i'd been updating my blog with astounding frequency. posts of passion and poetry, and then school started. and now my soul is being drained out into a petri dish, examined closely for all the wrong things.

what my body is trying to do in a day, in a week, is not what i want to do in a day or a week. school is not agreeing with me.

but actually, school is agreeing with me. being busy fills me up with fluff, fills me up so the moody moods can't come around, so that i don't get stuck in my head worrying about all of this all the time.

and so i have not been updating this blog with astounding frequency, but i'm still here, i swear.

really good and powerful

school started, see. and i'm a senior, see. which i would like to pretend isn't a big deal, like i'm not impressed with myself, but i'm totally impressed with myself, see. totally scared, see. because this is the last year that i know anything about. this is the last year where my life depends on my parents, the last year where school is obligatory. and so it's exciting. exciting to get to have this last year, exciting to have a future ahead of me. but it's also really scary, really weird.

and then we went to see this movie my aunt produced. it was in a big theater with a red carpet outside. like, it was like, legit. it was like a movie, a documentary about finance, about the economic blow up. about all the things that happened, all the people. all the choices that put us here. that put us here with the high unemployment rate, with the people who lost their homes. the movie was sick. it showed how systematic the crisis was. how choices exist within world that supports those choices, that system of thinking.

and then there i was, sitting there, and it's all bad, it's like really bad news. about how obama's not really our savior, about how we got fucked over. we being most of us, those of us who are not them. and i'm sitting there thinking about how much that stuff sucks, about how i have to be the other half, thinking about how i have to work hard so i can be really good and powerful, while those men are being really bad and powerful. about how i have to be intentional, about how i can't just have fun, about how i can have fun, but how i have to be good, about how i have to be moral, about how i might never get the second home i joke about.

i am the bridge builder who never forgets that you said we would talk

it's all thundery. i was in the bath and it was flash!boom! and so i jumped up and grabbed a towel.

this is totally beside the point, that sentence, it is written in a happy voice and i am not quite in a happy mood. i'm in a moody mood. i've been in a moody mood. i'd like to blame it on school being about to start but it's not really that.

i'm really sleepy. i haven't been sleeping. going to bed late and then waking up early. maybe i need curtains, may i need to chill out.

i get so scared. where i can see the future lined up in front of me. each moment and choice slipping into the next. there can't possibly be free will. what happens in my brain determines how i am typing before i am totally aware. i read that somewhere. that brain scans show choices are made before we know that we've made them. and so, if we still believe we are choosing, once our choice is made, then are we deciding at all? did we just decide before? does it even work like that?

i'm waiting for a phone call, i'll probably end up calling first. saying "goodnight" for forty five minutes. maybe two hours. that's what always happens. i'm the bridge builder who never forgets that you said we would talk.

it's a pattern of behavior more than a choice. like, i get all stuck. stuck in the mood, or stuck on the idea, and then, even if i want to i can't get out. sometimes i might think, "if you don't call, i wouldn't call first..." but then i will, i will always call first.

that seems beside the point. there is thunder and lighting, and so i lay in my bed and hang on to the computer. there is school tomorrow and so i think softly about needing to choose cloths, i think softly about how it will be alright.

not to you

all the last secrets. the things i say only because i am scared, only because i suddenly have courage, only because i want to believe that i can create magic. that i can rub my hands together hard enough, soft enough and magic will happen. will fall down on us like promises. that this year, will not be like last year, that next year, will be something different again. that moving, this constant moving into the future will bring us somewhere excellent and not just to our deaths.

i want to love you, and again not just you, because i want to love you in the most complete and the most pure way. like i want to tell you something, something that i can't even say to myself. something about being alive, or being about to die. we are all going to die, and where do we feel like we belong, and how do we live lifes that we can feel okay about. excellent about?

this is not to you. this is not to the other you, all the other yous, that i like to pretend don't exist. all the half loves, the times that never happened. all those phone calls, those expectant hearts being broken. there is nothing left. the time i had a crush on a boy i'd never met because he was a boy. the pure love of moments. i am not in love with you, i am in love with those times when i feel like i know you, when i feel like you know me. when i feel like we are all wrapped up together, and that we are flying, again.

what does it mean to be a person? what does it mean to be a friend? to be a poet? to be a neighbor? to walk on the wild side? what does it mean to be a good person? what does it mean to be a bad person? what does it mean to try? what does it mean to work? what does it mean to have fun? what does it mean to dance?

this one time i went to a dance and danced. got so sweaty that my glasses fogged up. later, a boy told my date that we hadn't been dancing, that we'd been convulsing. convulsing had been really fun.

what does it mean to be cool? to be smart? to be good at making art? what does it mean to be funny? to remember all the words to a song? what does it mean to be hated? to be loved? to not care anymore? what does it mean to care too much? to care too little? to belittle? what does it mean to be short? to be a girl?

i'm jealous of the boys i know. jealous that they are able to leave at night and walk around. that they, in their tall boy bodies are allowed out at night, are deemed safe. that i am locked up, kept safe, going crazy in my head.

what does it mean to be crazy? what does it mean to be sane? what does it mean that i got through another day? another month? another year?

the honey blossom, it's blooming again.

it finally rained today, and i had a rain jacket but you got all wet. we cuddled in my bed and read the borrowers. it's a good a book, or a weird book. i like being read to. i like being sung to. i could sleep forever, but i don't want to die. not yet. not now.

it was hot, yesterday, and i was walking through the suburbs, walking through a golf course. anyway, it was hot and i was moving my arms from my elbows, feeling blood in the tips of my fingers, feeling blood from the tips of my fingers rushing away, rushing towards the rest of me. over and over.

i am tired, in that way where you feel almost dead, in that way where if i had things i had to do i could keep going for hours, but i don't so i won't. so i lay here. i want to find something completely consuming. i want to be eaten up and disappear. eaten by school or by a life. disappear into the mass of humanity or into some great cause.

we think about standing out, about being visable and huge. about being a writer, and being excellent for that. that was what i was raised to admire, or what we are all raised to admire. but all the other people too, all the little bits that are pieces.

i don't want to care about the way the blood feels in my hands. i don't want to think about how much i am worrying and then proceed to worry about that. i don't want to have a body or a self. does being self-less help? or is being self-less in that way end up being selfish? will there ever be enough stimulus to allow me to ignore the way the blood feels in my hands? should i be able to ignore the way the blood feels in my hands and the way thoughts feel in my chest or should i somehow be able to feel them and be okay with them?