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24 Jan 15
21:50
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Date Joined:
03 Jun 07
Wanderer.
I think of cities the same way I think of people. The more I see of what this new land will have to offer, the more captivated I become. I want to know everything, find the more secretive sides, the spots that only the locals know and discover the people who don’t shout about their existence to every soul that will listen. You have to breathe the city’s air for yourself, witness the movement of those familiar strangers. Beauty isn’t the same at night as it is in the light, and no matter how your brain may lie to you, you simply cannot witness places you haven’t set foot in with people you haven’t shared air. Things aren’t always the same when you’re thousands of miles away. The strangeness and familiarity blinds you as you wrap yourself into the skin of a city that does not belong to you. Living with the intention of learning about each city as it comes, in quick succession and never staying long enough to become sick of one area. Yet I cannot blame wanderlust for the purer kind of lust. I’ve always wanted to fall in love with everyone extraordinary I meet, to learn about the pockets of their lives in such short amounts of time, to find myself in their skin and to cut tiny pieces from their chest for memoirs. Leaving for the cold eastern air, chilling my skin and breathing away the imprint of where I slept in the new day. To pack up and leave for the next destination, with a coffee stop and my thoughts with the clouds as I lead down the highway. Becoming very much in love with nothing in particular. I feel things so fiercely, they burn out so quickly.
Sleeper.
December 14, 2014 § Leave a comment
Quiet the longing with the ache of your heart below the pressure and the weight of my chest. With my ear pressed to your skin I listened to the movement of your touch against the covers. January did not fall from December in the same way we fell from November. I would wake in the night to weigh the foreignness of your body in your bed while I lay in the gap between the wall and your mattress. This is not the room where we lay awake until the morning, this is the truth of our differences. Your clumsy bones do not belong to me, nor did I ever intend to want them to.
The glades.
December 8, 2014 § Leave a comment
It was so open. That’s what struck me first. The vast open space that laid out before me. The ceiling of floating whites and silvers hovering miles above the empty grassland. Two parallel layers of texture, with nothing but air to breathe sandwiched in between. Even in such an empty space, I felt trapped by its walls. The clouds were laying on top of one another in an attempt to block out any colour, but hints of blue peaked through thinner areas, whispering through the gaps and holes of the dominant grey. It was autumn, I could feel it on my skin as the air danced along my forearm. I had seen this area years before, travelled the road along its side almost ritually, each time heading east with a goal not matching my destination. This time I wasn’t returning to you.
Sight.
December 2, 2014 § Leave a comment
The air ached behind the wisps of blue smoke suffocating each corner of the room. I strained my neck to keep my eyes on you from between the shoulders of strangers. The light would hit your eyes occasionally, yet it was hard to guess your line of sight. In a room filled with faces, I couldn’t but help to wish I was not lost between them. You were a stranger to me. Safe in the knowledge that our skin had touched the same skin, but not mine on yours. Your voice reminded me of dark car rides in November and the morning in January I listened to raindrops while he woke up in my room for the last time. So far from that now, I ached for your gaze, and that haunted me.
Whistler.
November 3, 2014 § Leave a comment
Sometimes I cannot remember whom my words refer to. My heart yearns for something it never really knew, and it fleets for the next occupant. I find the past in scents. I’ve looked for familiar eyes in unfamiliar faces. I’m attached to missing something, and I want it to be one of you. I simply do not care about a past love as much as my romanticising heart wishes. You could be the mountains. I’d rather find you there.
Stir.
October 7, 2014 § Leave a comment
Those words were born in your lungs. They became alive in your chest, crawling up your throat and into your mouth. They looked for the chance to develop meaning around the darkness of your mouth. Searching underneath your tongue and between your teeth, but you allowed them to escape into the air with a quick push by the flick of your tongue.
It might be the alcohol, or the hour of the night, but it certainly is not heartfelt. It’s not honesty; it’s a test on who will drop their pride to compliment your own ego. You don’t mean these words. They barely leave your mouth, but with each pathetic sentence the emptiness is resounding. It’s the wish to feel wanted, not the wish to want as once before.
Flicker.
September 25, 2014 § 1 Comment
I was a mouse dancing with fire. Each day I was teasing the lashing flames that were licking at my feet, playing with how close the heat and I could become together. I began to take brave jumps over the height of the fire. It was midair through one of those jumps that I fell into the wisps of the heat. In the turmoil I saw the centre of the flame and realised my mistake. I had been entranced. Hypnotised by the fires beauty, I did not see the danger in playing by its side. Looking through its thinner heights, I was toiling to reach its centre. The warmth and movement was beautiful, looking as harmless as the sea licking at the shore. And like the sea, you cannot play with the strength it withholds. Your body does not belong with something so beautiful and calm, becoming so fierce with the hold of you.
Rolling.
September 18, 2014 § Leave a comment
It was similar to the feeling of rolling your eyes into the back of your head. He was being pulled into the darkness under the heavy weight of your rolling sight.
Each breath of yours pulled him from beneath the depths and into the light. Pulled to and fro with the currents of his own wishing and your own thinking.
Hearts: In the style of Brian Doyle
September 11, 2014 § Leave a comment
One of the most unique fascinating interest captivating hearts is inside the Zebrafish. A zebrafish’s injured heart can regenerate itself. A zebrafish’s heart can withstand up to twenty percents worth of damage and heal wholly without any real long-term consequences. A heart that defies potential harm and its consequences.
A whale’s heart beats only six times a minute. A hummingbird’s heart beats ten times a second. A canary’s heart beats seventeen times a second. Each and every heart beats for the same purpose and with the same concentration, but every living creature has their own rate and chosen speed at which their heart is made to beat. Your heart is representative of your livelihood. A canary and a hummingbird although beautiful and fast creatures, are not made to withstand the years and livelihood that the blue whale’s heart allows it to.
A heart belonging to any creature has a huge responsibility and is incredibly important to the being it belongs to. In the same way that the heart keeps us alive, we can also be trapped within a state of torment from a damaged and maltreated heart. Some may wish that they have the same resilience that the zebrafish’s heart has. That their heart would completely heal and regenerate from any harm or bruising that may occur from life, and love, and loss. Not all hearts are as easily repairable as the zebrafish’s heart, not even the canary’s rapid heart beat or the blue whale whose heart may be large, and slowly paced, but can still be damaged just as quickly as one another.
“On Noise”
September 4, 2014 § Leave a comment
In my personal opinion, I feel that silence is over rated. That is not to say that I do not like the quiet, I can thrive on quiet. Nor does it mean that I enjoy continuous, vociferous noises that can disturb your thoughts, hurt your head and interrupt your sleep. But I feel that silence is a very rare and sometimes unachievable prospect. It is something that people often seem to confuse with a scale of how quiet the environment is deemed to be, or is aiming towards. A professor may ask for “Silence!” or you may enter a “Silent Area” in a library, but how achievable is this so desired vision? I often write on my own, with the doors and windows closed, in an attempt at quiet, but nothing quite close to silence. Noises, I think, are necessary to ones sanity. As someone always surrounded by noises of most sounds, I find them quite comforting. Now, imagine to yourself real silence that can make one weary of the noises of living. Even when you are writing, whether it be on paper or typed, you will hear the scratching of your pen scraping indented thoughts against the page or your fingers translating thought to keyboard, with the constant whirring of your laptop making a too late attempt to cool itself down. But if these sounds could disappear as easily as they are created, would you really want silence?
To be out in the woods, without the rustle from wildlife through the trees and the fallen branches littered on the bed of the woods, without the breeze of the cold northerly winds whistling through the leaves and the small gaps, without the sound of your breath, or your heart beat or your thoughts. Real silence is a frightening sound. You want the sound of your breath repeatedly whirring, the sound of your heart stirring and hurrying, the sound of the wildlife chirping and talking and moving around to remind you you’re alive. These sounds and these moments are all too extraordinary to pass by simply silencing them.
Untitled
August 27, 2014 § 3 Comments
Sometimes you’re paused by the window of the quiet living room in your empty house. Watching the end of summer turn into autumn as the days have passed by.
Sometimes you’re just watching, watching as time continues to pass you by. New faces, old faces, loved faces, faces that you’ll undoubtedly miss. Faces you will forever search for in crowds, thousands of miles from home.
Sometimes you’re twenty-five and you’re sitting in the armchair of the house you’ve lived in for seven years, drinking tea with your cold bare feet rested upon the wooden coffee table, listening to acoustic music with lyrics that are digging up memories that you thought you had long ago buried. You’re just sitting there contemplating, thinking about the work you should have done last night and the dirty dishes always awaiting you in the kitchen. And also more exciting things like the movie you borrowed from your colleague that’s laying on the coffee table and the long weekend ahead and relationships that have recently come along unexpectedly. Or the ones that are slipping away from your memory, which is much less exciting. You don’t write as much as you should, or talk as much as you’d like to. Instead, you just have these moments where everything is frozen and the buzzing sounds around become drowned out. And as you realize this you just don’t feel as comfortable in the worn armchair as you did ten minutes ago, or even comfortable in your own skin as you think about the flawed past. Home doesn’t feel like home anymore, but neither does your Mum’s house, at least in the flesh. When there is no home, where are you supposed to find comfort for your unsteady heart? There used to be the comfort of coming home to the ears that listened everyday and the eyes that observed your swift mood changes and the warmth that wasn’t shared with anyone else but you. But when you start feeling trapped within this seven-minute sincerity, where thoughts of this person you are feel foreign and you both miss and fight the memories you bring to mind.
Sometimes you realize that you’ve never been very good at making decisions, and even less frequently, good decisions. It could even be said that you’re great at making bad decisions. Bad decisions, spur-of-the-moment decisions, ill informed decisions, rash decisions. Every decision has led to this moment in your life. And when did it begin? You start to wonder at which point in your life did this start to happen. Was it through the stress of education, the turmoil of past failed and broken relationships or the breaking away from the family that loved each other so fondly. You start to wonder why you can feel alone when you’re in a group of people. Why do you fall in love with anyone who gives you the slightest attention? And why do you find the unavailable so alluring?
Sometimes you’re young enough to fall for the lustful allure wherever you turn. You must carry the scent on your skin. Your mind is begging for love, you can hear it in the words you speak. They might not be able to hear it, but they can taste it on your skin. Like wasps with fear, your lovers felt your desperation. You’ve caught yourself feeling sad about things that just don’t matter anymore.
Sometimes you’re erratic, unreliable and needful. You always wonder about what could have been, what might have been, if life was different. If you had taken more opportunities. Said yes more. Said no more. Left the house five minutes later. Chosen a different way to work. Looked up at a different moment. You realize you shouldn’t spend so much time dwelling on things that aren’t present. Dwelling on the past can be harmful in large doses. You think about those pictures that are still in your wallet. The ones of the friends you no longer stay in contact with and the ones of someone who recently decided they no longer wanted to be part of your life. But you look happy, so you keep them behind your stamped cards. You threw away the pictures that never should have been taken in the first place, the drunken moments where you’ve felt peaceful in the state of a mix of whiskey, rum, and self-avoidance. Where does this all come down to? Love that’s been lost can be heartbreakingly beautiful. Not for the want or need of having it back, but the appreciation of sharing these times with someone whose skin felt so familiar against yours. How far have you travelled for men who have never warmed your cold skin in theirs?
Sometimes you start to wonder whether this happened before at another age. Were you sat in this same chair in this very same moment a year or two ago? With less hindsight, less wisdom, less experience. Each momentary bump in your life has been characterized by your own actions. Was the heartbreak more raw? Was the overload of work as tormenting? The timetables as scribbled upon? The kettle as regularly filled with brittle water? Just because you’re several years older, more experienced, more worn, doesn’t mean that these things feel any less significant than they did at that moment in time for you before. You know you’ve only really just started this real adult life, yet this almost makes it so much worse.
Sometimes you know you’ve had the same thoughts before. You’ve been led on the floor, in your empty house, with an aching heartbeat and a sore head, thinking about the torment in your thoughts when you begin to stare at walls for too long and they all jump in on the moment. Taking advantage of the gap in your thoughts, pouring in through the broken barricade. Will these mistakes be continuous? Forever going back and making the same mistakes, over and over again. Falling into the same traps with the same people. You begin to realize that your own company is the most satisfying kind of company. With no one there to affect you, the peacefulness of knowing where you stand with yourself. Always one step ahead of yourself at all times.
Sometimes you realize that you’ll never be any younger than you are now and you’ve also never been this old before. Each passing minute is another aging minute and another minute feeling unsure about how to progress. How to live in your own skin, how to deal with past demeanors, how to stop yourself from physically clenching up when you squirm about all those stupid mistakes you’ve made in these short twenty-five years. Growing up can feel like your skin is no longer familiar, that every cell in your body is alien to you now. Your body is a suit that no longer fits, you’ve outgrown yourself and you’re not sure on how to find your way from here. You can’t remember how you got here. You can’t remember how you got from thirteen to here and all the same feel like fifteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. Has anyone else felt this way? Maybe this stretched skin suit would feel more comfortable if there was the wise opinion of someone who’s been through this part of his or her life too.
Sometimes you remember hearing promises about the future, promises about flimsy feelings turning into cemented hearts. Hearts you knew were cracked from the start. You thought you could sit around and talk for hours about things you couldn’t say and things you were never able to do. The life you lead should be something that you’re proud of. When breathing and contemplating and considering, you realize that your life is going to be a continuous work in progress. Something that will just time out from occasionally. You need the strength to keep working on this everlasting progress.
The CD has finished with the sound of fading guitar strings. The mug of tea held up between your thighs has gone cold. You’re going to take a deep breath and you’re going to be fine in a few minutes.
I don’t think this feeling ever goes away, no matter how old you are.
I think of cities the same way I think of people. The more I see of what this new land will have to offer, the more captivated I become. I want to know everything, find the more secretive sides, the spots that only the locals know and discover the people who don’t shout about their existence to every soul that will listen. You have to breathe the city’s air for yourself, witness the movement of those familiar strangers. Beauty isn’t the same at night as it is in the light, and no matter how your brain may lie to you, you simply cannot witness places you haven’t set foot in with people you haven’t shared air. Things aren’t always the same when you’re thousands of miles away. The strangeness and familiarity blinds you as you wrap yourself into the skin of a city that does not belong to you. Living with the intention of learning about each city as it comes, in quick succession and never staying long enough to become sick of one area. Yet I cannot blame wanderlust for the purer kind of lust. I’ve always wanted to fall in love with everyone extraordinary I meet, to learn about the pockets of their lives in such short amounts of time, to find myself in their skin and to cut tiny pieces from their chest for memoirs. Leaving for the cold eastern air, chilling my skin and breathing away the imprint of where I slept in the new day. To pack up and leave for the next destination, with a coffee stop and my thoughts with the clouds as I lead down the highway. Becoming very much in love with nothing in particular. I feel things so fiercely, they burn out so quickly.
Sleeper.
December 14, 2014 § Leave a comment
Quiet the longing with the ache of your heart below the pressure and the weight of my chest. With my ear pressed to your skin I listened to the movement of your touch against the covers. January did not fall from December in the same way we fell from November. I would wake in the night to weigh the foreignness of your body in your bed while I lay in the gap between the wall and your mattress. This is not the room where we lay awake until the morning, this is the truth of our differences. Your clumsy bones do not belong to me, nor did I ever intend to want them to.
The glades.
December 8, 2014 § Leave a comment
It was so open. That’s what struck me first. The vast open space that laid out before me. The ceiling of floating whites and silvers hovering miles above the empty grassland. Two parallel layers of texture, with nothing but air to breathe sandwiched in between. Even in such an empty space, I felt trapped by its walls. The clouds were laying on top of one another in an attempt to block out any colour, but hints of blue peaked through thinner areas, whispering through the gaps and holes of the dominant grey. It was autumn, I could feel it on my skin as the air danced along my forearm. I had seen this area years before, travelled the road along its side almost ritually, each time heading east with a goal not matching my destination. This time I wasn’t returning to you.
Sight.
December 2, 2014 § Leave a comment
The air ached behind the wisps of blue smoke suffocating each corner of the room. I strained my neck to keep my eyes on you from between the shoulders of strangers. The light would hit your eyes occasionally, yet it was hard to guess your line of sight. In a room filled with faces, I couldn’t but help to wish I was not lost between them. You were a stranger to me. Safe in the knowledge that our skin had touched the same skin, but not mine on yours. Your voice reminded me of dark car rides in November and the morning in January I listened to raindrops while he woke up in my room for the last time. So far from that now, I ached for your gaze, and that haunted me.
Whistler.
November 3, 2014 § Leave a comment
Sometimes I cannot remember whom my words refer to. My heart yearns for something it never really knew, and it fleets for the next occupant. I find the past in scents. I’ve looked for familiar eyes in unfamiliar faces. I’m attached to missing something, and I want it to be one of you. I simply do not care about a past love as much as my romanticising heart wishes. You could be the mountains. I’d rather find you there.
Stir.
October 7, 2014 § Leave a comment
Those words were born in your lungs. They became alive in your chest, crawling up your throat and into your mouth. They looked for the chance to develop meaning around the darkness of your mouth. Searching underneath your tongue and between your teeth, but you allowed them to escape into the air with a quick push by the flick of your tongue.
It might be the alcohol, or the hour of the night, but it certainly is not heartfelt. It’s not honesty; it’s a test on who will drop their pride to compliment your own ego. You don’t mean these words. They barely leave your mouth, but with each pathetic sentence the emptiness is resounding. It’s the wish to feel wanted, not the wish to want as once before.
Flicker.
September 25, 2014 § 1 Comment
I was a mouse dancing with fire. Each day I was teasing the lashing flames that were licking at my feet, playing with how close the heat and I could become together. I began to take brave jumps over the height of the fire. It was midair through one of those jumps that I fell into the wisps of the heat. In the turmoil I saw the centre of the flame and realised my mistake. I had been entranced. Hypnotised by the fires beauty, I did not see the danger in playing by its side. Looking through its thinner heights, I was toiling to reach its centre. The warmth and movement was beautiful, looking as harmless as the sea licking at the shore. And like the sea, you cannot play with the strength it withholds. Your body does not belong with something so beautiful and calm, becoming so fierce with the hold of you.
Rolling.
September 18, 2014 § Leave a comment
It was similar to the feeling of rolling your eyes into the back of your head. He was being pulled into the darkness under the heavy weight of your rolling sight.
Each breath of yours pulled him from beneath the depths and into the light. Pulled to and fro with the currents of his own wishing and your own thinking.
Hearts: In the style of Brian Doyle
September 11, 2014 § Leave a comment
One of the most unique fascinating interest captivating hearts is inside the Zebrafish. A zebrafish’s injured heart can regenerate itself. A zebrafish’s heart can withstand up to twenty percents worth of damage and heal wholly without any real long-term consequences. A heart that defies potential harm and its consequences.
A whale’s heart beats only six times a minute. A hummingbird’s heart beats ten times a second. A canary’s heart beats seventeen times a second. Each and every heart beats for the same purpose and with the same concentration, but every living creature has their own rate and chosen speed at which their heart is made to beat. Your heart is representative of your livelihood. A canary and a hummingbird although beautiful and fast creatures, are not made to withstand the years and livelihood that the blue whale’s heart allows it to.
A heart belonging to any creature has a huge responsibility and is incredibly important to the being it belongs to. In the same way that the heart keeps us alive, we can also be trapped within a state of torment from a damaged and maltreated heart. Some may wish that they have the same resilience that the zebrafish’s heart has. That their heart would completely heal and regenerate from any harm or bruising that may occur from life, and love, and loss. Not all hearts are as easily repairable as the zebrafish’s heart, not even the canary’s rapid heart beat or the blue whale whose heart may be large, and slowly paced, but can still be damaged just as quickly as one another.
“On Noise”
September 4, 2014 § Leave a comment
In my personal opinion, I feel that silence is over rated. That is not to say that I do not like the quiet, I can thrive on quiet. Nor does it mean that I enjoy continuous, vociferous noises that can disturb your thoughts, hurt your head and interrupt your sleep. But I feel that silence is a very rare and sometimes unachievable prospect. It is something that people often seem to confuse with a scale of how quiet the environment is deemed to be, or is aiming towards. A professor may ask for “Silence!” or you may enter a “Silent Area” in a library, but how achievable is this so desired vision? I often write on my own, with the doors and windows closed, in an attempt at quiet, but nothing quite close to silence. Noises, I think, are necessary to ones sanity. As someone always surrounded by noises of most sounds, I find them quite comforting. Now, imagine to yourself real silence that can make one weary of the noises of living. Even when you are writing, whether it be on paper or typed, you will hear the scratching of your pen scraping indented thoughts against the page or your fingers translating thought to keyboard, with the constant whirring of your laptop making a too late attempt to cool itself down. But if these sounds could disappear as easily as they are created, would you really want silence?
To be out in the woods, without the rustle from wildlife through the trees and the fallen branches littered on the bed of the woods, without the breeze of the cold northerly winds whistling through the leaves and the small gaps, without the sound of your breath, or your heart beat or your thoughts. Real silence is a frightening sound. You want the sound of your breath repeatedly whirring, the sound of your heart stirring and hurrying, the sound of the wildlife chirping and talking and moving around to remind you you’re alive. These sounds and these moments are all too extraordinary to pass by simply silencing them.
Untitled
August 27, 2014 § 3 Comments
Sometimes you’re paused by the window of the quiet living room in your empty house. Watching the end of summer turn into autumn as the days have passed by.
Sometimes you’re just watching, watching as time continues to pass you by. New faces, old faces, loved faces, faces that you’ll undoubtedly miss. Faces you will forever search for in crowds, thousands of miles from home.
Sometimes you’re twenty-five and you’re sitting in the armchair of the house you’ve lived in for seven years, drinking tea with your cold bare feet rested upon the wooden coffee table, listening to acoustic music with lyrics that are digging up memories that you thought you had long ago buried. You’re just sitting there contemplating, thinking about the work you should have done last night and the dirty dishes always awaiting you in the kitchen. And also more exciting things like the movie you borrowed from your colleague that’s laying on the coffee table and the long weekend ahead and relationships that have recently come along unexpectedly. Or the ones that are slipping away from your memory, which is much less exciting. You don’t write as much as you should, or talk as much as you’d like to. Instead, you just have these moments where everything is frozen and the buzzing sounds around become drowned out. And as you realize this you just don’t feel as comfortable in the worn armchair as you did ten minutes ago, or even comfortable in your own skin as you think about the flawed past. Home doesn’t feel like home anymore, but neither does your Mum’s house, at least in the flesh. When there is no home, where are you supposed to find comfort for your unsteady heart? There used to be the comfort of coming home to the ears that listened everyday and the eyes that observed your swift mood changes and the warmth that wasn’t shared with anyone else but you. But when you start feeling trapped within this seven-minute sincerity, where thoughts of this person you are feel foreign and you both miss and fight the memories you bring to mind.
Sometimes you realize that you’ve never been very good at making decisions, and even less frequently, good decisions. It could even be said that you’re great at making bad decisions. Bad decisions, spur-of-the-moment decisions, ill informed decisions, rash decisions. Every decision has led to this moment in your life. And when did it begin? You start to wonder at which point in your life did this start to happen. Was it through the stress of education, the turmoil of past failed and broken relationships or the breaking away from the family that loved each other so fondly. You start to wonder why you can feel alone when you’re in a group of people. Why do you fall in love with anyone who gives you the slightest attention? And why do you find the unavailable so alluring?
Sometimes you’re young enough to fall for the lustful allure wherever you turn. You must carry the scent on your skin. Your mind is begging for love, you can hear it in the words you speak. They might not be able to hear it, but they can taste it on your skin. Like wasps with fear, your lovers felt your desperation. You’ve caught yourself feeling sad about things that just don’t matter anymore.
Sometimes you’re erratic, unreliable and needful. You always wonder about what could have been, what might have been, if life was different. If you had taken more opportunities. Said yes more. Said no more. Left the house five minutes later. Chosen a different way to work. Looked up at a different moment. You realize you shouldn’t spend so much time dwelling on things that aren’t present. Dwelling on the past can be harmful in large doses. You think about those pictures that are still in your wallet. The ones of the friends you no longer stay in contact with and the ones of someone who recently decided they no longer wanted to be part of your life. But you look happy, so you keep them behind your stamped cards. You threw away the pictures that never should have been taken in the first place, the drunken moments where you’ve felt peaceful in the state of a mix of whiskey, rum, and self-avoidance. Where does this all come down to? Love that’s been lost can be heartbreakingly beautiful. Not for the want or need of having it back, but the appreciation of sharing these times with someone whose skin felt so familiar against yours. How far have you travelled for men who have never warmed your cold skin in theirs?
Sometimes you start to wonder whether this happened before at another age. Were you sat in this same chair in this very same moment a year or two ago? With less hindsight, less wisdom, less experience. Each momentary bump in your life has been characterized by your own actions. Was the heartbreak more raw? Was the overload of work as tormenting? The timetables as scribbled upon? The kettle as regularly filled with brittle water? Just because you’re several years older, more experienced, more worn, doesn’t mean that these things feel any less significant than they did at that moment in time for you before. You know you’ve only really just started this real adult life, yet this almost makes it so much worse.
Sometimes you know you’ve had the same thoughts before. You’ve been led on the floor, in your empty house, with an aching heartbeat and a sore head, thinking about the torment in your thoughts when you begin to stare at walls for too long and they all jump in on the moment. Taking advantage of the gap in your thoughts, pouring in through the broken barricade. Will these mistakes be continuous? Forever going back and making the same mistakes, over and over again. Falling into the same traps with the same people. You begin to realize that your own company is the most satisfying kind of company. With no one there to affect you, the peacefulness of knowing where you stand with yourself. Always one step ahead of yourself at all times.
Sometimes you realize that you’ll never be any younger than you are now and you’ve also never been this old before. Each passing minute is another aging minute and another minute feeling unsure about how to progress. How to live in your own skin, how to deal with past demeanors, how to stop yourself from physically clenching up when you squirm about all those stupid mistakes you’ve made in these short twenty-five years. Growing up can feel like your skin is no longer familiar, that every cell in your body is alien to you now. Your body is a suit that no longer fits, you’ve outgrown yourself and you’re not sure on how to find your way from here. You can’t remember how you got here. You can’t remember how you got from thirteen to here and all the same feel like fifteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. Has anyone else felt this way? Maybe this stretched skin suit would feel more comfortable if there was the wise opinion of someone who’s been through this part of his or her life too.
Sometimes you remember hearing promises about the future, promises about flimsy feelings turning into cemented hearts. Hearts you knew were cracked from the start. You thought you could sit around and talk for hours about things you couldn’t say and things you were never able to do. The life you lead should be something that you’re proud of. When breathing and contemplating and considering, you realize that your life is going to be a continuous work in progress. Something that will just time out from occasionally. You need the strength to keep working on this everlasting progress.
The CD has finished with the sound of fading guitar strings. The mug of tea held up between your thighs has gone cold. You’re going to take a deep breath and you’re going to be fine in a few minutes.
I don’t think this feeling ever goes away, no matter how old you are.
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argh, was only supposed to post the last story
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