Later, but I will start the shit all over again. I can only hope that it's still in me.

This is the last of countless attempts to fill the empty void of black screen that for so long has patiently awaited words. Finally, I may have something important to say. Maybe not.

Enough of the bitching. Enough with destroying the beauty of spun words with the complaints of a rather lost individual. Hopefully the absence I've taken from writing, the absence I've taken from life, has changed me for the better. No more introductions. I'll find myself better without them.


The music destroyed me. The songs that at one time had stirred every emotion within me began a transgression. Because the pain had shied from the satisfaction, I could no longer feel it. Because I wasn't killed by what it made me believe, I died anyway. It was slow, and however beautiful it may have been to the observer, it was disfigured in my sight.

It was a quiet ride back from the island, with the heat dancing lightning from one edge of the Earth to the other. The sky shed its darkness for brief seconds, distracting from all aspects but the present. The words, such elegant words, poured from the busted stereo speaker the old Thunderbird carried within it. I was there too, with the storm and the words and the busted speaker. I was there but so far away. I melted into memories, the song carrying me to lofty heights and unbearable lows. I couldn't feel it though. Because I was here, and the memories were just memories. A photo is a memory easily kept, stored safely in some box in some basement for years on end. It never changes, it never experiences. But a feeling isn't so easily hid. It refuses the safety of a box and the darkness of a basement. It lives and breaths the emotions and pieces them together like a skilled artist with their most amazing composition. But it changes. Its fickle and vunerable and follows the whims of whatever it may have experienced. And because it acts like an ornry child, I can no longer revisit it. That moment was destroyed, and I could only watch it fall.

It is lost. The music cannot re-open a wound like it did back then. I think I miss it. I think I miss the pain, and the sorrow, and the unknowing. I wouldn't want it back, wrapped in gold paper and ready to thrive. But I miss it. The colors were brighter, and so easily darker. The world was spinning too close to the edge, and I was halfway off as is.

I closed it that night. I caught my memories and feelings and I closed them in a box, wrapped in gold paper and ready to thrive. Then I placed it safely in the ocean that night, where it grew into something beautiful in the storm and the sea and the salt and the freedom. I'll never revisit it, and I don't want it back.

..I almost fell into that hole in your life.
                        --Black Balloon


My head hurts. I can't make my horse's board this month. My car's on that E is so consistantly accepts. I'm failing a class and borderline passing another. He's been rather irritating the last couple days. I'm not sure I like this attitude he's developing, even if the sex is better.

I want to be held. I want silence. I want peace. I want them to stop telling me I'm doing things wrong. I want to start doing things right. I want my efforts to equal my rewards.

Its obvious I want perfection that I cannot and will not achieve. I was upset for a few hours. I'm over it now and irritated. I'm even more so now that I'm reading over this entry and counting the use of "I". Oh well, its my damn site and I promise I'll have something worth reading some other time.

Lovely little hole in my life. I almost want to nurture it, save it from filling in.

I was lost in some other world. The same world that followed me home one afternoon when the rain was calm and not raging as it has been lately. The one that seems to be a shadow, a fitful tantrum when the time just isn't right.

   ..The moon hung with docile arrogance over the mildly churnning surf. It portrayed itself with dignity over the blushing shoreline, periodically washed and rebirthed with every moment of weightless foam. I walked alone and I watched it, distracted by some internal musing which I cannot recall, and couldn't even if you'd asked me the second it came about.
   My left hand held a book, the smooth paper binding yellowing with sweat and sea. The air was heavy with the same salt that shamelessly eroded the shoreline and yellowed my book. I walked alone and I felt it, distracted by some imperfection within myself.
   It was a beautiful night, and embraced with it, I felt just the same. Removed from its element, my confidence slipped softly, dying with the sounds of the ocean in the silence of the aging blue Thunderbird that has seen far too much.

The moon watched me, grinning like a cheshire cat, the marionette of the more beloved puppet show on Earth.
   

I'm too passionate. Sometimes, I think I may love too deeply, think to much, and wrap myself too tightly in that passion which seeks to silently search for weakness.

I should be studying. Really. Instead, I'm off on some tangent past the basis of reality, doubled over irrational, and a little to the left. What a shocker.

Its been rough lately. So very rough. I'm lost in a quiet transitition from who I was to whom I intend to be. I couldn't calculate how far I've gotten, I only know that I fall back into that which I wish I could leave behind. I do not expect to lose this battle though.

The taste I though I'd kill for
Still lingers on my lips.

I'm lost in my dreams, desires, and embedded fears.

I want to take a walk through the icy roads of some city, somewhere, with tall buildings, busy people, and 10,000,000 stories. I want to be dressed in a heavy jacket, not mine, but my father's; far too large, but properly warmed with love and illusionary protection. I want to see my breath in the fleeting light of a dying streetlamp on some numbered, nameless road. I want to be lost in the crowd, peaceful in my own sense of comfort, heated by both the taste and scent of a clove cigarette, the smoke curls choosing the path of least resistance into the sky which seems too narrow as it stretches past the 1,000 foot buildings into a strange state of enternity.

I want to go to a wedding. The perfect kind, without the hassles of religion past the normal traditions, and with the formality of flowing dresses and beautiful people, dressed in the easiest colors of black and white. I want to celebrate love. I want to wish the couple only the best, and hope desperately that they never know what heartbreak means.

I want to be bad. I want to drink a little too much on a Saturday night in some small town. I want to drive 100+ miles and hour to the city limits and never let them stop me. I want to press my body against his in the tepid air of an old Ford truck on some numberless, nameless road and tell quite a physical story of love.

I want to take my beautiful horse into some passionate storm and run as fast as possible, driving my body into his river of muscle, unbroken by any sort of worn leather. I want to close my eyes and melt into the power of both the sky and his rushing body, taken away from reality and pressed further into wild than ever imagined.

      "If I can dream of waking in a dream, how can I tell I'm not dreaming now?"
                                                               --Saskia Madding, form "Thinking After Midnight"

How refreshing. To dream of waking, only to find you're still dreaming. Its frightening, the thoughts that leak from half-closed mouths after the darkest hour of midnight, blushing from the false levity of their own arrogance; as if they held a higher importance and were not the ramblings of some sleepless mind. These thoughts love their shadows and splendor. They love their assumptions and answerless questions. No one denies the thrill of being bad.

I never know how to handle it. There's something about him that I cannot understand. Its his past, his years and years of vicarious experience, drifting into the darkness like a maddening ember dying as quickly as it was born. I cannot handle him sometimes. Its not like he's difficult; its not as if he chooses to battle me every moment he breathes. He doesn't even know he does it to me. I hide it well, as if I have complete control in everything I do.

It was in the darkness again that he killed me, twisting me from my false perceptions, leading me to the edge and teasing me with the danger. He killed me, not by pushing, but by holding, suddenly strong enough to turn me around, to face me, the scent of cloves and burning and cold filling my senses and refusing them freedom. In the darkness, with the moon hidden from the lights of a distant city, he embraced me, a strength so powerful that I died in his arms.

They talk about love as if it was perfection--the ultimate indulgence, and the sweetest sin. Its never that perfect. It twists your heart until it surrenders, it heats your body, and freezes your mind. I am in love with love, and I never know how to handle it.