Nightmares

Sometimes I wonder if at the same time I wake up from my nightmares, you do too. I wonder if the ties that bind us can be cut so easily.

The Fine Art of Finding Yourself

I love the fact I get goose bumps when I hear a certain song. Even kisses give me the bumps. My lips are ticklish and my heart is weak. Today I learned that we are all trapped by our inability to be socially imaginative. I wish I could see the greater implication of myself in this big picture.

Everyday I push my boundaries, silence the screams of my inner super shy girl, and take daring steps in an untraveled land. I meet new people constantly, each eager to find someone to replace a certain best friend they left at home.

I never thought I could be this happy without my family around me. But the thing is, if ever I'm sad or aching for human contact, I have a floor full of friends to talk to. I never thought I would be reading so much in so little time. I enjoy keeping bust though. I can't imagine myself anywhere else at this point. A social environment was what I always needed.

Everyone here is going a little bit crazy. To an outside observer we are all crazy teens drinking too much and making noise in a quiet world. That outsider was me for the most part of my life. I was miserable and hateful of those people. I even told myself it was because they were just "crazy teens". Now that I'm in the center of it all, I can rightfully say that we are exactly what people fucking say. I'm crazy, I've always been crazy. The fact that I write that sentence with a grin on my face makes me crazier.

So, in my mind what's the point of living if you never test your limits? In this life there is but death. Why not intoxicate myself with new experiences based on love, drugs, feelings, people and knowledge? I'm experimenting with this new world I'm in and it sure as hell ain't quiet.

The Drama Queen

I'd like to think that all my problems are important. I'd also like to think that everyone else sees them as I do. But the sad thing about most people is that they have a strong tendency to exaggerate and lack compassion.

Get ready for the exaggeration.

Once again, I find it incredible how one person can bring you from the lowest point to the highest in the simplest ways. It's so easy to give all of your love away to someone and even easier to either hurt or be hurt.

Whenever I argue I get irrational, my heart beats fast and my mind starts spinning so uncontrollably my mouth can hardly keep up. I say things I don't mean, I even say things that mean so much to me that to hear them come from my own mouth is embarrassing. I'm embarrassed by my dependence on certain people for happiness. I put my entire well-being in the hands of others and when I end up on the floor, I only have myself to blame. So when they stand victorious, surrounded by people and things to do, I am left here in my own pity.

I wish I could stop thinking about certain things. I'm hopeless, I'm also quite useless. My efforts never work. I try and I fail. I fail and I get angry. Thus, losing everything I care about. I'd like to tell myself that I'm alone now, isolated and thoroughly broken, because of you. But the truth is, I'm in this state now, because I just can't escape, I might be leaving but I can't let go.

I'm a drama queen. And I'm alone.

Children of Light *Update*

I'm feeling kinda bored since I have no job still! And was looking over my past post. I discovered my unfinished exam short story called Children of Light. Looks like I'm in the writing mood again... I donno if that is a good thing haha. Anyways, stay tuned for the finished version of the story, it shall be exciting writing again. I really missed it!

Sitting Musicians

In the world of music we have Freelance Whales.
Pretty snappy pop beats come from these guys. www.myspace.com/freelancewhales



If you haven't listened to the Drums. You have to. YOU HAVE TO. I love their whole cd.
www.myspace.com/thedrumsforever



AND Fruit Bats can rule my folking world forever!
www.myspace.com/thefruitbats

Before Boys and Broken Hearts

It's been a month today since I last wrote on this lovely blog and I think it's about time I reflect on who I am. Things haven't been very clear to me for awhile. I've been crying much more than normally and had two panic attacks last month. I stress way too much about things I can't control, but I think the major factor is that I put too much pressure on myself to be perfect all the time, which is obviously impossible. If I understood myself and my limits I would be able to get through scratch free. But lately I've come to realize the power one person's opinion can have on your well-being. Two people I love are telling me two different things about who I am and how I present myself to them. It's sad that I have to rely on other people to understand myself, but that's why there's people who are paid to do so. Anyways, I'm feeling much like the awful person that I've been told to be right now. I wish I could see who I am and understand why my actions might hurt, but I'm not sure where to start. Well, I'll guess I'll begin by reflecting on my life before boys and broken hearts.

For the longest time I was never comfortable with the girl in the mirror or the girl in pictures, many teenage girls/boys likely go through the same thing. Luckily I am blessed with amazing friends who are unique and fun. Unknowingly they helped me through rough times by simply being there and in that way managed to shape me into who I am today. Because of their presence and influence, soon I began to view the good intentioned (sometimes major fuck-up) yet stubborn vegetarian looking back at me in the mirror as a good thing. The girl behind the glasses was changing for the better (in my opinion). I started working out, eventually I became confident enough to wear nicer/tighter clothes (that I never wore because I was ashamed) thus attracting compliments from family and friends. I lost weight, but I also lost the bulk of clothes designed for people to hide in. I began to push myself hard in school because for one I love learning and two I thrive off receiving praise for my hard work. - I was finally getting the much needed ego boost that I had denied myself for the longest time, which had left me miserable and lonely. I am so lucky to have such a great family, environment and group of friends to support me and make me feel loved.

Now let's get to the boys and broken hearts part. Don't get me wrong, I did attract the attention of boys before my boyfriend, but I never understood why they would want to date me. I know eh? Pity party for me! But, seriously, it never occurred to me that they might find me pretty or that maybe I had a personally that appealed to them or something. I'd turn them down thinking I was doing THEM a favor. Jesus. My "oh pity me" ways not only hurt myself, but also those boys that probably genuinely liked me as a person. In the words of my father: "you're a heart breaker, that's not a good thing." When I would turn them down, I saw myself getting more and more miserable, burying myself in giant sweaters from value and hating people for some retarded reason. My actions made me hate myself and I was spiraling into some metaphysical pit of permanent isolation. Then the craziest thing happened, one boy managed to get through my defenses. For some crazy reason he found the giant sweater wearing awkward girl to his liking. At this point I was already beginning to change myself (working out, becoming more friendly, etc.).

So now back to these conflicting attitudes. This brave boy, who saw me at my weakest point, doesn't like the person I've become. Lately I've been celebrating my confidence by wearing girly clothes, by painting my nails neon pink and loving the way my bikini looks on me. Some might call me fake or something, hypocritical etc etc. But I'm finally doing what makes me happy and sadly I haven't been happy for a long time. Too bad that it doesn't make the people who count happy. Well, I don't think my personality has changed much, I'm still a goof ball, jokester, obnoxious, sifi nerd, non-gossip, loner and often shy girl. I am proud to say that I'm not afraid to speak my mind anymore. My teachers helped a lot in that department, but also the eye surgery that I received helped with my fear of eye contact. I never really mentioned that. But that also made me avoid boys because who would want to date the crazy-cock-eyed girl who was afraid to take off her glasses. All in all, I had believed these changes were for the better but, I think I'm as vulnerable now as when I started. I hear that I'm a good person from my mom, as to be expected. But on the other hand I'm told I'm a bitch and a slut, with no one in mind except herself. I take it all to heart even if they are jokes because I'm stupid and weak and I'm left with old miserable self once more and I not sure what to think about the confident girl in the mirror anymore. I think I'll miss her when she's gone, even if she wasn't a great person. I know that I never intend to do awful things, I believe that I have good intentions. But did I have to pay a price to get to this point? I think I have, for I feel so unloved right now despite being surrounded by my family.

I'm going to Kingston in September. I'll hopefully be making new friends and will be beginning to stand on my own. My worst fear is that I'll lose the girl in the mirror. I think I like her - despite some negative reviews.

I've grown so much since I first started this blog. I'm proud of who I have become. The scary thing is, I'm not sure how long I can keep telling myself that if I don't really believe it.

Back Here Again

I find I always write on my blog when I'm completely messed. I've been lucky lately. I've had many people to talk to and things to keep my mind occupied. But, here I am. Back again to my teenage angst filled blog posts. Now, I feel more like my old teenage self than ever.

WHAT MAKES ME A BITCHY TEEN:

1. I'm slowly building myself up to a stress induced death.
2. I'm going to cry myself a river! (I'm pretty goddamn dramatic)
3. I'm an awful human being once again.
4. I'm starting to like being alone.
5. Jumping off a bridge is looking perrrty fine!

So here's a poem. A depressing, sad, embarrassing, gay ass poem. But fuck, right now I have to talk to someone. Even the internet folk. You've always been there for me when I feel like spilling some shitty thoughts. So thank you for probably not reading my blog... because I know the kind of shit you're into... when you're googling Jessica (omg so many naked pics)!

Oh That FEEELIN'!

What AWESOME feelings that feeling brings
when you give your heart away.
But complications arise
that feeling dies.
and you're fucked and left astray.

You forget about that feeling,
it no longer has a name
and all you can remember - is what it all became.
The happiness was forced, the anger too real
and those feelings overpowered the feelings
you should feel.

So how do you know when the end is real?
Was last week, the last time
You would feel?

Is it over now, it's not clear?
Cause it sure as hell didn't end with a slamming door.
Because why should I fight for you,
if you don't want me anymore?

The Empty

She only knew how to be herself, and even though that wouldn't be enough for him, it was all she had.

I'm getting that sinking feeling and i know that it's not good. Soon I'll have to delve into my treasure trove of memories because out here I'm nothing but water. I need something solid to remind me that life is wonderful. I can't rely on images and fantasies to keep me company anymore. I need the living breathing, kicking, screaming parts of life to bring me back. We can fight it, us lovers, for only so long.

Awesome Photography

http://www.webdesignerdepot.com/2010/04/captivating-examples-of-sleeveface-photography/

A Woman's Last Words by Robert Browning

I.

Let's contend no more, Love,
Strive nor weep:
All be as before, Love,
—Only sleep!

II.

What so wild as words are?
I and thou
In debate, as birds are,
Hawk on bough!





III.

See the creature stalking
While we speak!
Hush and hide the talking,
Cheek on cheek!

IV.

What so false as truth is,
False to thee?
Where the serpent's tooth is
Shun the tree—

V.

Where the apple reddens
Never pry—
Lest we lose our Edens,
Eve and I.

VI.

Be a god and hold me
With a charm!
Be a man and fold me
With thine arm!

VII.

Teach me, only teach, Love
As I ought
I will speak thy speech, Love,
Think thy thought—

VIII.

Meet, if thou require it,
Both demands,
Laying flesh and spirit
In thy hands.

IX.

That shall be to-morrow
Not to-night:
I must bury sorrow
Out of sight:

X.

—Must a little weep, Love,
(Foolish me!)
And so fall asleep, Love,
Loved by thee.

Friends vs. Lovers

In the end, all you need is a friend. You know the cliche: "Let's just be friends." ? Well it's true. Friends are much better than lovers. Why else would most people want friendship after a relationship ends? Sad, yes. Even in some relationships you cannot be friends with the one you love, that is, until you break up of course.

When it comes to friends, your heart is never broken, they don't feel the need to protect you from the world and they love you no matter what. The love they give you never hurts and they are always there for you, to pat you on the back and tell you that you did everything you could and that everything you did was just. They're not scared of your tears. When they console you, it's because they care. They take your side and understand you. You can fight with them and they wont hold anything against you. That's what makes my friends more valuable than anything in the world.

And finally they are with you when and after you fuck up constantly.

At seventeen I've realized this one thing that most children find out immediately. Better late than never.

Radical Face: Wrapped in Piano Strings, and Others

Just a short post, but very important nonetheless. If you're looking for some awesome indie tunes, make sure to check out Radical Face.( http://www.myspace.com/radicalface) *Fav song: Wrapped in Piano Strings. Thanks to Adam for the referral!

Also, some other really cool artists:

Chad VanGaalen, check out his album Skelliconnection for some cool Alternative beats.
(http://www.myspace.com/chadvangaalen)

Kaiser Chiefs are key when it come to sweet UK music, but if you haven't enjoyed their music in the past, take a look: (http://www.myspace.com/kaiserchiefs)

Lastly, if you feel like some vintage French sexy music, try some Edith Piaf.

Robert Browning and the Jealousy

For the first time on my blog, I have to recommend an amazing poem to the masses. We read it today in English class and like most things taught in English, one may assume that it is some Shakespearean bull. But, don't judge too soon, for the haunting after effects the poem leaves, can easily make it hard for you to sleep tonight or to look your loved one in the eyes. So, without much further ado, I give you my new favourite poem from the great lyrical poet, Robert Browning.

Porphyria's Lover














The rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me--she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!

Creative Writing EXAM 92% BITCHES

“By bus or car, By the sway of train over a long bridge,/ We wanted to get out.” Gary Soto

The Children of Light

by Jessica Shelley

The City’s gray cement horizons prevented early risers from rising with the sun and daydreamers from dreaming. The dull gray light perpetually shown down upon the massive waves of people walking to and from their jobs at equal paces. The faces in the crowd were always solemn, the lack of light casting shadows across sagging cheeks and wrinkled skin. Small children held onto their mothers with equal misery plastered around their eyes and little to no hope of innocence left within them. Their tiny limbs were lost in the sea of bodies. There was no use swimming and so they held on to their parents, their sinking ship, as it was all they had ever known. For these were the people and the children of the future that you may have read about, all fifty billion of them, all equal, all the same, in every miserable way.

The absence of sound in the City just reassured us that our own personal misery was mutual. It was as if the entire population was resting and the City was just waiting for me to take my first breath.

We used ancient clocks that beeped at the turn of every hour to count the days. Without these decaying devises, we would never know of the passage of time. When I was born, my mother told me that the clocks beeped 14 times before I decided to leave her womb. Harper, she called me.

Our building number was #46,990,234 and there was little that a young boy could do in the City except play with the other miserable children.

“Harper, don’t ask if you can go play with the other children in the other buildings. That’s forbidden.” His mother groaned with annoyance, her face drooping ever more with a pathetic frown.

“But, why?” he asked with defeat, even though he knew the answer, since he had heard it many times before.

“All the buildings are the same. The people are the same. Just play with the children in this building.”

And that was that. Harper stayed within his own building with his mother as his only companion for the first twelve years of his life. He had no father. Before Harper was born, his father had decided that he had had enough of living in the City. During his three hundred and fifty thousandth, three hundred and ninety-ninth hour, without telling his pregnant wife, Harper’s father ventured into building #1 with hundreds of others and spent his last hour waiting in a line to be incinerated. He had heard the clocks beep 350, 400 times. He died along with the masses of people who spent their final hours in a line waiting to die, knowing that there was no heaven in a world without a sky.

As Harper grew up, he found it incredibly difficult to play with the children in his building. The other children had an amazing ability to make him feel as hopeless as them, trapped within their concrete boxes, playing with their concrete toys. Harper would try to spend time with them, but just couldn’t bare it. He’d run back to his room and pull out his crayons. With various shades of blue, yellow, pink and orange, Harper would recreate the place in his dreams.

Harper began to spend more and more time within his whitewashed bedroom, drawing pictures and placing them on his walls. But Harper soon realized that he didn’t want to spend all his time in his room, talking to himself and drawing pictures of a world that he’d never find within his own concrete box. So he devised a plan. He waited until his mother was sound asleep and snuck past the incompetent patrol at the door, too dumb to see the young boy crawling on the floor in front of his desk. When Harper reacted the outside, no alarms were ringing in his ears and he was free.

This was the first time that Harper had been in the streets without the massive crowd pushing its way past the buildings. The street was deserted. Harper closed his eyes, took a slow breath and began walking along the street. His heart was beating so hard in his chest that he wondered if the sound of it would alert the patrols. This only made it beat harder. Harper stalled to take a look around him in apprehension, not a single thing moved. That is, until a building’s door across the street was jerked open and a tiny voice called out, “Hey! Hey You! Are you stupid or something? There’s a patrol coming by in the next 10 seconds. Get your butt in here!”

Shocked by the broken silence, Harper crouched and ran, covering his head. When he reached the building, two small hands jutted out and grabbed him by his perfectly pressed dress shirt. “You are crazy or are you stupid? Geez. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.”

Harper looked over the boy sitting in front of him. He had curly blonde hair tossed on top of his pasty white head and a mouth that seemed to never know when to stop moving. “… and why the heck were you covering you head? There’s no use trying to protect your head with your hands, unless your hands are bulletproof!”

Impervious to the boy’s abuse, Harper introduced himself.

“Why hello Harper, I’m Jackson, the boy who just saved your stupid life. You’re lucky I was here, waiting for the patrol to pass so that I could go out in the street too. You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me.” He replied, irritated by Harper’s lack of gratitude. “Anyways, I think you should come with me.”

Harper followed the boy, wondering where exactly Jackson was taking him. He climbed about ten flights of stairs and when he reached the eleventh landing, Jackson motioned for him to go through an ominous steel door, situated before him. Harper gave Jackson a quick inquisitive glance and then turned towards the door. Without looking back, he turned the knob and was instantly blinded.

He awoke to the sounds of a girl’s giggling voice. “I love it when they faint.” Harper strained his eyes trying to find the girl who spoke, but found it impossible to see. He cleared his throat and pleaded, “Please help me. I can’t see.”

A boy’s voice this time, “Wow, this one sure is a whiner. Where’d you find him Jackson? Cause, I propose we send him back.”

Another voice joined the conversation, “Quiet Lyle, you act as if you were born first. I’m five minutes older. Therefore, I’m five minutes wiser and I say that we give this whiner a chance. Jackson obviously knows what he’s do-"

Harper interrupted the second girl “Excuse me, but who are you? What have you done to me?”

“Don’t worry Harper, you’ll get used to the light soon enough.”

Harper was almost overwhelmed hearing Jackson’s familiar voice among the strangers. But, the words he spoke confused him even more. Light? The light in the City never blinded him before.

“I don’t understand.” Harper’s vision was slowly coming back and he could make out five blurry figures standing around him.

The other boy’s voice started up again, “Well, seems you’re the newest member of the Children of Light. The sixth. Jackson chose you because… so why did you chose him anyways?”

Jackson gave Harper a friendly punch on the arm. “I chose Harper because he was daring enough to go out into the streets while a patrol was roaming.”

The other figures shook their heads and laughed at his carelessness in the face of death. At the same time they patted him on the back and Harper felt a rush of pride turn his face bright red.

Now that Harper’s vision had returned to normal he could see that he was sitting on the floor of a generic whitewashed room. Yet, there seemed to be a brightness emanating from a small crack in one of the walls. None of the strangers spoke to Harper as he made his way to the wall. The brightness that had blinded him earlier was now dancing upon his skin. He moved his fingertips over the crack and felt that it was warm. How was it possible?

“This is amazing. Jackson, this is light?”

The five strangers just nodded and smiled, amused at Harper’s amazement.

They eventually introduced themselves and Harper soon began his true exploration of the City and of the light.

So, he had found friends in the other buildings after all. Their leader, Jackson was from building #46,990,231, the twins Lyle and Mona from were building #46,990,249, and the stern Wallace and the constantly giggling Rhea were from #46,990, 230. They became fast friends due to their shared rebelliousness that led them from their buildings while their parents slept, and into the streets of the City. With their quick feet and youthful energy, not yet destroyed by the hopelessness of the City, the six mischievous companions made their way through the streets, narrowly avoiding the armored men patrolling the area.

There was no space in between the concrete buildings to hide from the patrols; the only space was the one you could stare up at, two miles above your head. Occasionally you could spot an elderly gazing up at the sky for just a moment, but then they would lower their head once again and sigh. It was no longer the sky, the sky they had known, before the buildings were masses of concrete and the light was gray. All they had known, was now a lifeless gray void hovering heavily above their heads.

(not finished)

This is where my story was going:

- sky obscured by buildings, only gray light

- Harper born, finds crack of light in room, mesmerized by it

- Gang of children from several buildings, led by Jackson, become Children of the Light, so Harper, Jackson, Lyle and Mona (twins), Wallace and Rea.

- ends with massive earth quake, tears down city

- sets people free to explore, but instead adults cower in the rubble of the city and the Children of the Light go explore new world

- shows the innocence and adventurous nature of children

Wishing Well

In your innocence,

you wish with good intentions.

When will this minute pass?

When will this hour end?

When will this week be over?

When will this month go by?

But, when will it be time to live at last?

Sometime soon, our time will end.

And we’ll have nothing to remember as we fade.

Our hands will strain for another minute.

Our limbs will reach for just one more day.

And our molten hearts will leak hot from our mouths as we pretend,

that everything’s ok.

We never let ourselves be beautiful in our own eyes.

Our baby skin and our baby hearts have long gone.

Why did we spend a lifetime wishing for more, wishing well, and hating what was drawn?

And we’re scared of never being able to love ourselves.

Now it’s too late and our skin is dead, our hands are limp and our eyes are rust.

And our leathery old skin will turn to dust.

It will be too late by the time you know,

we were wishing our time away and we forgot to let our baby skin glow.

We will regret never feeling the heart beat of a lover

or taking just one moment in a lifetime to discover

the comfort of crying on a shoulder and being protected,

while telling a secret to a stranger, soon connected.

You wished your time away

and now you're stuck hoping for just one more day.

"Distance means absolutely nothing, when someone means so much."

I stand outside in the middle of the night,

and with my unblinking eyes, I attempt to count the stars.

I want to capture every beautiful thing in this world before it’s too late.

A cool breeze passes over my body, sending shivers over my skin while

frosty fingers graze my face and caress my wild hair,

but I don’t mind.

I’m not cold.

My heart is on fire, the flames licking my skin and I just smile at the sheer simplicity

and beauty of it all.

I’m frozen in place with my eyes charmed by the stars.

So, this is what love feels like.

Today you gathered me in your arms and asked me how I felt at that exact moment.

I could not find the poetic words you deserved to hear.

But, the feeling, pulsing inside of me, making my heart beat loudly in my chest,

gave me little doubt as to my answer.

I stared into your waiting eyes, and with a quiet smile I told you,

“I’m happy."

Now, I look around at the place where I grew up,

at the world that I ignored with my deformed vision.

And unlike time and time before,

where I hung my head down

and watched my feet move rapidly over jagged stones,

which pierced through the soles of my shoes,

my sore feet just don’t feel like moving anymore.

I lift my head up high in order to capture every beautiful thing in this world

as I wait for you to come stand beside me.

And while you attempt to count the stars,

I smile quietly and feel the energy of my boldly beating heart.

Hey There. You Bad Seeds. Let's Get It On!

I was born upside down.

My dog had puppies. One was born inside out.

We're all born with sins. Better start cleansin'.

I'm disturbed by the world and its grim surprises.

Reality is a bitch sometimes.

Life is beautiful, - as long as you see it that way.

I choose to see many ways.

That's why I'm bitterly cynical.

Finally! I'm clinically perfect.

I've checked out and I'm on my way.

I'm not finished though.

I still have a long way to go

until my head is right.

What about you?

How's your head doing?

I love the heat in your movements.

But, coldness throttles your every word.

You love cold, lifeless things.

You hate those close to you.

Their touch burns your skin.

You hate them for what they don't give you.

Is there no other reason for it?

It's so hard to love someone for what they do give you.

On their death beds you will remember it all.

Only then will you see, that you hated them for being everything you could have ever wanted.

People tell me to be things, but I don't feel like listening.

But, you... you listen to the movies, the music and your real self fades.

You are hiding.

I try not to listen, because this chameleon needs sleep.

So do you.

Take a break, write a song, sing it to yourself.

Find God.

Then find out that there's more to life.

Find your own answers, ones that you can't find in any book.

Discover the world outside your room. Find a balance.

Discover that outside of your bad seed sprouting head there is an occasionally beautiful world out there.

Change again my brother and you'll lose your

grip.

I could stare at ink blots, but I only see ink.

Tell me what you see and I will change my story.

Because there is more to you.

You're not just a depressed teenaged boy.

You're scared of being alone, so scared you'd rather die than think about it again.

As long as you stare at everyone else, you'll only end up failing the Rorschach test.

"The voices say hello." - Matthew Good A Boy and His Machine Gun

Too Tired to Sleep, Too Hungry to Eat

Inside of me is a need.

For the touch of your flesh,

I find the substance from

which I feed.

Sustenance gathered from

pools of lust.

I'm a slave to something

I never needed before.

What can I do?

I can no longer lie in wait.

With my eyes always open,

they turn slowly to dust.

Give me something to do,

other than pine over you.

Today, my dog ran away. Helplessly I left my house with a leach in one hand, my cell phone in the other. It was dark. I followed him for twenty minutes along the road and another fifteen through the forest. As I was just about to give up, and bad thoughts crept through my mind, he ran towards me. He came close enough to allow me to grab him. I felt like crying, but I didn't because I am a warrior. THE END... and that was my day.

American Psycho

I've been reading American Psycho. The book is much more detailed and perverse than the movie. Reading it, I thought about writing my own horror story. I started thinking about the character, whither it would be a woman or a man, stupid or Hannibal-like, what would his motivation be... etc. In my head I saw him as a man who only killed the people who loved him most. As to why he killed the ones who loved him, he didn't what to let them down, he didn't what that responsibility of loving someone back, of holding one piece of the puzzle while they held the other. So he let everything collapse right away before he had love and he could feel loss. Mostly he's scared. In his mind, he is saving his victims from a much worse pain. It makes me a little worried that I have created his twisted mind from my own. I wish I could play the piano... I wish I could do something more productive with my time like learning an instrument or improving my knowledge of the world by traveling the world or even going outside. But, it's much easier to write about things than experience them yourself. Horror for instance. I could go out and kill some people... (I'm not going to.) But, it's much easier and healthier to write about it... or read about. The reason why I'm talking about killing people is because watching horror movies or reading horror novels makes my mom angry, not scared or sick to her stomach, angry. She gets angry because she can't understand why anyone would want to watch or read about murder. To quote my favorite author and song writer Matthew Good, "The telling of such occurrences, though anyways touched by a bit of danger and mystery, never quite lives up to the true depravity of such actions. And therein lies the sickness that we embody as a species. Horrified by the fact and entirely mesmerized by fact sold as fiction." - From Porno Safari. The reason I think that people are so intrigued by horror is that it is so removed from their normal lives that the mystery of a man going through the night and murdering people to fulfill some sick need in his heart is enjoyable. It's as if they like to be close to something so awful that the good things in life seem greater... like being alive. I wonder what our lives would be like if everything was good and nothing was psychotic about anyone. Well, in order for that to happen our brains would have to be removed. See, the brain is just a pot filled with soil and our thoughts, good or bad, are either nurtured or removed like weeds, voluntary or involuntary. All my thoughts are vines, not exactly beautiful flowers. They crawl through my body and escape through my mouth, my hands. At one time my skull was too crowded with bad thoughts and the only way I could relieve the pressure was to write. I think I've reached a healthy balance. The headache is gone and the horrific thoughts have become characters, settings and morals, not actions. But that doesn't make me any less of an "American Psycho".

CONSISTENCY

If you stare at things consistently enough, their consistency begins to break apart and hit you with bone crushing force. It's hot. Sweaty hot. And I'm lying here staring at my fan spinning. I could stare at it for hours and as I watch the blades spin round and round, they would become one moving object. But, in my current state I can see each blade cutting through the air. Consistently, my eyes catch sight of one, then the other. For some reason they seem to tell me something important as if my fan is going to teach me an important life lesson.

There are tiny black flies touching my naked back, my face, landing on my eye lashes and on my computer screen. I'm annoyed, well at least I think I should be. Maybe they are minor annoyances, maybe they are trying to tell me something as well.

I'm trying to make some philosophical finding out of this. I thing I wanted to find was meaning, but now I just see that I've come across and insane. That's cool. I don't want to wait to see what will happen. I want to know what will happen so I don't love just to have a broken heart in the end. That's what I wanted to find. I wanted to find an answer, not meaning. But, now I see that neither the blades of my fan, nor the bugs will give me some mind awakening answer to the problems with my heart.

Umbrae et Pugionis - My never finished nerdy-novel

I - Elders of the Umbrae

Once upon a time, fantasies were made up fables. Theodora did not exist during this so called time, but had learned of its existence from a traveling merchant, while out training for war.

The forgotten time called to her heart every time she opened the forbidden books that the man had sold her. But, the razor sharp threat of war ripped her fantasies apart and made any hopes of freedom unobtainable without the spilling of blood. Freedom would not be found in the yellowed pages of a forbidden novel. And yet, she felt more and more rebellious, turning to these illicit means for freedom. What harm could it do?

Looking for answers, she went to her father, Gaius, being very careful not to mention the books. He had suggested that she learn the traditions of her tribe, the Umbrae. Her father had raised her on the Umbrae morals: actus non facit reum nisi mes sit rea, that the act is not guilty unless the mind is also guilty. He told her the first Umbrian people named their tribe after their founders, who were dubbed ghosts by the only rival they let live long enough to spread the word of the three men who had attacked him in the forest one night. When they were certain that the word was spread, they hunted the man down and brought the body to man’s family—there were no signs of blood on the man; whispers in the dark claimed that he had passed from fright.

In her village, the elders make up the council that rule over all Umbrian peoples; they dress in golden robes and conceal their faces with masks, which depict ancient gods. Some elders had been alive since the Pugionis tribe, the daggers, destroyed the ancient world. Only the elders know of the reasons and actions behind the destruction, but chose not to speak of the past.

The elders only speak when necessary and when they do, a scholar documents every word. It was rumored that there was a room in the council building that contained a library, which was home to all the elders’ words since the beginning. If the elders words were ever questioned or the rules of the tribe broken, the rebel who voiced these questions would be subject to death under the vox laws, no matter the severity of their offence.

Every year during tribal festival, an elder would tell the tale of the unspoken traitor. Theodora knew that the tale was designed to strike fear in the hearts of possible traitors; claiming that even doubting the elders’ ways in secret was deserving of death.

Last year, in an act of desperation, the elders introduced confessionals into the tribes’ routine. Theodora confessed to her fears, while anyone who confessed to doubting or disobeying orders was tortured, and then burned alive. The ambiguity of the rules made them hard to follow and all of the Umbrian citizens were in a perpetual state of apprehension. So, she followed what she could and confessed to what she didn’t, and she trained to be the best, pushing her limits in every separate struggle. She kept the image of the screaming, faceless people out of her mind and ignored her fear of replacing the image with reality and the faceless with herself. She could never imagine that pain, she never wanted to find out what it felt like to have your skin melt.

The world was in a constant state of war and Theodora knew only of the techniques needed to make the perfect kill. Her tribe demanded unwavering strength training everyday; fighting alone was prohibited and all training was to be done with an elder. The elder who was assigned to join her sessions, Mars, was the strongest of the twenty, and although his specific age was unknown to her and his appearance gave nothing away, she could tell that he was the youngest by the way he walked with youthful arrogance.

It was on one of these very “mission” where her view to the world that she had known was draped in the shadows of creatures she never knew existed and the people she had once trusted became a dark blur, merging with obscurity.

Mars had no words for her, and had yet to speak once they left the council building. He only motioned with his hands and hid his expression with his porcelain mask. Theodora read faces well, but with his mask, her relationship with Mars was as unemotional as the expression that permanently rested upon his frozen visage.

The elder knew that Theodora had been training for five years and that she was getting closer to becoming a polished warrior, one that would gladly give their life to the Umbrae. All of the elders had been watching her advancement closely, for they could not deny her dexterity in every task that she had been bestowed. For Mars, it was his task to watch her even closer, to ensure that she never expressed any distain towards the Umbrian laws and to see if she could be trusted.

The other gods had told him that he would be surprised by the words that would be shared while you fought close with a person for years. Unfortunately, Theodora was a woman of little words as well and the silence between them was filled with an understanding of a common goal that was present between allies. The elders knew of this undisturbed silence and it bothered them deeply.

She might become too strong for their tactics and she may need to be broken, so that all her secrets would spill and eventually her black blood. Another unspoken traitor would burn.

II – The Black Blooded

The scent of burning flesh was common amongst the sweetness of the morning air. Not one of the villagers expressed any protests to the smell as they had become accustomed to keeping almost everything to themselves, especially their complaints of death by burning at the stake. The young woman was burning and the villagers hung their heads, praying in secret for the woman to die a quick and painless death. Her shrieks constantly pulled their futile prayers apart and made their rapid steps much quicker. All together, avoiding the stakes made a simple errand time consuming, but it was time that was desperately needed to remain isolated from the watchful inquisitors, or “death dealers” as many villagers referred to them. The paths were filled with many innocents while broken people with broken faces crowded the stakes, getting crazed pleasure from this heinous way of cleansing souls.

They thought to themselves that these were the people that should be burning, not the victims of accusations based on fear. It was easy for the inquisitors to find distraught individuals willing to accuse another person of being a traitor and for trying to talk to another about the rules that prevented them from doing so. The inquisitors were finding the anguish of the black blooded amusingly pathetic.

Since the beginning, the rules had been put in place to make a perfect society. A utopian society, one without civil violence, contaminated thoughts or actions, hatred or vulgarity and weakness. This was the elders’ dream and they would do anything possible to achieve it, even if it meant enforcing perfection with the threat of death. That was the way to ensure that what happened to the ancient world, would not happen to the Umbrae. Technically, the elders did not enforce the laws they only made them. It was the inquisitors that were to be feared and hated for what the elders told them to do. These people were chosen by their loyalty and strength. The problem was that many were too weak to withstand the power of a bribe.

“These present laws are not enough to prevent the traitors from flourishing in our weak state. Yes. Weak.” The leader of the elders’ discussion paused for effect and contemplation. “Something needs to be done to our weaknesses and by weaknesses, I mean the black blooded.”

The scribe quickly scratched out the last few lines knowing full well that any mention of weakness or the black blooded was meant to be uttered, not read in the future. The elder turned to the scribe and asked the man, for the first time in the scribe’s ten years, to leave. The scribe might have been unfamiliar with the situation, but he made the assumption that if he were to stay his paper would be empty of information and full of thick black slashes.

“Now we can speak freely.”

The whole room erupted with a multitude of ideas, most considered crazy, the others not even considered. The elder instantly regretted his previous remark and he began shaking with anger as more voices joined with the chorus.

“Stop. I have realized that this discussion is useless.”

When his words were swallowed up by the pandemonium, the elder stood up from his chair and slammed his chalice on the table, using enough force to make the wine slosh out onto the tabletop and onto his golden robe. The noise receded as fast as it began and the councilmen looked to their leader. Through clenched teeth and a mind obscured with outrage from being ignored, the elder managed to say, “Leave now. I need to think about what has been said.”

After the last imbecile had left the council room, the elder finally managed to clam down enough to face the problems at hand. He was paranoid, that was true, but what if the source his paranoia revealed to be true as well? The inquisitors had failed him time after time by allowing themselves to be bribed by men, proving they were no stronger than the men who bribed them. There was a weakness in his elaborate system and the very system was failing. The reasons for the black blooded deaths will have lost effect if the people realize that money can save their souls. The black blooded will be looked at as the poor who could not afford the bribe, not as the heretics that they had been accused.

The red wine on his robe clearly had made a stain, he thought as he looked down his front. Indifferent to his nakedness, the elder pulled the robe it over his head to fling it over his chair.

Turning towards the scribe’s seat, the elder noticed that the man had left his documentation book on his chair. He picked it up and started to flip through the pages, until he came to the end of the book. Black slashes littered the last few pages, but all of the pages were full of proof that the elders had been struggling with the control of the Umbrians.

I am the ruler of the gods, I am Jupiter and this is my right.

Making sure that no one was watching, the elder moved to the open fireplace, threw the document into the yearning flames and like the many documents that had been misplaced the same way, the elder made sure that blackness permanently erased the atrocious history of the traitors that had been come to be known as the black blooded.

III – The Copious Faults of the Punionians

What a beautiful specimen she was.

Mars was intrigued with Theodora; she was unlike any woman that he had ever trained. Her mind was void of any distractions and she only thought of the kill.

Can’t you see that she is distracting you?

Theodora used her flame spell on an alauda that had set its hungry eyes on her own fiery ones. It let out a squawk and fell to her feet, to be dissolved by the soil.

Mars scolded her in his always-condescending manor, “If you are going to kill a sky demon, make sure that it poses a threat to you. An alauda is not worth a second look.”

She nodded, knowing that he was right, but still hating the fact that he was always right. Then again, the creature had targeted her. Still, she knew better than to open her mouth to a superior. Her father had drilled that fact far enough into her head as she grew up.

With lips glued shut, but with a burning face, Theodora concentrated on the back of Mars’s head and the pleasing image of an arrow sticking out of it.

“Now let’s find a demon worth one of your, gifts.”

His resonant voice rang in her ears and reminded her that her spells were uncommon and the concept that they caused resentment among other fighters always caught her off guard. The jealousy hidden underneath his innocent suggestion was partly due to his own inability to cast spells. As the god of war he could only fight with his steel manmade weapons. This forced him to place reliance on something other than himself, so he made his body into steel to make up for his dependence.

Mars pushed by and motioned for her to follow him into the woods. She couldn’t help but notice how attractive and strong his body was and that when he went by he had touched her arm slightly, but she soon struck those thoughts from her mind as she warned herself of the penalties.

If she were to confess to her lust, Theodora would be branded, a torture tool reserved for women, thus making her unfit for marriage. Marriage was to be beneficial to the whole tribe so, a marriage built on lust would only tear apart the morals that the Umbrians had been built around.

These poisonous thoughts plagued her every minute. Theodora desperately sought freedom from the evil that followed behind her every move, getting closer and closer with every stumble. She found it impossible to walk through everyday life, as jutting stones had been placed on her path by malicious hands.

They had been walking for hours on a path that just allowed for them to walk single file. The ancient trees, which made a roof over the path, blocked their eyes from the sun’s hurtful glare, kept them cool and let them quicken their pace, to wherever they were going. She desperately wanted to ask the elder the details of their journey, but strange apprehension prevented her from doing so. Soon, Theodora no longer recognized her surroundings.

A rustle, one caused by something much bigger than any demon she had ever encountered, came from the trees to her right. Turning her body in that direction, Theodora caught sight of a figure, either man or woman, drenched in what looked like blood. Whether it was the figure’s blood or not was what made her try to take a step closer, only to find Mars’s hand on her shoulder.

“Stop. I’ll deal with it.” His voice was even more muffled than usual behind the mask. “Whatever it is.”

Here it is.

I find it easier to write my thoughts down when I have nothing to do. When my mind is occupied with thoughts of another kind, I will write frantically -but, with a cause, which is unlike now since I am writing about writing about nothing in particular- and make no sense. Maybe I'll write another poem about life in general or a story about growing up and how it is so hard. By now you have probably realized that I'm making fun of myself. If you have not, then sorry for wasting your time.

I hate how my friends never write on their blogs. I wish they didn't have lives and were more like me!

I complain a lot. I complain about complaining a lot. I think that by pointing out my flaws, somehow that makes them ok. It probably just makes them worse.

I'm going to cut and paste some poems that I wrote for english because I'm too lazy to write some more stuff. -I totally forgot that I started writing a book/novella last summer. I'm probably never going to finish it- I just got an awesome idea for a book! Since there are millions of half-finished books out in the world, I should take some and make a book out of them. The stories would never end, but there would be dozens of blank pages after each story so the reader could just write their own ending... that sounds awful. But, here are some of my half-finished stories so I can pretend that I wrote something on my blog.

This is my favorite half-finished story because it has attitude! Here's I Sold My Soul For Drug Money:

Chapter I – Laced Intentions

“Hi. My name is Johnny.”

“To be honest Johnny, I don’t give a flying fuck. Here.” He shoved a medical mask into the boy’s hands. Johnny didn’t hesitate to put it on. Then the man motioned for the boy to follow. Johnny could smell it in the air; the mask couldn’t prevent it from getting to him. It made him hate himself. The need was killing him and there was no doubt that it would be successful. So, he gave in to it, like he always managed to do after the doubt kicked in and followed the man down the hallway, one that looked like in belonged in a horror movie.

“Your family is dead if you told anyone where you are and what you are doing. Then…” The power that he had over the boy went to his thick head and he paused for a second to intensify the words to follow, turning around to poke his thick finger into Johnny’s gut. “We’ll come after you.” The large gun in the man’s hand told Johnny that this was no empty threat. And with that, he saw himself, bloody and limbless, crawling down this very hallway after being subject to the torture of the big man in front of him. That was enough to silence him for the next millennium.

With his mouth-sewn shut with invisible thread, Johnny matched his speed to the long strides of the man until they reached a large room that was so smoky that the ceiling was practically nonexistent. The first thing that set him back was the amount of people working. Not a sound was heard while they were in the hallway and even now, of the approximately twenty people in the room, not one lifted their head from what they were doing. Johnny could see that this had nothing to do with concentration as he looked back at the gun, one that he knew the man would use and had likely used before.

I guess I have to explain to you how I ended up here, the twenty five year old high school drop out, druggie and loner. It’s that one word, the one substance, and one of the many ways to screw up your life. A very expensive “pass time.” I’m telling you, it’ll explain everything. It reveals the reason behind the twitching, the coughing, the hallucinations and the whole mess that comes as bonus gifts in the package of a cocaine addict. Did you find it in that last ramble? Well here’s another clue for you. Cocaine, cocaine, cocaine and goddamned cocaine.

I’ve been told that if I had finished high school and gotten a “real” job I wouldn’t be an addict, but how does that make any sense? At the risk of coming across retarded, let me reiterate, cocaine is an expensive pass time and mostly only people with “real” jobs can afford to get high off it. But, men like me would sell their soul for a single line. Sadly, what I learned, my soul was worth shit.

“Snap out of it, you dumb fuck.”

And snap I did, as the butt of the gun was jabbed into my side. I tried not to cough up my lungs, while the big man giggled as if the whole “causing internal bleeding” idea amused him.

Once I managed to find my breath, I asked, cautiously, “When can I start?”

“The Boss, in other words “the guy you don’t want to fuck with”, will tell you.”

Nodding, not looking into his eyes, and managing to hide the tears, I once again followed the stupid, ass-faced motherfucker deeper into the depths.

Chapter II – Wasn’t Always a Fuck Up

I may have dropped out of school, but you first have to understand that I grew up in a perfect family in suburbia. I’m not entirely sure if all suburban kids turn to drugs… but now that I think about it, that wouldn’t surprise me if they did. Well, who else would be able to afford the expensive ones?

Meet my mom:

“How many carbs are in juice? Maybe I’ll stop drinking liquids altogether.”

“Mom, what about water?”

“Of course I’ll drink water. I’m not stupid.”

“You are stupid enough to screw the mailman.”

“Yes. And you are smart enough to keep your mouth shut.”

Meet my Father:

“Are you happy son? Cause I didn’t buy you that new bike so you could cry on it.”

“Dad, I think I might be depressed.”

“Son… rich people don’t get depressed. Now go for a ride while I work late with my secretary.... Son…”

“Ya Dad?”

“Good things come to those who keep secrets. Things like tuition to a prestigious school.”

“What I’d like is a soul to sell.”

“You have a soul son. Just like me...”

“…and mom?”

“I’ll pay for the therapist.”

(to be continued....?)

This is a poem that I finished last summer with the intent of giving it to my mom and dad, but I decided against it...

We are all deformed by our views of perfection - a poem

Look at me as I am,

I am your daughter, the fuck up.

You can’t see me if you don’t know what you are looking at.

I may be a tarnish canvas, but you’ve never seen the painting beneath.

Never cared to look, did you?

I’ll give you my heart on paper -- you can eat my soul.

That’s why I give it to you,

I like the pain that you give me,

You like the pain that I get.

Judge who I am before you get to know me

Get to know me, then judge who I have become

You knew me, I changed, the end

I can hear your brain throbbing

Throbbing

Throbbing

Robbing me of wordssss

I can see your eyes darting

Darting

Darting

Starting this sweat

Dripping into my veins

I love you, but I made a mistake.

I write about your forgiveness,

But have yet to receive it

You didn’t forget.

You are there, up on your throne

I am here, all on my own

No one fights for my reputation

I never fought the losing battle that I began

All I did was fall, I have yet to get up

You have your hand on my shoulder

It should be comforting that you’re there

Your warmth should make the coldness in my lungs cease to exist

Your hand is strong

I try to get up

But you are holding me down

I panic

You smile

I cry

You smile

I look at you for help

You smile

I scream

You laugh

I give up

You laugh

I stop breathing

You laugh

I am dying

You laugh

I’m gone

You shake your head

It was my fault you say

It was my fault

It was my mistake

It was my deformity

And that was the end

I was at an end

My mistake made a fucking end

It ripped through to the other side and spilled my guts for the first time,

Sorry, my mistake

Read my suicide note

It will tell you everything,

Just not anything you want to hear.

You never wanted to listen

I told you so many times

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

But, you didn’t believe me

You held my hand

I couldn’t see you, but I knew you were there

You held my hand

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

You held my hand

I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear

But I could feel the heat of your stare.

The disappointment burning through my lucid skin.

Skin soaked in the aftermath of my mistake.

The mistake that put me here,

With all this voices talking about me,

I’m here!

I’m here!

Aren’t I?

I can speak.

I think… I just wanted to say…

I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.

You let go.