Jekyll and Hyde.

I'm significantly happier than I used to be, but I can't help but cry when I'm alone late at night.
It was never supposed to be like this. None of it. But here I am, living it.
Late nights with my friends are the easy nights. I come home happy and too tired to do anything but crawl in bed and sleep so deeply my dreams get crazy. But now that I'm alone, only a few of my nights are like that and I have to succumb to how I got left behind and how I shouldn't have been. I become at home with the mess of my room, the clutter and chaos comforting. It's just another one of my mechanisms to materialize my absolute and utter helpless feeling.
I know I'm really sick. I've accepted that. Once I got past all the bullshit and came down to it and I saw what was really underneath my petty problems, I got it. It's not even that I'm embarrassed about it. I have great friends. They would support me. It's more that I don't want to become another teenager drug induced to feel happy again. It'd be like a submission. Like I'd be all those whiny brats who cry because their parents don't get them.
It's not that I want to be happy all the time; I don't. I just want a little control back. To be able to handle things and be able to work at things. And it almost makes me want to get some freaking help. But then my mind spins and I think who the hell would help me for free? Who would be able to understand why I can't throw that away or why I can't get out of bed?
I hate looking in the mirror. Not only because I hate the outside but because the outside is just an outcome of the psycho on the inside. Like Jekyll and Hyde, but the monster is winning. Always.

A poem.

A man once drowned in a fountain of angels.

People sat and watched under a sea
of black and light.
An angel was once caged and chained by a man.
God slept on over a sea
of death and sorrow.
And all the while,
a single lark sang a deep and hopeful tune.
Five branches crossed over an ancient crypt.
May all who seek find empty wells.
For the man with the blood of the Angel,
who soars into the heavens
and lights like the sun,
may he find the hope he seeks.

To a Robert Burns

The best laid plans of mice and men go often awry.
I backward cast my eye on prospects dear.
And forward, though I cannot see, I guess and fear.




Just once I'd like a plan to actually work. I spend way too much of my life making plans and never going through with them or having them fall apart. But then, such great poetry wouldn't be written.

Let's be honest.

I won't wear my retainer every night. Hardly once a month even. I can't always get up to take my contacts out before bed. I floss once a week. I can't not Facebook stalk and I can't always be in the mood. As much as I want to, I can't bring myself to go buy more hair dye to cover the blonde peeking through and I don't have time for a trim every two weeks. Despite good intentions I tan once a month and work out even less. I cry when I say I don't, which is nearly every time. And let's not even bring up homework. For all the things I wish I could do, I can't even do what I need to. Everyone knows flossing is important for oral health and wearing my contacts to bed has been really bad for my eyes according to the eye doctor. Yet I don't. I am a bit lazy. I will admit that. But maybe I'm just so set on being who I am I won't change. Maybe that's why I can't move on because even though I know I have changed and everyone else has, I refuse to believe things can't be the same. Where's the wake up call?

I just learned what some of these keys do. Look at this! [ ] \ { }| ^ ~ `§ σ ô

A day and a dream.

Clear as day. Most days are hazy and the light makes things warped. Daytimes lies. When people say clear as day I think something goes off in my head to be wary around them whether they see the irony in their words or not.



I had a dream that I swam really far down in the ocean. And I was terrified because deep, open water scares me. And there were tons of jellyfish all around me as I went down and they were stinging me. Then I got to the floor of the ocean. I started touching all their tops and they were smooth and soft and they all gathered around me. And I heald my breath the whole time.

I'm tired...

There are some things in the world that you just can't pass up. You just can't have an opportunity for some things and not take it.
1. A visit to the beach.
2. A chance to whistle without being annoying.
3. Painting with your hands.
4. Learning something interesting.
5. Listening to a good song.
6. Something sweet.
7. A really good hug.
8. An adventure.
There is so much people deny themselves or others when they just shouldn't. It is sad that some people don't ever get a chance to do anything worthwhile for themselves. I don't mean in the world or the environment or finding a cure for cancer. I mean for themselves. And that is so sad. And so many people do it.

The seconds the soul is cradled.

This morning I woke up and I drove to school. And the air was cool and clean and I could feel fall coming. And I wondered if, on our deathbed, right before the end, we closed our eyes and went back to the happiest time in our life. If our eyes saw no priest, or empty alley. No relatives holding their breath or a dark hospital room through milky eyes but we saw with the crystal clarity that is only possible through rememberance of true happiness, the best day, the best hour, the best second, of our lives. Where he lived up in the mountains with his young wife and made love to her every night and somedays they stayed up talking until the early sunlight streamed through the window. Or where she swam in the small pond in the woods where the water ran so clear she could see the millions of colors of the rocks and the plants and the fish that swam inches from her. Or simply when they stood in the doorway holding eachother for twenty minutes straight with no talking, not trying to kiss, no moving, and absolutely no selfishness. I wondered if the last second, we looked back and we saw it was all worth it for that one time. To be really happy. And though we all may not die in a happy room or in a serene way, and though some may be crying and be in terrible pain, that last moment will be one of home and happiness and a sense of being found.


And if I were there when Rudy was sleeping, the bomb about to hit, I'd say to death, "I know you. And I know humans haunt you and the terrible things they do. But cradle his soul in your arms, not over your shoulder or hanging from your fingers. Hold him like you held the children from the gassing chambers and hold him like you held her little brother. Hold him like he's just the lemon haired boy dreaming about the kiss from the book thief next door. Walk with him down what's left of Himmel Street and hold him in your arms while she finally kisses those dead, bomb burned lips and I want you to cry. Because you'll never get a vacation with humans. And because I know he makes you cry, the boy who wanted to run like Jesse Owens." And I'd look death in the face and I'd know him. I'd see every sky and every color he's ever seen and I'd cry with him for the glorious and terrible human race.*




*If confused, please read The Book Thief by Markus Zusak in its entirety.