Make that Money

Nothing is cohesive.

Hercules

What if there were a solar system with 2 suns that had a string of planets between them. On this planet, there would always be a sun in view and while one rose, one would set, painting the sky with unimaginative colors.

Here's Tom with the weather.

Life is only a dream and we're the imaginations of ourselves.

Failure by Design

It took me an hour of having my shoes off to realize that a good number of my toes on each foot were bleeding. And how did I miss this, not feel it, as I smiled and giggled to all those strangers for hours. I imagine it happened when the cart of a distracted mom ran them over when I was on my break. Yup, both feet. I didn't look at them though, because I was in a hurry to get back to my register. I even forgot it happened.

It wasn't until I crossed my legs to cuddle into the big red chair that I have made my bed for the past week that I saw them. They don't even hurt though. They are cold and numb because I won't turn the heat on.

Now to discuss what I'm really thinking about:
We each determine our own purpose in life but we only have so much freedom from ourselves. Almost anything is possible. It's like standing on a cliff and being scared of falling off, but also being afraid that you might throw yourself off. Mostly, because what's stopping you? And that thin line between you wanting that ultimate freedom to actually do anything that you desire collides with your fear of having all your freedoms ripped from you. Therefore bonding you; you're never free.

I can't rationalize any of it. It's a great anxiety either direction.

It's like a constant fear of just living while fearing death. It's an absurd and meaningless world. And an internal battle ensues within me over this lack of true freedom because I'm bound to this person that I've created through enduring experiences, which may or may not reflect what's really there.

I need to let people in. I've got to let people in.
I can't talk about it all now. And all the reasons I can't.
But there are just things. Like my favourite nightmares. And all the things that make me feel more fluid. And the way my eyes cry at night but I don't know why. None of it really matters to anyone else's life though. So I'm not going to subject them to the fragile, formless puddle of what I've made my reality.

I've pushed myself too far to go back too. . Just wishing that there was some way I could have my innocent view of the world back. I just want to remember what happy really feels like. And not the happy I get when my I'm done being crazy. I wish I could remember what it feels like to not just hate things because they exist outside of my idea of what efficient and necessary advancement is.

 I just want to remember the warm feeling that lacks the rigid edges of usuality.

Stupid america.

`


                                                                     Oh my God.




Oh my God.








            Oh my God.

                                                                                           Oh my God.

Expectations vs. Reality

I misunderstood every adult I came into contact with throughout my childhood. It's not their fault though. I just thought that they hated it when I talked; hated me bothering them. And mostly, I think they liked that I left them alone, the adults.

But there's always been a disconnect. I mean, seriously, I didn't say my first complete thought until I was 4... and I must have terrified my parents. I was presumably retarded. And perhaps it is true that maybe I have an unidentified retardation.

And now I stand in the way. I hate the way words feel and sound when they come out of my mouth. When other people talk, I'm commonly repulsed. And it's mostly because I imagine they've spent hours mapping out these very words to say to anyone. It almost makes me laugh. But my face starts to feel heavy and my smile must look fake. Nervously I chuckle, and it's evident.

 Pessimism:
And people make you nervous
You'd think the world is ending,
And everybody's features have somehow started blending
And everything is plastic,
And everyone's sarcastic,
And all your food is frozen,
It needs to be defrosted.

Optimism:

And people are just people,
They shouldn't make you nervous.
The world is everlasting,
It's coming and it's going.
If you don't toss your plastic,
The streets won't be so plastic.
And if you kiss somebody,
Then both of you'll get practice.

If I could just get the second one down...

Institutions

And why did they want  to come to a party for me? But they all dressed fancy and came to my graduation party. And it was fancy, with beautiful cakes and dresses and ties.

Strangely,

I really do think this is how it would feel to be in Iceland.

Sigur Ros

Realitiless

Why'd you fuck her?
Why'd you fuck Sarah Stidman?

Was it because you knew I was watching and you knew it would hurt?
I thought you were holding my hand but you weren't holding my hand.
But it was your face. And you were so nice to me.
I was too concerned with watching you fuck Sarah Stidman to know.

And you were divided.
But the only you I cared to acknowledge was not the one cradling me to sleep.
Why did you do it? Why did you fuck her?
Is it because she was beautiful?
She is beautiful. Thin with wavy golden hair.
Light freckles kiss her cheeks which hold up two blue moons for eyes.

And you were crying with me.
At least some part of you was.
I barely would glimpse at your face because I was too busy staring.
Into the eyes of a betrayer.
The content eyes.

Somehow I'd wanted this.
This hurt. And it hurt.
But never mind all that.

Compost for your garden.

There's a distinct dissatisfaction to the way my words hit your ears, and I can tell.
The way you grimace because I've said the wrong thing.
How your lip sneers and your eyes are full of disappointment.
And if you didn't despise my words enough, my silence drives you mad.
Your jaw tenses and your teeth clank.
Eye contact is out of the question and I'm relieved.

In my head I'm screaming, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
And I think I'm talking to myself, but I know I'm partially talking to you.

But you don't hear it.
My mind is racing with appropriate responses, but I can see it all playing out.
It's like a book, unfolding in slow motion.
Happening just as fast as my eye would read the words.
I'm not fast enough to write this story though, only read it.
This is your story and I'm ruining it.

You can tell that I'm disgusted with the plot you wrote out.
You knew that this would be a fight and I fell for it.
Although you never laid a hand on me, I can feel your tight grip around my neck.
Fingers carefully laced.
"I'm sorry, I really do care," is all I can muster.
Not good enough.

What do you really want from me, though?
You implied that I was not to get attached.
But now I'm too unattached?
I know you're still in love with her, so why are you asking me to do this?
And don't call me Baby.
That was your worst mistake.
Because now I can't tell if it's you or me fucking everything up.

And I laid out nice words like salve on your wounds and you healed.
But your words hurt me so deeply.
There's no way I'll ever forget now.
The callus around my fragile soul is so much thicker.
Dammit.

And we have to stop.
You said it too.
I had thought it several nights, while wading in my misery.
It's not that it's not fair to me.
It's not fair to you.
You'd never admit that, though.

If you had never told me how deeply you felt for her so many nights ago, it could pass.
But I know your heart is yearning for something out of reach.
Even though you made the rules I know you would break them for her.
It's none of my business.
But I'm sad for it.
Because it's fragile and I can't talk about it now.

And you were right.
Sometimes when we were together I did wish for forever.
I didn't really mean it though, because I would get tired of you.
Like I am now that you have made me sleep outside.
I'm tired and confused.
Mostly, I feel helpless around you like I'm always going to get it wrong.
Because I always get it wrong.
Then I feel so ashamed.
You're going to lash me across my cheek again with your words.
I can feel it.

I gave you this power when I secretly let you in.
You didn't even know you were in.
Because when we danced I was stiff and stepped on your toes.
Or something.
But you should have known.
The way I laughed and smiled and traced your collar bones, resting momentarily on a mole.
Fuck you very much.
It's not that I care because I'm past the point of feelings.
It's just bitterness.
The feeling of trickery.

You told me not to tell anyone and it messed me up.
I wouldn't have, but why didn't you trust that?
I agreed to the terms just like you.
I accepted everything that morning that I laid there dead.
Sometimes, it's just too much.
Too overwhelming, like it is now to try to sort.
It's dumped acid into my fragile stomach and infected my brain.
And I don't want you to do anything but acknowledge that I might be right.
A simple "I'm sorry that I did that to you."
I didn't care until you made me care and then your first sacrifice was my dignity.
Now I have no pride.
And I can feel you running away because you see me turning to salt.
You realize that everything I fall on will be barren.

But run.
I begged you to before.
I begged you to before I was involved.
Before we ignored all boundaries.
And I'm pissed that you didn't heed my warning.
This is all your goddamn fault because you are afraid of how frail I am.
You were afraid.
But you threw me as hard as you could and my porcelain skin shattered against the wall.
You picked up as many pieces as you could and wept into them, all alone on night.
But by the morning you were gone.
Your china doll sitting on your case at home, waiting for you to brush its hair.
I imagine you did.
100 strokes until it shined so brightly.

I'm sorry. I should have said the right thing.

Frankenstein

Sometimes I wish I could have held on.

Held on the everything that I sacrificed to be alone.

If I just didn't let everyone slip away.

What was I supposed to do? There was nothing else to talk about. No more words to say. 

And mostly all I really wanted to say to all of them was how much I hated them for not caring. I hated all of them for not trying. Why didn't they just try a little harder to scratch my surface? Why didn't they burrow under my skin and squirm through my veins? 

How did I get away with no one knowing me?

And now I have nowhere to go and no one to talk to because no one knows who I am now. Just a strange girl in a strange land.

I hate them so much because I needed them. But they wouldn't really love me. They wouldn't really even like the real me. I am scary. My brain is so scary. And sometimes suicidal. And sometimes homicidal. And I thought that there was something wrong, really wrong for a long time. Something missing. But I realized that it wasn't missing. The ticker that stopped me from carrying out all of these thoughts that drove me insane was in there. 

It's in my brain because I can feel the euphoria when it hits my brain. All those thoughts turn into spurts of joy and laughs of hysteria. When suddenly I don't want to smash my head into the windshield just to feel. The longing to dominate and frighten everything I'm around just stops. And I'm happy. 

I'm happy.

I'm happy.

IM HAPPY.

                                                                                              But it just doesn't feel right. It's not a warm happy. It's hysteria. And it's nothing at all. I perceive that I am happy because I don't feel the bad things. But why would I be happy? There's nothing to be happy for in these moments. 

I should be mourning my thoughts. I should feel sorrow for all the evil that has pranced through my head. Instead, I'm just laughing. Laughing an icy, numb laugh.  

A dissection of the attitudes of people.

She never really understood why, but she always decided to be happy. Every time the brick in the hand of all of her demons bashed into her face she just laughed it off. There was never a time that she didn't have a smile on her face if she was looking you in the eye. She made a conscious effort to look you in the eyes every time too. She never said anything that was mean or crude, but instead said the sweetest things that only made you adore her more. Her hair was always fixed and her face always slightly enhanced with color. If you ever took time to watch her you would notice her selfless concern for everyone else. Yet, you knew nothing about her. The only thing you ever collected from your observances is that she was smart. So smart, but so humble. She didn't purposefully use big words to confuse you but on every term exam she made nearly perfect marks. She was so talented at everything. For her, you assumed that there was no limit. She, of course, put her heart into everything. She was the nicest person you ever met. While, admittedly, she wasn't the most aesthetically appealing, you never would think about it while in her presence because she was such a beautiful person. Although she rarely made you laugh or react to her, you wanted to talk to her. You would share every agonizing detail about your life with her while she actually listened and cared. Your secrets were all safe with her and that was evident. There was no fault or flaw to her. No rigid seem, just a soft, cool pillow and a warm wool skin. 

And these fond memories are all you hold of her.

Innocence and Adoration

I had myself convinced that I didn't need her and she was just a poison. Mostly, I don't miss her. I found a recording of her singing with so much passion and sadness that it made unintentional tears fall. But I miss the mommy that tucked me into bed and sang me to sleep. I need her so bad....... I need the warm feeling that her love gave to me, if there's anything there still at all. 

My memories of having a whole family are so soft and secure, even when tragedy was befalling me. I miss coming home from school to a fresh loaf of bread my mom had baked, still warm from the oven with a thin layer of butter on it. I miss locking myself in her closet while everyone was playing to wear her high heals and smell her perfume. I would pull down the large box of change that my parents had saved for vacation and wiggle my fingers down under the cold coins until my hand was completely buried. 

I would move to the deepest part of the closet, under my dad's dress shirts and hide against the wall as I slipped on his huge rubber boots. I would run my fingers across the white metal bars above my head and they would sing to me. I was happy to just lie there and smell the carpet that was infused with my parents' smell. And sometimes I would even sneak various items from my dad's office into my sanctuary and spend hours observing them.

Then I would transpire from my cave back into there bedroom, and rest my head on one of the cold, wooden banisters that extended from the corners of their king bed and trace my fingers over the fancy carving, working my way to the very bottom, where the wood met the carpet. I would lie on my back and thrust myself under the bed and reach through the holes in the box springs because the air inside was always a little cooler and I liked that. 

Several times a week I would open the chest at the end of their bed and pull out my mom's wedding dress. It was so beautiful, encrusted with shiny jewels and pearls and poofy shoulders. It was the most lovely item of clothing I had ever held in my hands. It smelled of the old musty wood and love notes at the bottom of the box. 

I loved sneaking into my dad's office that was off limits. It smelled thickly of his the fancy tobacco that he would smoke in the evenings while he chatted on the phone to his brothers. I would glide my fingers across his grandfather's antique encyclopedias, collecting a thick layer of dust on my fingers. And playing with his Mt. St. Helen volcanic ash never got old, and the fineness of the powder caused it to move in a very intriguing way that I still haven't gotten over.

After the bookcases lost my interest I would pick up the small cardboard box of my dad's agates he had collect over his many years spent searching in Yellowstone and lick them so they would turn into an opaque glass with ripples through them. And I would hold them up to the window until I found my favorite one. 

At night we would sit on the steps of the porch while my parents rocked together on the porch swing and we would watch the sun set as we ate fruit. In the summer, my favorite was watermelon. The juices would leave a sticky beard from my lack of etiquette as the coolness of the night set in and the mosquitoes started to buzz followed by the passing of the loud mosquito sprayers that crawled down the city roads in the evenings. 

I loved examining the old wooden school desks with initials carved in them where I learned my multiplication tables and how to write my name in cursive. I would dip my fingers into the built in well that once upon a time was used as an ink holder and pretend that I was Laura Engles. I would lift the top of the desk up to look at my neatly stacked, shiny books. And I loved learning everything and how proud my parents were of me because I always got every answer right. 

Some days when my mom was doing laundry I would sneak into the laundry room during the middle of the cycle and lie across the washer and dryer waiting to empty them because my parents would let me keep the money that I found. The money that they purposefully left in their pockets after noticing all my efforts to look for it. And I would usually buy a barbie with it that I would never play with because I already had a whole town packed away in giant clear containers in the sun room that attached the washing room to the rest of the house. 

And when my dad said it was time for bed I knew he was giving me a head start. I would run as  fast as I could up the stairs and shut my door, and then run into the closet and shut the door. My heart would start to pound because I could hear him stomping up the stairs singing, "Fe, fi, fo, fum. I smell the blood of an English mum. Be he red or be he in bed!" Then it would get silent and the door knob would twist and he would look in, pretending not to find me. When I was sure he had given up, he would reach under the pile of clothes I had thrown over me and pull me out by my feet, throwing me onto the bed and tickling me just enough not to make me mad. Then he would tuck the covers around me and place his hand on my forehead and pray over my dreams. After a peck on my cheek, he would rise off the side of the bed and flip my light on, and leave for work for the night. 

Nothing ever felt out of place or cold as long as they were around. They'll probably never understand how much I adored them either. And I wish that time hadn't stolen that adoration of a shy little girl that woke up in a new world every day.