Rain-smell

"When you were here before,
Couldn't look you in the eye...
You're just like an angel --
Your skin makes me cry.
You float like a feather
In a beautiful world;
I wish I was special...
You're so fucking special.

I don't care if it hurts.
I want to have control.
I want a perfect body --
I want a perfect soul.
I want you to notice when I'm not around...
You're so fucking special;
I wish I was special..."

These last fews days have been gloriously overcast. The weather's turned chilly and still. I've traipsed through Greenwood lots of times...taking pictures and writing all sprawled-out on the grass. Reflections like falling leaves touch me now and again -- urging me up on this return from rock-bottom. I dwell sometimes on difficult ideas, delicate situations, and unfading recollections...I'm growing to enjoy this personal and painful re-education.

The self-destruction has ceased entirely. The numbing of one pain through the infliction of another seems now, at best, a temporary stage of indecision (what to do with aches that won't go away with a pill?). It ended, glossed over, and painted up the torment [undeniably] for a short period of time. It aided me sometimes; it kept me from indulging in activities that might have altered me permanently. This isn't to say that I didn't flounce down such paths at times...because I most certainly did. Now, however, I stifle these thoughts because I was asked to. I was asked to stop, and I wanted to stop. I respected that request's source too much to deny it, and I have enough faith in myself to know that I am worth far more than self-inflicted agony. No more the angry, swollen grids of red on my legs. No more the sleep-rocking. No more the acetaminophen overdoses. No more the hurt.

No more the self-destruction.

I'm worth far more.

I deserve to be happy. Being happy isn't wrong -- it isn't an affliction brought down upon me for the sole purpose of making me uncomfortable. Being afraid isn't wrong, either. Fear is completely and utterly acceptable, as long as I choose to do something about it. I cannot now, for any reason, allow myself to creep back down towards that place I found myself in months and months and years ago. I cannot allow myself to fear others' judgement (what does it matter to me?), I will not fear the consequences of momentous (momentary) bliss, and I will not give up on something (without hope of renewal) once I've started it. No more this "ashes to ashes" business. I'm finding new strength in myself daily...and I'm sometimes glad that I hit the bottom. I couldn't climb back up if I didn't.

"Time is never time at all;
You can never ever leave without leaving a piece of youth,
And our lives are forever changed...
We will never be the same.
The more you change the less you feel --
Believe, believe in me, believe
That life can change, that you're not stuck in vain;
We're not the same, we're different tonight...
Tonight, so bright,
Tonight.

And you know you're never sure,
But your sure you could be right
If you held yourself up to the light
And the embers never fade in your city by the lake --
The place where you were born;
Believe, believe in me, believe
In the resolute urgency of now...
And if you believe there's not a chance tonight,
Tonight, so bright,
Tonight...

We'll crucify the insincere tonight;
We'll make things right, we'll feel it all tonight.
We'll find a way to offer up the night tonight --
The indescribable moments of your life tonight,
The impossible is possible tonight.
Believe in me as I believe in you, tonight..."

"Of chambers as the cedars -- "

In this moment (room's quiet, darkness puncuated by red lights like oozing sanguine stains), I am very suddenly able to sleep. Happy this minute, and nothing's going to take it away. Content now, for a while. Content, and calm, and able to sleep. Maybe smiling...


"I'd kill to share your pain...
(And carry the shame)
And sell my soul just to hear you say:

I dream what you're dreaming,
And feel what you're feeling..."

"Hold me...
Like you held onto life
When all fears came alive and entombed me..."

Collection

"I don't like myself, you know. I love myself, of course. I'm devoted to myself till my dying day. But I don't like myself."

'She was quiet, plastic...still-life drawn on the face of an apron.'

(Months ago, I wondered:)

'Why can't I find stability in a mise-en-scene created solely from feeling? It is wholly up to human nature and that part of a mortal being that woos the cognitive self into certain emotional states, I think. As such, the facet that dictates what is and isn't 'human nature' in this body has been permanently altered by situations largely uncontrolled by both rationale and common sense. I never was one for reason, I suppose; I never was completely convinced that the brain is the only organ that factors in on opinions, decisions, and ideas. Is it because I abhor a thing entitled 'common sense' that I search fruitlessly for fragile vindication? That I lack what little strength it takes to stop myself from spiraling into a place too bleak to mention is proof enough of the void left by self-efficacy. I can't bring about change as easily as it would seem...as easily as I would like.

I've been turning over and over in that bleak place for some time, to be honest. I've gone off what was prescribed to keep me whole, to be honest. I'm walking up and down this cavernous, self-constructed hallway in the dark; I'm too afraid to switch on the light, and I'm too afraid to open the door for you. You're a god, and I'm not...and I just thought that you should know. Chemical imbibitions, astounding intelligence, Brian-Eno-songs -- all of it meshes together into something that I could never know. Into something that discomposes me. Into someone that I love. You're a god, and I'm not. I just thought that you should know.'

(This time she thinks:)

"Never close your lips to those to whom you have opened your heart."

Sophocles' "Antigone" for World Civilization was a wonderful transition from summer to present-moment-maybe-hell. Silly little wonderful play. 'Fits. Like the tragedy I find myself wallowing in, like the tragedy we talk of when all else fails to convey any meaning, when it's a boring can't-find-a-momentum moment and I want to make you understand but can't, really.' Could I ever make you understand again? Growing is key, now...growing and learning and being absolutely and completely happy...because this one doesn't believe now that being happy is wrong, nor that depression is a life-sentence used to punish the weak. I am strong. I am capable. I am human and I make mistakes...some more grievous than others, but mistakes nonetheless. And it's okay. Unexcusable are the ways in which I make others hurt, but if I learn to forgive myself for such things, forgiveness from others will burn brighter, sweeter, and infinitely longer.

In those liberating experiences that have colored like sin-crayons these past few days, I've slept very little. Latticed throughout what little sleep did visit, dreams of creatures (mad scientists and muses) set me on edge. A treacherous dream curled my toes this morning, and touched me with a horrendous hurt I thought I'd suppressed. It was about a hair-pulling domino-fiend, and it stung the insides of my eyelids upon waking. I was going to call, and I was going to explain that I thought I'd gotten over it...that now I suppose I haven't, and that I won't. It's still a present-tense word, even after all the cold-eyes and indifferent-words. I know that it's real, that I knew what it meant a long time ago, and that I still need the love in the violence. Cautiously. I need it, I miss it, I'll never fade past-tense to zero.

Linger-regniL

Peace-inducing skies all grey and blustery, a writhing sea of trees buffeted by rain and wind, this tiny room lit by warm red lights and the faint silvery-dark of a stormy horizon -- these things are mine tonight...

These things are enough tonight...

These things fill me with a sense of contentment -- these things make me marvel at the intense, unadulterated, ferocious beauty that constantly shifts and swirls around us. You need only to look to find it, you know.

I wandered through Greenwood yesterday evening. There was no one else in the entire cemetary -- except for those glorious, colossal crows (that cawed in unison whenever I approached the trees they fluttered in). Sometimes I sprawled in the grass and watched late-day clouds drift lazily across a deepening sky of faded blue. Sometimes I stood beneath the aforementioned oak trees and gazed dreamily up at those black, stately (arrogant) birds. Sometimes I just wandered off the winding, blacktopped path and lost myself among the too-pretty tombstones -- some new, some weathered, and some completely unreadable. I leaned against both of the mausoleums and peered in through the iron-grated windows...I threw myself down on the lawn when memories became a little too much. I recovered though, as now I am wont to do, and drank in the most absolutely calming sunset as I walked home.

Ashes to ashes, you know.

I've only now just inspired myself to write a little. Surprise. I want to share a picture, though -- a tiny daisy near a tiny tombstone (I think it was an ancient child's marker)...and it was the only real flower on the entire grounds. It was particular, striking, and sadly pretty.

Automatic dishwasher

(Mission in morning light was a sensory gift from times past to a wide-eyed, wild-eyed girl. Lucky me to have chemically-captured said gift.)

"To be is all that she desired."

The view from my window is exceedingly pretty today. Yellow-gold fingers of sunshine splay out against absolutely everything -- delicate bunches of leaves flaunting the last yellow-greens of summer, too-worn pavement paths that wind like autophagic snakes, untended flower gardens overrun with gorgeously-patterned weeds...and though I keep twisting my neck to see the same images, I haven't yet grown bored. There's a crow now perched just feet from the ledge; he's simply brilliant...massive, regal, inky-black and bold. He keeps cawing -- eyeing me when I move to the window to watch him and then turning to peer into the recesses of the tree he's in. I think someday I'd like to be crow -- or have a crow. Is Hitchcock a suitable name? It's the moniker that currently belongs to the human skull replica sitting next to me on the desk.

I love you, Hitchcock.

Here's the thing: I am very content. Very calm. Very...peaceful.

"I'd pray for a sign if I believed in a god."

Aren't little lyric fragments like that deliciously cryptic? 'Distorted Lullabies' has been on loop for days now, and it never ceases to wring from me contemplative thought and, on occasion, fading recollections. A room hung with Leatherface lights and warm Christmas bulbs now only makes me smile. A room empty save for a mattress and framed pictures now only stings a little. A room with blue walls, a blue blanket, and candles continues to call me home. A room wreathed in incense smoke and thought-it-was-forever essence flares dully in the furthest corner of my big-brain.

And it's okay. I'm a little melancholy, but I'm at peace. I'm a little lonely, but I'm mending. I'm a little restless, but I'm learning strength and self-esteem.

In an aching falsetto voice: "I've finally stabilized. I've finally stabilized. Everyone will see...everyone will see."

Will I ever be able to put it into the ground? After I watched the way sunshine reflected off the beautiful red-brown hair of the girl I walked behind (it was gorgeous and strange, and in that fleeting instant I was happy, too), I saw preparations being made for a funeral -- in the cemetary that sits in the middle of campus (Greenwood, how I adore thee). "Tell everyone 'don't be afraid to die'..." There was a small blue awning, a few blue chairs, and that morbidly interesting device that lowers the coffin into the grave. Though the little celebration-place of death made me smile, I wondered if I would ever be able to put the things I've experienced in the last three or four months into the loving, oft-deified, embraceable earth.

Know what?

I can't. I don't want to. I will carry the present-tense word and wonder if you think about me. I will play idly with Hitchcock, read Vonnegut and Shakespeare, and remember the wonderful and make-me-giddy-inside times we shared. I'll wish we were still making said times...but ashes to ashes, you know. Ashes to ashes, Hair-Pulling Domino Fiend. Being happy in this moment, without fear of how it will affect the future or paint the past, is turning out to be one of the most liberating discoveries you have ever pointed me towards.

Symphony No. 9

("In a letter that won't be sent, she said...")

We are not guaranteed a tomorrow.

We are not guaranteed another twelve hours of sunshine, another twelve hours of darkness, nor the warm sensation of waking to a new and unblemished set of hours.

We are guaranteed nothing. We enter this world with nothing and we are shaped (for better or for worse) by the situations that inevitably and indelibly mark us, by the people surrounding us, by the costumes we wear for life's acts, and by the parts we choose to play in such scenes.

I am not guaranteed a tomorrow. Nor are you. I am not guaranteed another chance at anything...and nor are you. I am, however, learning that each day -- in and of itself -- is a gift. Tomorrow is a gift. The weather it brings, the moments of contentment it heralds, the faces and the friends it ushers along, the fleeting moments of ignorant joy it brings -- these are all gifts, regardless of length and staying power.

I am content with this upward struggle because I see no use in allowing it to expire -- in allowing another chance at bliss to die. I cannot (in good faith) give up, because I am aware now of the pain I've caused, of the heart I've broken, of the once-glorious things I've tarnished. There are more glorious things to make, however. There are aches to heal, and there is a heart to mend.

I refuse to give up. If I know what love is, then you do, too. If I know that what I felt was real and all-encompassing, then you do, too. I am Jack's unmissed, unkissed hands. I am Jack's cold face. I am Jack's indignant refusal. I'm going to call you, despite tiny worries that whisper to me that I shouldn't. I'm going to do things to make you realize how much and to what degree you mean to me -- because you are too...deeply ingrained in this head and heart to lose.

things

Last-time conversations echo, and they hurt. Little voice inflections like withering passion in the eyes reverberate -- then die. "Why can't you learn to be happy? When is this going to be enough?" echoes, and it hurts. Tears-to-no-avail make pillowcases useless -- then, sleep-ended, die. Fading jazz in the library-room echoes, and it breaks something off. On the inside. Like the acrimonious letter-puzzles she brought upon herself.

It hurts.

Haven't you learned a lesson yet? There are things dying inside you, girl.

I thought love conquered all. A blithe and fallacious thing, that phrase. "In three days a heart can..." Why wasn't it enough to save the greatest and most dearest thing? Why wasn't it enough to keep me in those arms and in that place? Why was I forgiven when pain still lurked beneath your smell-good surface? Why do I still freeze at the sound of "cast the calming apple?" Be careful, girl. Be stoic, girl. Be silent, girl. There are things dying inside you, girl.

If I could have made you love me more...

Stop that sentence. Here's the thing: ting-a-ling.

Three down on the burn + peel...questions cover us all.

(+/-) 11%

I wrote for you, but you'll never see it. I needed you, but you'll never know. All that talk of airflow and exhalations gilded something deeper, covered in talk-tissue things I want to say. Over and over again.

I am not well. Can't you tell? This thing has got a hold on me.

Bipolar tendencies, indeed. I'll never be able to let go. I'll never be able to give up hope of appearing adjusted, eloquent, pulled-together. I want to be pulled-together. I want to be the high-end, witty, calm-and-collected girl you've always wanted to love. And while you're performing constant acts of self-improvement, I'm hovering (slit-eyed moth) somewhere between sanity and the crumbling-point...not caring whether said superificial vessel becomes overgrown with inactivity and loss of sleekness, or whether such inactivity is ripping holes in self-esteem's paper-thin skin.

Hypocritical, yes I am. Despondent most days, yes I am. Hungering for a chance to see your Eno-eyes one more time? Luck providing, yes I am. You don't need me! Just look to yourself. Sobs catching in my throat, listen: you don't need me. I don't need me. I am detrimental to your evolution now that the imbibation of chemicals has stopped. I am a roadblock, plain and simple. I need you. You don't need me. Such is the way of things.

Ashes to ashes.

"Never meant to be so cold..."

I'm exceedingly tired. And broke. And wit-depleted. College has managed to, in the course of a few days, turn my big brain into a mashed potato-esque substance not designed to deal with mass amounts of stress and pressure. I suppose I'll eventually evolve (as all things are wont to do), I suppose I'll adjust, and ultimately...I suppose I'll survive. It's the fluctuating emotions and the dizzying bouts of paranoia and apprehension that concern me the most. I was driven deep into depression last year -- I was dragged bodily into a raging sea of black things...trampled underfoot by colassal fits of anxiety...stabbed and pricked again and again by feelings of worthlessness and doubt. Though such things don't affect me much at this time...I'm worried that I'll again sink to the bottom of the pool, and I'm worried that I'll breathe too deeply once settled there.

Ashes to ashes, though. Ashes to ashes.

My classes this year are interesting, to say the least. What once I thought a hard-to-swallow Spanish class is slowly looking lighter. I can't be sure if this impression will remain optimistic, but I can only hope. My dorm buddy is also loads better than last year. I went to high school with Amy, and she's the girlfriend of one of my best friends. Amy and I get along so well it's scary...we joke all the time, we're both sick and twisted (to the best degree), and we'e both so happy that we found each other...because neither she nor I can stand the catty-ness, the prissy-ness, the voluntary stupidity, and the materialistic qualities of other girls.

Here's the thing: ting-a-ling.

Wheeling off on a tangent designed to trigger a smile (in myself), I miss you. I miss you more than I thought I would. I miss talking about random subjects with you...cheshire grin: and I miss playing with you. Like I said before...you'd better finish that book. I wantwantwant it. And it would be in your best interest to give it to me. (Insert ominous, half-giggling laugh).

"Every time we touch we get closer to Heaven...
And with every sunrise our sins are forgiven;
You on my skin -- this must be the end.
The only way you could love me is to hurt me again
And again and again and again..."

w.a.s.t.e.d

"There are times when I'm just a shell...
When I do not feel anything for anyone;
All I feel is hollow and bruised,
Used up and misused,
Forced to be someone I don't want to be.
Have I failed somehow or some way?
Will the weight of today finally pull me down to drown
In the depths of despair...
Where I am alone
Except for my rage?"

I moved through cycles and cycles of self-destruction last night. I wallowed in guilt, choked on depression, drowned in despair...and now these phrases I've just written seem completely saturated with self-pity and patheticism. I was up until five in the morning. I got up four hours later...this same morning.

I got up four hours later because I had to go to the bank. I got up to go to the bank because I don't have enough money to go to school this year. I don't have enough money to go to school this year because the national financial aid services have declared my family "not needy enough" to receive more than one loan. My loan this year is $1,750 a semester. Tuition is $4,907 a semester.

You see where the dilemma lays?

My grandparents, who assured both me and my mother that they'd help out with "anything the bank [didn't] cover" have suddenly (and conveniently) forgotten this discussion. My dirtbag father, who last year claimed he couldn't send any money to help me because he "couldn't find stamps" to send it, hasn't said a word to me in weeks. I don't want to talk to him anymore, I think. He makes me sick -- pathological liar and cheapskate parent of mine. This little girl has never had her daddy...and it doesn't seem like I'll be able to count on him now. I need to come up with $1,700 in ten days; the first one-third of tuition is due in a week and a half...and I don't know where we're going to get it.

Ashes to ashes.

Here's the thing: my best friend loathes me. Here's the thing: my sister is grappling with depression in Texas, and I can't do anything -- at all -- to make it go away. Here's the thing: I have no money to go to college, and I'm not sure how long I'll be able to stay there. I didn't want to be an English professor that bad anyway, I guess. Here's the thing: medical bills from my mom's third bout with cancer are piling up, and my stepdad doesn't even know how we're going to heat the house this winter. Here's the thing: ting-a-ling. Here's the thing: I can't tell if this sickness I'm experiencing is real or just a product of fear and past experiences. Here's the thing: if it's real, we can't go to the doctor...in the off-chance that it's something small, we can't afford a slew of tests "for nothing."

You see where the dilemma lays?

"A darkness grows inside me in fading shades of gray;
All the colors of the world are slowly sucked away.
I'm sinking ever deeper to a place that's cold and black --
I can't believe I've lost [me]...
And [I'm]... never coming back."

markedasinfernal

No, you don't know.

You don't. Don't! No one does. Thorns uncurling like eights and landscapes of static wreathing a still-warm head and "I will let you down, I'll let you down, I'll...when you finally trust me, finally believe in me." I feel like days-old peanut butter stuck to the roof of a salient mouth, abyssal creatures with the abyssal eyes. "Never want to come down." I shouldn't have let you do those things to me, because now I'm going to be sick. I thought I was something special and there (there!) you go telling me I'll be fine if I'd just let you...

God damn it! I'm foolish and fallacious and witless and weak-minded, irrational, laughable, imbecilic, hurt, damaged, and grieving. I am soft on the inside and pretended-strength on the ouside. I'm not what you think I can be. No, you don't. You don't. It was wrong of me to make conjectures. "Now it seems I'm fading. All my dreams are not worth saving. Done my share of waiting...and I've still got nowhere else to go...so I wait for you to take me all the way...take me all the way."

I've felt like this a thousand times, only now it's abominably worse. "So real these voices in my head." The company would be appreciated! I'm not the same thing I was when I woke up. Infinitely more deflated and upset. Take me all the way. "Push me under, pull me further...take me all the way." The long unsober binge yesterday was amazing. Absolutely lovely.

To the three meaning-most:

Abandoned little hypocrite (I am), I don't blame you for your silence. I didn't put in the right amount of effort, and you gave up on me. I still love you. I told you. And I'm sorry for my absence.

Pinned and writhing insect (I am), I have never been good at this. I have never been able to write worth a damn. Your words were like something-that-kept-me-going, made me feel poet-like even if I wasn't. And then you told me something else, and I'll only die after our city is built.

Confused, stitched-up dolly (I am), "it took so long to say...you walked away from me when I needed you;" why didn't you protect me from you? Why was it alright to just-let-me when it could result in pain? My sickness? I thought...never mind what I thought.

"Inside a crumbling effigy...but you promised; so dies all innocence -- but you promised...me."

I swear to god I'm going down. I swear to god I'm drowning. I swear to god.

"I lay strewn across the floor, can't solve this puzzle --
Every day another small piece can't be found;
I lay strewn across the floor, pieced up in sorrow...
The pieces are lost, these pieces don't fit,
Pieced together incomplete and empty..."

Walked away, heard them say "poison hearts will never change."

You know? You don't.