I was getting better.
I hadn’t thought of you with any seriousness for maybe half a month.
I was healing quickly, learning to care about other things, things more worthwhile.

A few hours ago I left my house for Ranch. I was going to pick up something to eat, and decided to bring my mp3 player along. It seemed like a nice gentle evening outside, and I thought it would be picturesque to walk around listening to music. But when I got into the elevator and tried to choose something to listen to, I froze up. Nothing seemed alright to listen to. Everything reminded me of you. Or if not you exactly, a lot of the songs reminded me of that period when I shifted around my life, putting on a smile and a laugh in person so that no one would accuse me of being emo. But I guess that’s just what happens. Music has a tendency to wrap up entire epochs of life, and some songs become anthems to your underground. The thoughts and feelings that start in the subconscious and grow and burgeon and spill over into the conscious causing you to write a thousand blog posts about the same damned thing. Even now I still associate the Tarkio Colin Meloy songs with that half year I spent living alone at Jack’s. I associate each and every song with the shaded bart track and the green wet feeling when it would rain and I’d have to walk to school.
So when I froze up in that elevator, seeing that my choices ranged from Franz Ferdinand to Coheed and Cambria to the Decemberists and the World Inferno Friendship Society, I had every right to. I finally decided on some FF (with GREAT difficulty), but it sounded so muted. It felt so strange listening to music again at all, much less to such extremely poignant symbols.

I don’t really know what the point of this post is. I was getting better, and I still am. I’m healing, and I hope to be healed. I’ve learned the secret to forgetting mental wounds. All I have to do is stop thinking about it and stop picking at the scabs. In time, the seconds passed will eat away like acid at whatever wounds still held. I guess I just wanted to say something one last time.

This is the final goodbye.

I got up to the smells of dead bed hickory
and the mildew linens wrapped like chains
The smells of old dead memories
oppressing my will to fly

So I got up
Even though my muscles had atrophied
I brushed my teeth, splashed my face
ahh, cool crisp canary
Put on my coat and

Outside the gently rolling hills were covered green
with spring as its protector it vibrated lush

I stepped out and rambled about but never back

One morning I woke up and stepped out.

Like a hammer, or a saw.
A Sober Tool.
Not that you’d remember.
Of course not. Here’s your prize for your spotless mind dear clementine.
why cant we not be sober
why cant we drink forever

told you so, told you so, told you so
bitter, but still
told you so, against my will
against my wishes, told you so
told you so, told you so, i wish it weren’t so

vicariously me, viscously me, viciously we

this isn’t about you, because i want this to be over
i’m tired of wasting my time
that’s right, wasting it
i’m leaving the door open, but i’m hoping you won’t step through
only in good conscience, but maybe that describes more of you?
only in good conscience, do anything

I don’t want pity, I don’t want sugar-coating. I don’t want to be an npc interacted with for the sake of good conscience, so that someone else would only place the blame on me. I won’t take that blame anymore. Out of politeness, out of sugar-coating, god stone the lies.

In short, I won’t take your bullshit anymore.

again fucking again fucking again
again the shit hits the fan
again I can’t fucking concentrate
fucking again

Some people believe in promiscuity, in polygamy, and in detachment.
But this is just a defense-mechanism to protect against being hurt. Polygamy devalues relationships and losing something that’s not worth as much is less painful. But that’s the problem with it, relationships become valueless; love is nonexistent.
People need love and that’s why relationships are such gambits. It’s intensely frightening to be in a relationship with a lack of trust. Without trust there is no security. Without trust there is no stability of the soul. This is why some people believe in promiscuity and detachment. It’s so easy to be hurt if one invests the self in a relationship but a relationship without personal investment yields not love. Herein lies the contradiction that makes love so valuable and so sought after. This is what keeps love in short supply despite an overabundance of lovers and dreamers. A human need for love is what causes monogamy to always trump polygamy and fidelity, promiscuity.

Awkward, Jarring, Terse. Disconnect and rift.
I fail at writing. It’s impossible for me to write anything meaningful without injecting myself and making it about myself. It’s not that much of a problem, but if I start caring about other people analyzing my words in an attempt to glean insight I’d rather keep private, it becomes impossible to write. Besides, I’d like to approach other mediums of writing in addition to personal apologetics. The above was an attempt at writing without personal acknowledgement. The above was a failure.
ok.. indulgent personal blog post to get rid of this icky feeling
I’ve been feeling a lot like this lately. Awkward, Jarring, Terse, etc. - that is. I’ve been feeling trapped in my mind, looking for the right things to say to break out. But my mind doesn’t hold the key. It holds me. Like a cage.
icky feeling still there. Peter, I spoke too soon about the clicking. It doesn’t click well, it doesn’t click at all.
ahahahahah
a-hah..
ah..

Play that minor key
Play it with some irony
a-hah..
ah..

Sugar, sweet. Disgusting and nauseating really.

You tap me on the shoulder holding the earbud in an offering of music and light
Offering to share your inner world, an intimacy.
The day goes a brighter white, I close my eyes.
The jazz progressions that fill my ear chafe a bit, mainly because it’s jazz.
Mainly because of association to something hazardously wasteful.
But you change the song, offering instead something better.
I’d love to sing with the song, but it’s in Japanese.
Still, it’s intimately you.

the begger girls come riding up
with their gucci bags and gypsy scarves
give me some money, honey
and I’ll give you some time
one says

There he stood, in all the majesty and glory his rags would allow. His private guards dead before him, his back to the wall. He let out a whimper, a sound halfway between a yelp and a moan. “Stay back!” he cried, but I heard him not. With only a grenade left to kill him, I had to improvise. I moved quickly and grabbed him by the throat with one hand slamming him to the floor. With the other, I brought the grenade close so I could bite the tab off. “Time to die,” I said and held the grenade to his head. He shrieked and I heard him not.

March Hard

So some literary poltergeist is following you around, changing all you read into reminders of how much you fail.
So Hemingway is too hazardous to you; you dare not venture to read more.
And you ask why.
Why did Henry and Catherine have to spend such a picturesque summer together?
Why did Hemingway know?
Why did Hemingway know that the feeling of gently touching hands is so profound?
Why did Hemingway know that the feeling of being enclosed in fallen hair is so profound?
Why did Hemingway know that Henry would clutch a pillow in his sleep thinking it’s Catherine?
Why did Hemingway know?
And Why does it mean so much to you? Why ask why so much?

Even the SAT reflects your (suppressed) wanton feelings
Even Verona in frost reflects that most romantic feeling (?)

Lol you, dude. Lol you.

Fuck it, suppress more. AP tests. School like an angry winter.
March Hard. March Hard or Die.