Why is it I always choose wrong? It's like my heart seems to reject logic just for the sale of arguing. Like a small child, it knows what's right and always chooses opposite to spite the reasonable adult of my head. I know he cares and I know that you dont. But yet my heart decides that tiny, insignificant detail can become a basis for the truth. It's wrong of course, these details are nothing more than insignificant but yet the heart reaches and yearns all the same. We always want what we can't have but I'm so afraid of being alone I would just as soon fall in false love than wait forever for that which will not come. Why can't I seem to understand you. People are never so complicated as they seem yet each glance of your eyes makes me want to hide and to know what the reason could be.

The tales they whisper, write with your heart. Feel the magic as it streams toward the page. But what if the beauty is dried and cracked? What if the ink, it fades? What if you were to find it then? Left on a tear-stained page. Dotted and blackened and worn with age. Would you be interested? Sparked with the gentle lull of curiosity? Would you try to unlock the hidden secrets? Would you labor over the words that wouldn't come, or had been worn away? And what if the letter turned up empty? What if the meaning was simply the harshest form of bullshit. Yes, mystery is alluring, and captivating to the mind, but what if the mystery hides merely illusion? When the magician's tricks are revealed will you walk away? When a person goes from god to man does your love fade? What if i go from expectation to reality...? Will everyone walk away? I know. It's different. But does that make it bad? Just because the grace comes not from a work of artistry or ballet, but from a place buried, deep inside. I've hidden it. But will you be worth my wait? Or will I just walk away?

I haven't written. Not in a while i suppose. Not in a long while. It feels childish. This game of give and take. This never-ending threat of tears which i then push down with cold and numbness because i don't want to feel. No, not that even. I just don't think it's right to feel. How do they do it all? How do they seem so happy so often....It just never works out right. "the best friend". That's my character type. Im too ugly, too fat, to honest, too depressed and weird and awkward to play the hero. She's everything im not. Beauty and grace and strength. Tell me. Have you ever seen a hero cry? Or push away all of the ones that love her because she is repulsed by her own self. Maybe temporarily. But it never lasts for long. Because life? that goes on. But not when you're alone. And when the feelings drown you. The measuring and running and giving up and starting over only to end up with more than you bargined for and less than you can handle. I can't stand it. Any of it. And they're all gone. I'll start over again in less than a year but i don't even know if i can do it. i've spent 14 years with the same 120 people. And now it's ending. And i'll be alone. It'll be the first time. Growing up is strange to me. I can feel myself pushing myself into these roles that seem all wrong. And everyone i've ever tried to impress, it doesn't matter.....none of it matters. Not that they were impressed anyway. I just wish....i just want it to be gone. but it'll be ok. because...life goes on. She said i'm silent. When i cry. Most people, they cry ugly. They tear themselves to pieces and let it all out. but i can't i just let it out. in streams. and it hurts but it won't ever leave. but it's gonna be ok.

your words are fake and the smiles they smoulder under my gaze and im tired. im tired of the sounds and the noises and words that mean nothing to me except pain. a different country and a different viewpoint shouldnt blend together into the same old hurt but it does and whats worse is the lack of ability to leave. i cant believe you. and i cant believe the betrayal ive felt from a country which i was supposed to love and which now feels like hell itself has finally swallowed me whole and taken on the form of a formidable foursome which i can no longer take the pressure and pain is caving in and the tears have flown so long that there are none left, the tap is dry. i have left purgatory behind. what i once considered pain is no more than a pinprick here, designed merely to prepare me for the torture that lies ahead on this plain of razorblades disguised behind forgein words and endless days. less than a month has passed yet i would give anything to be back. back to the pain that is tolerable and lonely rather than peircing and constant. it only makes me wonder how much i can take before the black eclipses the mind and i can surrender unto something, anything else.

I'm pushing for perfection, yet breaking at the seams. The swelling tide of this french puff pastry is light and airy as i strive for a lighter, less doughy me. But everytime the horizon is in view i give up. The gusts of wind that swell my sails, leading me towards the edges of my imagination break and with them my taught ropes fall flat and wither. I am left the same as before, perhaps even heavier and duller. And yet i pretend that i will try again, as vain and useless the attempt is as it was before, i still pretend to try. And again i crash in upon that sea, the sea that has become my tears as if they are an alice-in-wonderland portrayal of my fantasies. When will we look as we are instead of as we're made? or maybe that's just the way it is--- the reason behind it all. And so i'll swim again in this briny sea and look for my own white rabbit, although i know it is too late. The dress wont fit from the cookies that said "eat me" as i willingly obliged and now i sift through the rancor of the tattered toys left behind from the shifting dollhouse that once was me.

What's Black and White and Read all Over

This creeping narcism crawls along my nervous system. A virus that battles through my veins to the very center of my path-- the heart. That metaphoric center of all that i am. What the brain is to the mind is to the body, the heart is to the soul and now its blackened. Charred with the remnants of pasts discardings, cut-throat glances, and broken promises. These mustard gas clouds of poisoned logic lodge their way into myself, contaminating and confusing; clouding judgement and seeping out along my words to contaminate another victim. The narcism grows and grows, edging along through the grapevine, until the world is black and full of the hate-without-a-cure that is capital "M" me.

Runny noses and counting

It's funny... This passage of time. The way it slips through our fingers like sand. Between small cracks in our minds this time eats away slowly until we don't realize how much is gone....how much is left. The differences that paint our lives stain the edges and bluer the changes, stunted "growth" pains us and leaves us hollow, aching for the comfort of similarity. How quickly time flies in the face of it all, while the meaningless existence clicks on everlasting.

Rave On

Its almost tangible, this growth that stubs my toes and grasps at my hair, pushing and pulling me into this new creature, this new being. This blur of rushing life has molded me, weathered me down into its submissive mistress, passionless and begging for a break. The silence has finally broken me, tossing aside my long-lost dreams of romance and love, replacing them with the more practical matters of grades and college. Those wistful fantasies became child-like as i grew independant. But i still yearn for a "you" to save this battered heart. Its just now? i know hell never come.

Binge eating and forgotten films

I feel so stupid because i can't see it. The mere shadow of the fact alludes me. You hear it all the time, over-used on the lips of those deemed "caring" but its not quite the most factual truth. You call me pretty, cute, beautiful. Tossing aside such a compliment into the foul air, as if it means something when instead the words only mix around in my mind and come out the other side, a jumbled mess of letters in a foreign tongue. I know the truth, i see it everyday. The media, the public, the moving, shifting masses of bodies that sidle down the sidewalk on their way to "life as always". They are the ones who are beautiful, not me. Whats worse, i long for it to be true. Lapping up compliments as a homeless puppy takes its share of water after a draught, always seeking more for fear that when it runs out i'll be empty once again. But such a life takes its toll and i know the truth. At its core im nothing, not even ugly enough to be mentioned, only a wasted space waiting for a truth that i can never become.

Eyore and Winnie the Pooh

There's this strange sense of juxtaposition that infects the lives of this world. Balance begins not with good and evil, even though so many often try to sweep their torn up skins and broken pieces under this mask of foreboding cliche. It starts with the seed planted from birth. Acceptance breeds cruelty while society teaches to smile and stab, all hidden within the swirling thoughts that the harder you push, the more you break, the happier you'll be. People claim that they can get through it, so why wouldn't you. Your wonderful, "unique"qualities only make you another cog in the machine, and if you start to falter or break, your discarded figure crumples into retirement. In the end, the fog of life blurs by, pointless in its false "beauty".... or maybe i'll say "beast".

Musings From Beyond the Coin Laundry

It sits there, fragile, just beyond your outstretched fingertips. Your palm splays open, laced with patterns of memories and hardships, wounds healed leaving only scars to rest atop your hand. Yearning, reaching, grabbing, pulling; each and every fiber of your soul aches with the pins-atop-needles exploding out from underneath your cracked-and-raw ribcage. This shadow of a dream, this glimmering apparition of an aspiration glints within the light, casting hollow dusts of light upon your hand-- teasing with their illusion of the final most glorious, "wonderful thing". The one which you have imagined, replayed within the stereo of your mind so many hundreds of times. This one, bittersweet moment of candy and indian summers cascades upon your tingling, baited breath. It sits and waits, as you reach and reach. Never quite touching, more than brushing, the tips of your heart-pounding fingers.