Too Dramatic

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The Hands of the Lion-maker

I've been tired since that night you sang me that lullaby and rocked me to sleep. So, so tired.
I've been sick since that day the cold wind whipped through my hair and iced my ears. So, so sick.

And I lay down, I sit up, I dance on my puppet strings through life essentially the same way I did before you existed in my world. It's a game for me not to think of you though.
I have no future though, like I have no present. And we were not meant to have an opening night for this play we have written so many times. But we rehearse together like I rehearse alone when I'm staring, wishing for the words that came so easily in our exchanges.

I don't know how to tell you because I don't know how to say that I can't save you because I'm too weak and I've been flailing my arms in an open sea, trying not to drown for years. Just treading water, going nowhere, hoping to be swallowed by Jonah's whale. And I wish the water was warm.

And in my dreams you keep me warm and I am warm when I am dreaming of you.
But I don't dream in the colors I used to. I dream in the colors of your skin, of your eyes, of you.
For all this, I hate you.
But I probably hate myself more.
And I love you.
But I probably love myself more.

We sit, hand in hand. And I wait for you to roar because I expect you to; you never do.
It frightens me like you are a jack-in-the-box waiting to surprise me. And I silently whimper in my head, and you will never hear.

You are my lion,
I am your lamb.

SOMETHING

i see Your beautiful words and i've read them slowly, and i've read them quickly. 

i even read them out loud when i thought no one was listening. 

And i think i know You;

And i think You know.

i'm scared of You though. 

i'm scared of everything about You. The roaring sincerity in Your eyes when You talk to me. But mostly i'm scared that You are tangible and that is something i'm going to have to deal with. And although i don't want this to be a dream, i wish so badly this was a dream. i'm frightened of how You analyze every movement i make, every twitch of my eye or slight flair of a nostril. 

And You think You know me;

And You think i know.

And i wonder how my skin feels under your callused bony hands that hold me so tightly in the cold, in the dark. And i don't mind that 

neither of Us have 

words. 

i don't know. and i've never known. and You'll never know. 

soul meets body.

Early, I became a pro at blowing bubbles when I would wash my hands.
Index finger smugly on my thumb, soapy net suspended in the opening, gentle breath and quick movement of my hand to close it off. A ritual of sorts.

And that was beautiful.
I mostly think that because I was young and innocent and didn't have an obligation to anything for that minute of my life I spent blowing bubbles. And the time was beautiful. And the pride was beautiful.
But now, instead of smiling at myself in the mirror because I had perfected my art, I sit here. I sit here typing this story, in a moment that I'll never remember because it has little significance to my person. And I won't remember that Hallelujah as by Elisa is playing in the background because my time is now compact and not strung out into oblivion.

Perhaps in the 10 years or so that it takes me to remember days like today, like everyday of my today, I'll think of your smile. I'll probably smile too. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to find a truth about life that I learned while dancing in the palm of your hand.

Although, then, I'll know everything about nothing, just like I do today, I will think that what I am thinking actually means something as a whole and will effect people, it will only reach a handful in my lifetime. My life will only truly have effected the reality of very few.


And, for me, that makes those people mean the world.

Invisible Man

I feel like empathy is a petty thing to ask for and I would rather not be sympathized with. Sometimes I just want to be heard and don't care about the response. Sometimes.

4 years ago exactly, I was spending the day with my dad and we had each other in hysteric laughs on and off. That's something about my dad that I love so much: he is me. And we both think, we both feel, and we try to solve universal problems like scholars. On this particular day, however, it was just us spending time together, smiling. As the sun began to set and the air was getting crisp we passed a wreck and began joking about being heroes and saving the people inside because he could run fast and I was super strong in our fantasy world.

Now, this probably all seems really stupid, as do the majority of day to day conversations. But this particular exchange of words will always have importance to me because it would be a while before we were happy together again.

The body pulled out of that car would be a boy, a 17 year old. Kurry. He would sit next to me at lunch, but never again. He would make everyone in the proximity laugh, but never again. He was just gone. Not many people realize how it effects an individual when someone just disappears.

This is the day that changed my life. Not because of his death, but because it was the start of a chain of events that no one had the power to stop. A chain of events that I would spend countless hours, that I was supposed to be sleeping, crying over. 

And today, I don't feel sad.

I don't feel much of anything. 

And I can't decide why.

Somber. 

I don't find myself wishing he was alive for my sake.

For his mothers? Yes. For his little brothers? Yes.

But I know it will never be for me again. 

Today, I am sad for everyone else. I am especially sad for my older sister who, before she had dropped out, had become closer to him than I would ever be. 

And for me, he's just a missing person. 

Here's to happiness and clarity.

I've been doing this all wrong. You see I'm not a bit sad. I'm completely content with EVERYTHING. I just get cynical some days and this skewed view is a consequence. But when I think about it, the ratio of days I write cynical blogs to the days i do not is extremely low. 

I'm happy; I'm happy.

Soy diferente.

You.

The you I talk about, the you I address.

Do you even know who you are?

Some times I don't even know who you are, so don't be afraid to be confused. 

I'm confused too. 

I used to be able to critically analyze everything and spit out the logical answer like an android. The problem now is that I feel everything so deeply instead of brushing it all off. I can't decipher fact from emotion. It's all so beautiful yet deadly. And no one will acknowledge the fact that there is this other thing happening in our society, this numbness that is enjoyed by the mass. Emotion isn't real, it's just this thing generated by our need to be like those around us. Unimportant things have become so important to our drowning generation. I can't name it, but I can put my finger on it.

I just don't want to be part of it; I just can't be part of it. Instead, I observe everything, wondering how we became such melted plastic, regurgitating the lies we have been told about EVERYTHING. It's the lies about how life really is. We paint each other this beautiful facade of happiness and the american dream and all the stuff that comes with it that and it's just unrealistic. Life's always going to feel the same and you're always going to have to work to gain any amount of pleasure. This silver platter idea that we have in our heads is poisoning our perspective.You don't just get to a point in your life when you can stop planning and just live. We have psyched ourselves into believing in this stagnant life style in which we are always getting to do what we want, when we want, with no budget and no concerns. 

I say that it's all a fake, but like the other 7 billion people here, I believe that I'm going to get there someday and I'll be so happy.

We'll never make it. And I'm so sorry :(.