Picking Up Lots of Forget-Me-Nots

Oh woe is me. Woe is the world. Salvation? Salvation is a word that drips from tooth to tongue with the gracefulness of sap sliding down a tree. Love? Love is like the last little bit of warm air in your lungs before they are filled with the icy, frost-ridden air of outside. Salvation and love. What a joke. What a God-forsaken, bitter, sick joke. Salvation. What is salvation anyway? My salvation? I find salvation in cigarettes and on tops of bluffs, in hair conditioner and wool socks. What a God-forsaken joke. My love? My love exists in the cracks of everyday life. My life is just one big joke, one huge, ridiculous, pathetic joke. A cycle of love, lose of love, searching for salvation after love, losing faith in salvation, finding love, love, losing love, etc. You get the idea. Burning holes with cigarettes in pantyhose, in tee shirts, in my hand, in scarves, oh yes my dear, that is salvation. Herr Temptation, deliver me.

Musings of a Girl Who is Alive

I never want to grow old and fade. I see older people just trudging through life, and I pray that will never happen to me. I want to always be excited, to never dim. To find pleasure in hearing a favorite song or watching the black silhouettes of trees as the sun sets.  I wonder being so excited about life is a young persons ‘ game. If we are the one’s who feel so damn alive, and that we use it all up before we hit 30. Or I wonder if it’s personality. I know young people without zest, who are merely floating by. Complaining and unhappy with the supposed banalities of everyday life, instead of discovering new emotions and trying to describe them. Instead of having an insatiable curiosity for every moment. Do you ever hear a song at a particular time, sometimes unexpected, and believe that in that very moment everything will be fine and all the terribly awful things in life are actually very small? Do you ever remember that happening to you?  I try not to complain. I’m horribly optimistic, a rather esoteric quality that I have been realizing not many people posses to the same degree that I do.  Even the happy, optimistic people I know seem cynical. I loathe whiners, and they in turn abhor me, since I always give them plenty of reason why they should be happy-the simplest and most obvious reason is that they are alive. That they are well. Whenever I see mentally handicapped individuals, I think of their nature. I have not the faintest idea what that must be like; I cannot fathom what goes on in their minds. But I see them smile, and think that if this life is enough for them, then surely it must be enough for everyone else.

What if I stop loving road trips? What if I grow weary of stopping at random gas stations for coffee and candy, lottery tickets and slushees? What if staring at trees and hills and general scenery bores me? What will I do if I stop looking at everything like it’s a work of art? How phone lines and scaffolding are comparable (and more relatable) than Michoangelo’s David. How the sun shining and reflecting off the clouds is indeed a more beautiful ceiling than the Sistine chapel.  What will I do? Some people now don’t even understand my mind. How I adore old things because I feel they have some sort of residual spirit clinging to it of the person who had it, wore it, or looked at it before me. I wonder of the stories. Who made it, what they loved, and if they’ve felt everything I have ever felt. If it’s wearable items, jewelry especially, I wonder what they did while wearing said article. If they ever felt love while wearing it. If they ever did something that made them sad while wearing it. Where it has been, and it’s journey thus far traveled before reaching my hands.  I’ve tried explaining this people before, and they just don’t understand it. They say they prefer new things that are theirs to start with, or that they don’t understand who outdated things are special. Or sometimes, after I gleefully present a new find or treasured artifact to someone, the more polite one’s will utter a “That’s so cool!” in a light voice. I’m always searching for someone who understands.

Everything has been designed, through God’s hands or by the hands of beings he created, so how could we Not appreciate the general magnificence of this life?

This is Not the End

Sometimes I get overwhelmed with the fantastic quality of being alive. Simply walking along a path, discovering a new lookout place, sharing words with a friend.
I don't care if I'm judged. I don't care if people give me funny looks. If the people stare then the people stare. I want to be different. I am joyfully, blessedly irreverent.
Oh, of course I fret. I worry. I won't lie to you and say I am completely carefree. But in those moments of worry, of troublesome thoughts, I step back. I try to realize that I am here for a reason, that I am in this specific spot doing this specific thing for a reason, and why the hell am I worrying about things that are not right here with me this second. It helps. It's amazing how my mind can overpower my mind. Tricking a negative to think it's a positive. Pushing the negative so far beneath the covers that all I can see anymore is the good things.
I walked all over a grassy field today with a friend. To us, it was just a great open expanse wedged between two great walls of towering trees. Plush grass littered with dandelions, we meandered barefoot. We found a headstone in the ground, alone. A ways later, we found another. And then, down where the hill leveled out a bit, we found many headstones. Rows and rows of names. Remembered names, I suppose, the ones that people know. I can go find the Frank that I noticed, or the Otis, or the Gretchen. It was sobering, and my friend and I trekked up the lush hill to reach our previous path, we noticed a sign. The sign explained that over 2,000 immigrants were buried on the hill, and only about 200 were marked. Bodies in the ground, beneath my feet, and I didn't know. I didn't even think about it. I don't know their names. Unremembered. They all had lives, probably had husbands and wives, children. Lovers and heartache. Dreams and wishes,hopes and pet peeves, favorite colors and silly little habits. And now, they were under my bare feet, unmarked, and I didn't have a clue. Back to the earth, as they came. There might have been more Franks, more Carl's , more Emily's. And I can't even look, I can't find out.
What would happen if that happens to me? What if I get lumped into a mass, and when I die, I go unremembered? Oh, perhaps my friends might occasionally think of me, or my family. But not daily, and soon enough they'll forget what color my eyes were, or the way my laugh sounds. They'll forget if I had freckles or not, they'll not remember if my hair was red or blonde or light brown. They'll forget to think of me.
And while this is near-tragic, my first thought that occurred to me is that I don't really mind. I don't want to do anything so remarkable that hoards of people come to view the spot that my rotting body, which my soul has long departed from, then would lay.  If I live a life where I am satisfied, where I am content with myself (even being content with my restlessness), then why should I care if I'm remembered? Why should others matter? If I lived what I thought was to be a good life, well then that should be enough for me.
Why does it feel like I'm writing my obituary.

Babe I'm Gonna Leave You

Babe, I'm gonna leave you. I'm going to leave you because when I look at you, you can hardly meet my eyes. When I look at you, my heart still skips a beat, there is a catch in that funny part of my chest just waiting for you to charm me again. I'm going to leave you because when I touch you, your skin is cold. Your hands no longer fold around mine, and my lips are left waiting for tender kisses. I'm going to leave you because when we drive, and I look over from the passenger side to catch your reaction to what I said or just admire your profile, you don't turn your head to look at me. I'm going to leave you because when you look at me, your eyes crinkle and this warmth comes pouring out, and you don't even need to smile. I never really knew you, I suppose. I'm going to leave you because I need to take care of myself first, and even though I love you, I'll never have you. I'm going to leave you, even though it will break my heart. I'm going to leave you because I know it won't break yours.

Crinkle and Disappear

I'm tired. And I'm bored of the stairs that lead up to my apartment. I'm weary of the window that lets the sun in. I don't want to see the sun very much anymore.   I stare around, and I hope that things will change. I hope that things will transform, like a magic trick made real. I see the things, the objects that trap me. How this bed defines me, how those lights around my window show my soul. How that post-it with a scrawled note means so much to me.   Sometimes I look around me, and pretend that the surfaces I can touch evaporated. How this pill-bottle would go up in a gentle pop of lavender smoke. How my sneakers in the corner would brown and crinkle like a dead leaf until they were nothing at all.  I think of the things I love, like my antique ruby ring that cost more than anything I have ever bought. Like the stack of notes my mother sent me when I was away, because she knew I was lonely. How those things define me as much as the things that would go up in smoke, or crinkle and disappear. Does it matter that I prefer a cool, crisp white cotton sheet to the navy jersey one's covering my bed. Does it matter that five stray bobby pins scatter in a corner of my room, one pried open so it's useless. Does it matter that I don't care enough to pick them up.   I'm tired. I don't want to care whether or not I have sour cream on my tacos. I don't want to care if a stud falls of my purse, or if I lose my purse entirely. I'm tired of being contained by myself, by my choices, by my things. I want to have nothing. Once I have nothing, perhaps, then I will be able to find myself. Find myself outside of the splenda-crusted wine glass, outside of the mint green hat, outside of the seven pairs of boots lining my hallway.  Maybe by being more "inside", I can find more beauty in the outside, and again enjoy sunlight.

Bluffs Hide the Sky

I don't worry a lot. In fact, I consider myself to be one of the most relaxed, chill people I know. Few things set me off, few things annoy me to the point of anger. Competitions don't interest me, people vying for a top spot or titles bore me.  I've always taken this as a point of some pride, as Lilliputian and trite as it is. But lately I've come to wonder- if I am passionless in this aspect of my life, does it make me passionless in other aspects as well? I could list off the banalities of my anti-existence for you- I could speak of my days filled with time spent alone, sleep, eating. Writing, texting, hanging out with friends. Being drunk, dancing. Boring. I can't think of a single, real-life thing I did today. Passionless. Uninspired.
Drawing from a song I heard today (one that simultaneously struck a cord in me and depressed me), I can sum up my life in a sentence: taking your own life with boredom, I'm taking my own life with wine. How depressing is that statement? Yet I couldn't get it out of my head...one can't really take one's life with boredom, one can't really take one's life with wine (unless one goes on a serious, wild, wine-drinking binge, in which case one would need to consume almost stupid amounts of that fruity alcoholic beverage.) So what do those lyrics really mean? Being so average, so vapid, so vapidly average, that I am indeed killing myself, slowly yet surely, with my tedious, insipid life. And the biggest factor that is bothering me is that I don't mind commonplace things! No, in fact, I used to cherish everyday, simple things. I adored making them complex, velvet. Making a beam of sunlight trailing on my floor a prop for an amazing, inspired, of-the-moment dance. Instead of walking down the stairs, I would trip lightly, making a beat with the gentle thudding of my feet on the floorboards. I used to delight in the most childlike things, such as having an opportunity to eat ice cream, wearing a dress, going on a road trip, applying makeup as I got ready to go out for the day. Dancing in my apartment in my underwear, alone. Singing in the shower. Having fire in my veins. What happened to me?
I hate writing that comes to no conclusion, but in this case, there honestly is none. How could I possibly wrap these couple paragraphs up? With saying, perhaps, how I will try to change, how I will learn to love each day properly. Or I could say that I might never change, and how much this prospect scares me. I could wax on about other worries of mine. I could elaborate on love and life, life and love, love lost, life lost. Or, I could simply say "goodnight" and "see you tomorrow". Sometimes the simplest ways are the best.

Inspired Always

Right now, things are not going too well. It's late, I'm sick, I'm helplessly and haplessly attempting to do well on a take-home math test which I have been working on for the past four hours or so. I'm not even half done. In my frustrated state, I meander over to a blog of one of my friends'. I secretly adore him, and his assumed unrequited affections lead me to stalking him through his blog. Dear Lord. The biggest reason I do this is because he writes so eloquently...his thoughts tumble forth and make me more inspired to write myself. But somehow when I start writing, my thoughts seem simple and mundane compared to his, and I become bashful with my supposed writing talents. As if anyone actually reads this blog anyway.
The biggest thing I've been struggling with lately is lack of direction in my life. I feel that every moment defines who one is or who one will be in some small way, and by making even the most sub-conscious, infinitesimal choices one is forever adding or deducting from one's personality. This is probably misguided and silly, but I tend to believe it regardless. Take last night, for example. It was one of the worst nights I have had in a while, due to a boy with whom I have a history with refusing to talk or look at me while he talks to a girl standing right next to me, taking care of a boy who tripped on some stairs and needed convincing to go to the hospital for stitches, being at a party where I'm sober and trying to be friendly and introducing myself to new people (since I only knew a couple people) and the girls completely ignoring me, finally getting home around 2:30am and receiving a call from a severely inebriated friend who wanted to crash on my floor, which turned into him, another friend, and I having some very sloppy conversation in which the severely inebriated one said a lot of inappropriate things. I finally head to bed around 3:00am, only to be waken at 4:00am to a drunk call from a boy demanding I bring his keys over to his house. I drove over, drove him to Wal-Mart for a pizza,  and drove him back home; only to find that he had his room key with him the entire time. Around 5:00 I'm back in bed. Longest night ever, and I just wrote a huge paragraph writing about the longest night ever. Shit. New paragraph.
The point is: I did everything I did last night to try to be a good person. A responsible, nice, good person. And I ended up miserable and upset, tired and thankless. What should I surmise from that?
Ugh. I just spent a lot of time writing about things that frustrate me and are actually pointless, since they are over now. See? I told you I'm a bad writer.