Another Look

Not all that has happened in my life the last few months has been too dramatic. The reason I stopped posting had to do with the fact that I posted just to have a post for the day. (Like I am doing, now.) Sometimes, I feel I just do not have anything to say.  This might be the last post I write for a while, at least until something happens in my life.

Frequent visits to Clermont have bothered me, though I haven’t been there in a month or so, fortunately. I do miss my brother.

I stopped eating meat; I always wanted to do this. My depression has lessened in weight; well, my physical body likes it more. My emotions have been too out of whack lately to notice a difference.

I’ve made a couple of friends, James and Jonna; perhaps, I can only be friends with people who have a J in their name. James works at Bold Hype and says awkward things just to raise the awkward level a couple of notches. Jonna’s going to read this, so I’m not going to say how much I hate her. I mean…

It has come to my conclusion that heterosexuals sometimes have more open minds than homosexuals or bisexuals; only heterosexuals at Stardust seem to listen when I say I’m an asexual. Most people say ‘well, you haven’t done it, so you don’t know’ or ‘you must be gay.’ If they knew they wanted sex, why wouldn’t it make sense that I know I don’t want sex?

I have tried to (re)learn some code, but my laziness in practicing prohibits me from making much progress. Focusing on one project has never worked much for me. I am making progress, though, just at a slow pace.

If I can think of something to write an essay about, I’ll post one. Goodbye for now.

Zombie Moths and Butterflies (Part 5)

These limbs have shied away from too much social interaction after she restarted my heart. The level of production of writing and all other projects ceased with the weeks of rain a month ago. My mind begs to do so much which makes me get nothing done. Little by little, the skills I attempt increase.

This post might not be needed. I wasn’t sure whether I was going to write another one in addition to the four, but I felt I didn’t provide any closure on how the situation seems to be (as little as there is). Either way, if you read this blog you like to listen to me talk about myself, so I’m sure it doesn’t matter.

Every time I see Emily, she uplifts my spirits dramatically; this can be a horrid thing. Whenever I leave her presence, my mood can only stay so high for moments before dropping lower than before. A smile or a wave can break me away from the harsh depression that none can see through or into. After I taste grace, my insecurities become all that evident. I wonder how I could be good enough or why I’m not.

So, many times after I’m not around her, I’ll droop and wish I could spend more time with her. Part of me wishes this would go away; I’ve said many times that I’m going to get over her. I really don’t want that– perhaps, that is the problem. Every time I see her, anything I said about not caring dissipates as do any problems the world throws at me. Don’t get the idea that I become careless. It’s far from that. I just get the feeling that everything is going to be okay as long as I’m around her. Hope magnifies.

The weekend after the panic attack had me saying that I was giving up. I sat around until the next Wednesday, hoping I’d get courage to tell her; I’m a fool and have a crush, and that’s why it’s awkward to be around me. You might be wondering whether I did have a conversation with her. Do you not know me by now? I’ve given myself the same advice everyone else tries to give me. It’s not going to work.

I rode my bike up to the Dusty Star, noticing how flat the back tire got as it pressed my weight to the ground. It took a good fifteen minutes in the scorching Florida weather, but I made it alive. The barista didn’t stand behind the counter, she had to have been doing something in the back. I sat on a stool to wait while customers climbed in the line. She looked at me, but never asked, if I wanted anything. I didn’t want anything in the first place, I just didn’t want to hang around without buying anything.

Emily passed by a few times, and I asked her how she was. I told her when she asked, but apparently I didn’t speak up. To this, she asked ‘are you good,’ and I did some combination of nodding and speaking. I can never be too sure around her. I hope she’s just shy around me; if she doesn’t want to speak to me, I’d rather have her tell me that. I went and sat outside; she passed by a couple of times and didn’t say anything. I went and sat somewhere else outside near the art gallery, and she passed by and walked into that. She didn’t look at me before she went in, but after she did she smiled at me. And, I left, melted.

And, here I sit, writing about a butterfly, an angel in human skin.

Zombie Moths and Butterflies (Part 4)

The day after I had the panic attack, I went to the poetry slam. I only went for a little bit, because Julia had a raid to do on World of Warcraft. My primary motivation of going was to write something; I can’t seem to write anything when I don’t feel away from everything. That’s another reason why I choose to not go to Stardust often. Since everyone knows who I am, my words will not come to me.

My hammering heart hoped she’d be there; but, at the same time, my mind shivered at the thought of being around someone so beautiful. She has done so much to help the community; I feel insignificant or that I’d get in her way of doing good for the world. I truly admire her. Though, I had a crush on her before finding out who she was in the world, her actions imprinted her into my heart. Her organization promotes the community and local businesses.

While I’m sure this is just another excuse to tell myself I’m good enough for no one, it also makes me ponder whether or not I can do anything for the world. Words have become my being, but actions can mean much more. Questions fill my head with whether I’m actually going to make a difference for anyone. I strive to tell people they’re not the only ones who feel this pain, but what if it’s just me that does? My heart longs for love, and my soul longs to be free; what if I’m fighting the wrong battle?

Freedom in today’s world, to me, consists of being a gear in a machine; I despise this machine. Yet, what if my mind tells me it’s wrong just to keep me from living? I’m so afraid of everything. My body and mind fight each other constantly; chaos fills my blood. And, yet, I found someone that seems to balance it out. My last crush only solidified the fact that I’m a stranger to social norms. This one barely knows I exist; she hasn’t yet shunned me.

And, I know, I should talk to her. I don’t need advice; we all have plenty of that. When you’ve never done anything correctly, should you continue to break everything you set out to accomplish? I need help. I can’t be alone much longer, or I’m afraid of what I’ll do to myself. It’s hard enough to convince myself that getting up and trying is worth it, anymore.

The mask I molded over my face is breaking; I consider this a new growth. I’ve always hidden myself from all except those most close to me. I’m not sure whether I’m changing or the shell I put myself in. Either way, the little light left is fading. My soul aches; somehow, through all of the fortune bestowed upon me, it believes I have been neglected my whole life.

And, the days peel away like sunburned skin.

Zombie Moths and Butterflies (Part 3)

The days after she left brought me into another deep depression. The day after the showing, it started to pour and didn’t let up for about three weeks. Some days weren’t as bad as others, but most had the majority of the day in grim tears. This wasn’t the first time this happened; the last time she left for a few weeks, rain also poured almost constantly.

I still made my way to Stardust on my bicycle almost every day, whether pouring or not. My stays ended sooner and sooner; the muse I counted on did not grace me with beauty. Plus, another problem sprouted: most of the people that frequent it know who I am. If I try to be productive, a million people try to talk with me. The majority of these conversations left me thinking almost everyone has a closed mind that goes there. The one person I really want to talk to is the one that disappears/doesn’t bother me. I’m hoping it’s somehow because she sees that I’m doing something.

It does feel like she stands near me for quite a while and just doesn’t say anything, but that could be because I stand next to the trash can/where all the sugar/half and half/other drink stuff is. But, I know it really can’t take that long to throw stuff away. When she does this, it seems I’m too scared to even look at her for fear of giving myself completely and scaring her off.

Now, I’m not saying that there’s nobody with whom I like to have conversations. It’s just the ones that I don’t are the ones that visit most frequently and bother me the most. I do like to talk to one of the baristas, Jen, because she’s such a sweetheart. I wish there were more people like her in this world, it would be a much better place.

I started going less and less to the point of only going on Wednesdays, hoping she somehow returned, and Thursdays for the ‘poetry’ slam. Oh, how I longed for the return of her. The weeks passed by without productiveness or any happy thoughts. This on top of a lack of sleep left me zombified, disgusted, lovesick, and almost hopeless. She could have been back sooner than I saw her, which I know she was at least the Saturday of the week before I saw her. (Stalker, remember)

That Wednesday, my limbs wouldn’t listen, my mind was frail and my heart fragile. I tried my best to write a poem or two, to read a chapter or two of Jane Eyre. My brain would just not cooperate as it wasn’t the last month. I’ve been a bad person, reader, I didn’t go out on one job search while she was out of town. I didn’t leave much at all and still haven’t. It’s hard enough to wake up or sleep.

I didn’t look up, but I could feel as she came through the door. When I did, I noticed that the memory of her could never quite match her beauty. Something about her settles me, but when she stood next to me for a minute or so I had a panic attack. The muse grabbed my hands and made me write. The poem turned out horrible, but the shock sort of resurrected me. I really should have said something; but, when do I do that? Still in a panic attack, I waited for her to leave for me to do so and went home.

Zombie Moths and Butterflies (Part 2)

Immediately after I sent the message, I panicked as anyone else would do in a soap-opera life filled with the same cliches. I wished to apologize for bothering her with the message; looking back, it didn’t contain anything that should really startle anyone, but at the time I felt that my secrets would scare her away like everyone else I trusted but didn’t get to know.

Yes, this has happened before. I’m an expert at self-sabotauge. If I find something good, it must not be for me. Or, I won’t want to hurt someone with my moods. So, I spent most of the next week at Stardust hoping to see her (read: stalking). I can’t quite remember, if I saw her, but I know I didn’t say anything. It’s as if every time I look into her smiling eyes my heart gets ripped from me again. Yes, I am that shallow. My mouth doesn’t cooperated with my whims, and the most I can get out is a ‘how are you’ with a mumbled answer when she asks me how I am.

A few more sleepless nights went by before I finally got some rest. I can’t say I’ve really got a whole night’s sleep since then. I don’t know whether this is due to the sound-effects of life or my heart. At the next farmer’s market, I saw her again. My lips listened for once, and I told her to disregard my message. The response held the fact that she hadn’t read the message. I suppose, that was a good thing. I also told her not to do so. That was the extent of our conversation besides a quick how are you while she was busy setting up some of the stands.

I sat around (stalked some more), hoping I’d get to talk to her. I didn’t, because I have this notion that I am not good enough for anyone. I know this is nonsense, but my track record hasn’t really been all that great in friendship, romance, or job recruitment. Part of my problem is just that; since I think I’m not good enough, I’m not good enough. I have never introduced myself to Emily; I’m not even sure, if she knows my name. We have mingled a bit for the past four months, but it’s hard enough for me to open my mouth. She does wave and smile sometimes, and other times it’s as if she disregards my presence. I wish it was as easy as just hearing she doesn’t want anything to do with me.

So, I went to the poetry slam and didn’t see her. She doesn’t go to the slams (I guess, really don’t either.), but she hangs out at Stardust a lot in general. I think, I only go to them with the hopes of ‘bumping into her’ (yeah, more stalking. Jesus, I really am Edward Cullen.). I guess, that’s why I went there to write as well. Though, it does help a lot to sit somewhere other than where you can waste a million hours on the internet.

The next Wednesday, I don’t remember speaking to her at all, maybe a hi or a hello. I noticed everyone freaking out, so I figured something happened or would soon. I knew so much as it involved her, so I figured I just didn’t know she had some relationship or something. Then, I disappeared home. The Saturday after that, they had an art show for a local artist at Bold Hype. His name is Dolla and all of his work involves graffiti. This wasn’t a stalker move; I always go to the art shows. I saw her there, but we didn’t speak and she seemed to disappear fast. Due to my paranoia, I figured it was something to do with me. When I looked out the window, it appeared to me that she was staring. I’m not sure whether it was out of disgust or something, but then our eyes turned away. Then she disappeared.

Zombie Moths and Butterflies (Part 1)

These hands keep moving, though the limbs still have no job in which to walk. Darkness grips the throat more heavily than ever as I look into the mirror and wonder for what the tears fall. Nothing harms me, and my aunt takes care of me. Meat no longer stains my lips in blood, and that fantasy of love died one night. Though, the pen still calls my name, worry fills my blood more and more of the worthiness of my words.

A coffee shop turned into a home for a few months, until everyone learned of my name; I can’t feel comfortable trying to write or think my stress away when eyes watch me and mouths try to speak to me. I’d say to go away, but I have a lust for total social withdrawal; if I could never leave again and have the means to live my days out, I’d be perfectly fine. The spell of past love, binding me to regret, broke when I met another woman.

My words would not come forth, though I felt none were needed. Still, she’d approach me and ask me how I was at the time. So, I went more and more, hoping to catch a glimpse, to feel the warmth she brought over me. She has a habit of traveling quite frequently, so she’d be gone for stretches of time. In these, I grew rather dark; when one gets a taste of happiness, depression seems all the more bitter.

My aunt got a new boyfriend from the internet. Both my cousin and I find him to be awkward and feel uncomfortable around him. We couldn’t say anything about that; my aunt would pull the ‘you don’t help with bills’ on me and she’d put my cousin on a guilt trip probably involving grades. Alcohol abuse in my family is high, but, now, my aunt goes to multiple bars every night. After she gets back, she doesn’t seem to mind that there are others in the house and turns on the moan-o-phone or tele-moan. (Whichever you prefer)

What does this have to do with my heart’s holder? Since my almost complete removal of caffeine in my diet, I cannot stay up all hours of the day. I’m not sure this has anything to do with my sleep patterns, since I am still an insomniac. Sleeping takes my bones too far to start, and they stop too early. Without rest, I cannot be productive. There’s a very small window where my body comprehends that I do need sleep. Every time I feel I can actually get some rest, they’re doing the dance of the dragon. It has been a few months since I have got a complete night sleep.

One week, I went five nights without sleep. It started with my brother deciding to visit with his girlfriend and him sleeping in my bed. I didn’t mind; I love to see my brother. The next night, sleep also didn’t kiss me good night. I saw M. the next day, and we actually had a small conversation. I’m so bad at that sort of thing without spilling nonsense or deep inner thoughts. My heart trusts her enough to spill its darkest secrets, because it feels like it belongs in her presence. That night would also not be kind enough to blow dust into my eyes.

The night after that was the weekly poetry slam. I don’t really listen to the poets, to be honest I loathe spoken word poetry. My cousin enjoys it, though. So, she watches while I usually go outside and either talk or write. I sat on top of a newspaper dispenser, because it had the best view of the full moon. She passed by and looked at me but said nothing. I said nothing as well. I can’t tell whether she wants nothing to do with me or feels the same way I do. So, that night, at about five a clock, I sent a really long letter I shouldn’t have.

A Sweet Dream

I have a dream that I will one day start writing poems that matter. Ones that spark with the essence of me and hold symbols and metaphors that will pick at your mind forever. Maybe this is a hope or a pipe dream, but that’s sincerely how I feel. Sure, I do write for sanity and to discover little things about myself I thought I knew, but I also want to change lives for the better.

My pessimistic mind feels as though in recent weeks my poetry has gone on a sharp decline. Either that or the self-confidence I once had has. I do write a lot, but I limit each writing style as to not burn out. One could say to stop writing other forms of words, but I enjoy scripting plays and really short fiction. Perhaps, throw a novel in here or there. I do read but not as often as I write. I pretty much either have to choose whether to read a little and write a lot or write a little and read a lot. I prefer the former, because it’s cheaper, I’m very picky about work, and it helps me savor over the books more. I do read a lot of online work, but I mean in the realms of printed poetry.

I know I will improve. I look at work I produced just a few months ago, and I wonder what the hell was I thinking. Not all of it’s bad, and I usually can salvage something in the rewrites I’ve finally started doing. Perhaps, I’m more lax with my words which will help me sculpt something better in a rewrite, but I really try to write something that’s pretty good on the first shot. Then, afterwards, I try to sculpt it into a finer piece of art.

I have always been and will always be my hardest critic.

School

Basic skills learned in school help one function effectively in life. After elementary school, though, middle school makes him or her follow classes that will not help anything. After that, high school furthers with math and science only scientists will use, English only English teachers will use, physical education nobody will use, and history that could be used were it not butchered with lies. College worsens for the high amount of work and cost to go learn essentially nothing.

I suppose you can already tell where I stand on the whole school issue. I find it worthless. My parents hate me for the fact that I dropped out of college. I wasn’t going to, but when I had no home anymore I had to. I did not learn anything useful to what I want to do with my life, which is to write. I also couldn’t take a creative writing course, since I did not meet the requirements. I guess publishing work doesn’t count.

I had a free ride. My grades were high enough to get a free scholarship to a community college, then, if I kept my grades up, I could go to any state college for free. According to my parents, I’m not going to get anywhere in life without a college degree. I’ll prove you wrong.

My first semester in college was filled with a lot of work both for school and my job at Genuardi’s. I was going to school five days a week and working 48 hours most of the time six or seven days a week. I didn’t mind. I did all of my work at Genuardi’s, and I wrote in the middle of my classes. I got a 4.0 for my first semester. Then, I signed up for the second semester and had to leave.

I felt no satisfaction going to school, and leaving was the best thing I ever did.

Realizations

It’s funny how easy something can be once it comes to one’s attention. Doing something may not be easy, but it sure is a lot easier when one uses his or her mind. When one comes to the conclusion that something he or she did went wrong, it’s a lot easier to fix a mistake. Realizing something might take a clear mind, but its positive effect can get more done.

The other day I wrote a post about not revising. Sure, I had thought about it, but reading what I said really put me in the mood to change myself for the better. That post along with an email to a good internet friend readied me to revise. I did procrastinate on that thought for a few days, but I’ve been revising the past week. I can’t say that my revisions are definite improvements, though I think they are.

My skill in revision will improve as does my writing skill in general. I do cut out most of the words, but conciseness is necessary for my dwindling attention span. I certainly hope I don’t cut the essence out of the poem, but as I said I’ll improve on revising. Plus, I can always go back to a first draft, if I need to.

A couple of nights ago, I thought of keeping a dream journal. I always thought about it, but I never got around to it, because I very rarely remember my dreams and when I do they’re usually about something I want to forget. Not nightmares, just stuff that happens to be too good to be true that sends me in a spiral of depression when I wake.

So, I put my tiny red moleskin journal on the coffee table next to my futon and decided I’d remember some dreams. I ended up waking at 6 am, I wrote three dreams I had and then went back to sleep. I got back up at 8 or so and scribbled another one. Last night didn’t provide me with very many, but I did get one. Just thinking about remembering my dreams has caused me to remember them more frequently.

I guess Doctor Emmett Brown was correct in saying “If you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything.”

Santa Claus is Coming?

Back in Clermont, Florida, my father got this huge green locker to put random items in. I could never figure out what he put in there, because he’d always lock it. He began to store Christmas presents in it, and I only knew this because he taunted my siblings and me with this fact. That caused me to want nothing more than to prove that I could get into the lockers.

This was no ordinary turn lock. It needed a key for access, and Sophie, Ian, Eric and I thought of how to get into it. Sophie didn’t really want to know what she got. Ian did, and I just wanted to get into the locker. We knew there had to be a key somewhere, but we had no idea where. I figured my dad had a key on his keychain, so one day when he drank too much and fell asleep on his La-Z-boy I took his keys and went into the garage.

We never used the garage for vehicles. We didn’t have a basement, so random junk clumped everywhere. Still, Eric, Ian, and I looked at the presents waiting in the locker. This was the beginning of December, so the lack of presents didn’t surprise us much. Our parents weren’t quick to do anything. So, we ruffled through some clothes, cds, video games, and little stocking stuffers then put back the keys.

One day when I rummaged through a cabinet trying to find something to steal a battery from, I found a spare key. This gave us far easier access to the locker, and closer to Christmas time we looked again. Of course, none of the huge presents would fit in there, so our major presents stayed hidden from our minds. Seeing Mega Man X6 thrilled me immensely, since at this time Mega Man was probably my favorite franchise.

Christmas came. Open presents didn’t excite me as much when I knew what was waiting for me. I had essentially ruined Christmas for myself. This didn’t bother me, though. But, something else did. My sixth sense went off when I didn’t receive MMX6. I didn’t say anything, but I could tell they knew something was missing. I knew I’d never do such again.

A week or so later, I found it in the cabinets above the washing machine. My mom planned to take it back, but I had better plans. She got pissed at me, because I took it to Eric’s house and played it instead.

Don’t ruin Christmas, kids!