

There are a few people at the lakefront when I pull up. A couple walking their large, black dog, a young woman jogging in sweats, and someone fishing near the gazeebo. Despite the pitch black sky, clouds can be seen floating across the crescent moon, and a few stars peek out at random times. Well, I think, at least I can't feel my fingers. My butt goes numb from the cold cement benches and I see his headlights down the road. Cars have been driving by for the past fifteen minutes, but I feel my stomach go into knots, so I know it's him. And as he parks, my mind races to remember everything while the jingling of his keys can be heard before he puts them in his pocket. He comes out from behind his large, black SUV and juts up the small incline to where I'm sitting. He's got a black sweater on, I don't pay attention to what it says, and blue jeans. He goes to say something, but all I can think about is having him keep me warm by wrapping his arm around me. His nose is red, so he must've been driving with his windows down. Lunatic, I think, and smile. My nose must be red, too. He sits down across from me and hunches over a little. He smiles at me as he looks up. The gaze of his blue eyes weakens me a bit, and I feel myself get goosebumps. "Why'd you want me to meet you here?" he asks. The vapors of his breath fade quickly, but are replaced by ones from his breathing, and for some reason, I feel that there is something good in this world.

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