inreaction

euphoria is living and this life is much more euphoric. i won’t worry too much about whether or not i’m “in love,” at least here, but i’m loving living and thinking and speaking and seeing and knowing and asking.

i’m loving happy music and happy days and happy people. i’m loving the tiems and how they haven’t changed. loving being with one and everyone, loving that they let me. i’m loving natural highs and loving lacking artificialness.

i love that i’m in an understanding, loving that few can understand. i love the fact that one of those is loving the same. i love that i can be me and worse, but that i’m feeling better by the moment.

i appreciate the phone calls, and painfully honest conversations, appreciating being appreciated but that others can appreciate this won’t change anything we love.

i’m dying because i could write a book but i don’t need to hide behind metaphors. “tailor made,” natural, entirely exciting and utterly undefinable.

i’m drying but i need to steady myself to be specific here. to my close friends (especially those who have been there through all the inconsistencies that have plagued me), know this: the beauty of all this is how you and i will always have the same, strong, real friendships. to the subject of all this recent admiration and compassion, know this: the beauty of what we can’t physically hold is that we will always basically be ourselves, completely, and absolutely.

i apologize if this is not figuratively shiny enough, it’s this change of state in my tone, brought about by a promise that things can not change, that’s got me spinning in joy. i’m finding beauty in everything i see–every call, every contact, everything we’ve enjoyed for the recent past. i’m at a loss because i’ve proven everything i’ve never wanted to believe wrong, i’m at a loss because there’s nothing for me to pour that i haven’t.

i’m lost because i’ve found a sort of home, confused because everything never seemed so certain and clar. i’m happy, because the music of life is so. i’m finally somewhat full of logiical paradoxes–finally done with trying to convince myself that life is in my hands.

i’m reading an epic that told me that you should be true to thyself, and i am, and this page is but a testament to thine own prose, the free flowing empathy that floods your veins, a testament to now and an epic ultimatum to end all struggles for tomorrow in hopes of allowing its follies to be unwrapped like the charming gifts of the present.

to honesty and honest compassion, to loving life and living love.

the song that “changed my life.” :)

[my] dashboard confessional

She said, “I’ve got to be honest,
You’re wasting your time if you’re fishin’ around here.”
And I said, “You must be mistaken,
I’m not foolin’, this feelin’ is real.”
She said, “You’ve gotta be crazy!
What do you take me for? Some kinda of easy mark?”

“No, you’ve got wits,
You’ve got looks,
You’ve got passion,
But i swear that you’ve got me all wrong.”

All wrong
All wrong
But you’ve got me

I’ll be true, I’ll be useful, I’ll be cavalier,
I’ll be yours my dear
I’ll belong to you
If you just let me through

This is easy as lovers go.
So dont complicate it by hesitating.
This is wonderful as loving goes.
This is tailor-made,
What’s the sense in waiting?

I said, “I’ve got to be honest,
I’ve been waiting for you all of my life.”
For so long I thought I was asylum bound,
But just seeing you makes me think twice.
And being with you here makes me sane.
I fear I’ll go crazy if you leave my side.

“You’ve got wits,
You’ve got looks,
You’ve got passion,
But are you brave enough to leave with me tonight?”

Tonight
Tonight
You’ve got me.

I’ll be true, I’ll be useful, I’ll be cavalier,
I’ll be yours my dear
I’ll belong to you
If you just let me through

This is easy as lovers go. So dont complicate it by hesitating.
This is wonderful as loving goes.
This is tailor-made, what’s the sense in waiting?

This is easy as lovers go. So dont complicate it by hesitating.
This is wonderful as loving goes.
This is tailor-made, what’s the sense in waiting?

This is easy as lovers go. So dont complicate it by hesitating.
This is wonderful as loving goes.
This is tailor-made, what’s the sense in waiting?

this is longgggggggggg but worth it i like to think. if you make it to the bottom and don’t comment youre dumb.

it always makes me happy to see a blank page. haha.

and new old music has made me ponder relationships. oh boy.

this is odd. i don’t know what to say. i’m conflicted — torn between what i know and what if. what if being with someone is alright? what if i know it’s just high school? what if i am inconsistent? i guess this is self doubt but i do’nt know anything more than guesses anyway.

because modesty is a good thing but so is honesty–too much of it can strike fear into the sphere of folks. so as i think (write), understand that i’m afraid of my own candor.

because a first kiss is no more than a high five slapped onto someone not worth it. because a first date is no more than officializing the present–day and night. and because i’m falling over facts and realizing that reason cares little for reality–and trusting that takes the breath out of my lungs–like an inhalent of fear, i can’t exhale with you.

because thousands of lines starting with because can’t tell the story with no cause and no end–my thoughts have been stolen. “maybe it’s love but it’s like you said–love is like a role that we play.” for these words aren’t flowing tonite.

and while i can’t sleep i can always dream. and while i’d be well served by rest i can’t shut my eyes on this. moments are forever but memories only linger like smoke to be blowin into someone else’s lungs–starting a disease one isn’t so sure he doesn’t want. i’m growing wary of traits.

someone who finds themselves unattractive is enterily beyond chemistry. but flashy confidence is almost as bad as flashy insecurity–neither can i bear. and though that applies not to my current situation, i find it applicable because it’s that painful and tender balance i fear the most.

i’ve buried all previous possibilities but i’m growing weak–about to sell out to what i’ve given countless council to avoid. i know this is short but i’m tired. maybe i’ll elaborate at another time, maybe one day one of these pages will make any sense.

[that was nite one. here is "another time."]

i love the way we’re all just to confident to love anyone who we know to be insecure. actually, that’s a pathetic lie. we crave insecurity, just as much as we crave pain, just as much as we fear happiness. i’m sick of writing cliche contradictions but these paradoxes are the only way i know to find myself…or lose myself.

i’ve never been any good at grammAr. i’m not any good at thinking clearly, but i don’t sleep at nite. it scares me how hard people who try not to care pretend i’m not writing to them. but it scares me more because all i have are withering hopes that every question i have will be asked of me–all i know is that no one means the simplest “how are you,” it’s only a sugary way of screaming knives of indifference. and you won’t even tell me otherwise-your patheticness doesn’t seem to bother you.

allow me to spin a web about you; let me through to write you the most cmplex sentence–even though you’ll never see its punctuation in any art class–no one will read it, any more than they lie; anyone knows you’re barely holding on, suffering from a terrible bout of what goes around comes around, barely letting tears out that you should have held in.

so this is odd. anyone could prey into your fakeness and anyone could make you feel better–that’s all that concerns you in the end…feelings. and it’s so utterly beautiful that it makes us lowly people ache for more of your act. this is difficult for you because you’re learning what you’ve known for too long: you can’t depend on anyone you love–because you’re neither capable of true friendship nor looking for it. your starving on the last lines of invincibility, but you’re about to give up on playing vulnerable–you’re too weak for playing love, too small of a person to see how much growing you have to do. so dance.

–shift-tone.–

i’m tired of writing on the last subject, grown wary of forced misunderstandings, nothing is changed, there will still be a 0 next to a word beneath this all. so let’s move on.

i’ll confess that i’m growing more feeble, but i’m none the more foolish.

i’m accepting short sentences. so it goes. and i’m accepting the –feelings– held for some, and the beauty of friendship. look for the last time i used the word beauty, it was different there wasn’t it? engage yourself in an active reading sort of dialogue as you would when you search a self portrait for its picture of you.

because that’s all this is. over 200 pages of scrawling, splendid, sprawling, scrawny, scrappy, scintillating, and sinful script–hundreds of thousands of words, no more than the search for a single image.

but words, although certainly reflective, lack the shiny clarity of a mirror. that’s why the can’t be shattered, they’re bullet proof to gunshots of honsety and angst. and i know i could say i hate to love you or love to hate you, while none the less any more logical. don’t get lost, please. look for the token words you so vilely vomit, choice phrases–i love you.

it’s true. i do. and it hurst unlike anything i’ve ever known. i’ve thrown up for twelve straight hours on thanksgiving day, skipped sleep for three days everyday, cried myself to waking up, thought about being desperate, feared any reflection, fought grief quietely and alone, and i’ve lost motivation for eternity because i’m painfully aware of my mortality.

i’ve feared sunrise and prayed for stormy weather–danced to stop listening to music, talked too much so no one could hear the shaking the quivering, made you laugh so you wouldn’t notice my lack of sleep and coherence.

i’ve angered fate and tempted redemption. i’ve grown weak and feared you would see.

and i’ve written it all. but nothing has hurt me like the –beauty– lurking in your eyes.

i’ve even been knifed by men in white robes and jackets whiter than even their skin, but they were kind enough to stitch me up to same old.

where is your needle and thread?


[you can stop here if you want. but if you continue i would appreciate it. SHIFT: focus: why i write]

while these words are my own, they are no more than faceless plagarization–preying on your ordinaryness. by being original while they are never coherent, they carry an upside down rythym that may keep you coming back. and that’s not elitism. it’s characteristic to your optimistic reality–it’s fiction or fact.

but these words are as futile as your glide, frictionless though the myriad of emotional forms i coudl spill here–that’s all i’m doing anyway: fighting fatigue and failure that’s for so many folks. the more i write, the more wrong these phrases sound.

if one wonders why so many poor, thoughtless, and hollow people become artists or writers, it’s because they’re simply too weak to make any sense. and this five dollar society prides itself on fifty cent vocabulary words and formless films on flimsy screens. all that’s necessary, if one wants to, for art is for somethign haggard and heineous to be stipped of its reason.

think about it. if you knew the author, you know he’s writing about how he lost his cool, his aura, his image, with a girl who loved to get lost in others–but he would deny it, he would fill you with metaphors relating aliteration to meaning. why? because he’s scared. she stole his stars and poured tears he wasn’t made to see. the salt from her wet face sits in his heart, but all he can do is allude and wait for the passage of what he knows will never stay in his past. so he writes.

or i could tell you that your life would be so much better if you never thought you knew love. but i won’t, because you already know. and i’m a writer supposedly, i wouldn’t dare speak truth. instead these words are my rhyme lacking interviews with awkward silence–my shearing, my skinning, my starving, and my slaughtering of today.

writing is relative but to me it relates a way to take my pain and strip it down to its most basic forms–senseless and nearly shamelss. but there’s no sense in this shame.

writing is how i wrong everything i know to be right–or that’s living. writing is acknowledging that i can’t ignore anything and that i want to forgive and forget and laugh and cry at everything. writing is an assortment of railroad tracks that can only tip over trains and keep people off their feet. writing is drawing with 26 shades of blood–drying out 26 different drops of unknowns–sleeping the hours i lie awake dreaming, only to fall asleep before the nightmare begins.

writing is a freak show wihtout at theme. a sitcome with 26 wonders and wanderers. a circus with clowns stained with red face paint. writing is the only i way i can say i miss you and hope you make it through the next few weeks. the only way to say i love you…still.

you are about to read five pages of the most intense thing i’ve ever written. and none of it will make sense. except the end. to some of you.

every last word is but a bitter pause away from another first letter. every page is a paper’s weight away from another. every awkward silence is but a lie away from exaggerated and overburdened prose. even death is just a gate away from a new day. so they say.

but you’re–no, we’re–still too afraid to live this timetable life. change is constant but everything constant changes before it fulfills its destiny.

every fallen glance is only a dancing step away from your insecurity. i hould you so dear but the only thing here isn’t near enough for me, i fear for your love–i fear for it’s intentions. these unnecessarily large words are hypocrites–i try to script a story with subtle diction, but this frenzy of intellectual bullshit is all that flows. i’m losing strength in these similies, falling through these lines.

all i’m trying to subconsciously do is lose my consciousness and be conscientious enough to buy time without having to rhyme. it’s ridiculous to be plagued with such a futile passion. i write because i like the shape of a blank page, the scraping of the nails on a chalkboard of emotion–dragging trimmed words into a screeching that could shatter teeth. blod beats faster and i scribble–but to what end, whose dedication?

i’m sure this makes no sense and that you won’t ponder it, but consider this. for every broken page tossed away and ripped from a boulevard of broken aspirations, there is a fraction of a marginalized success story. that means nothing more than the blue between the words, but i crave your attention–almost as much as i hate it.

there’s a veritable cornucopia of hierarchial reasons why oxymorons plague me. my favorite strength is strength but my favorite word is broken. i fear hate but hate that i’m accepting fear. ballad after ballad can connect you to your favorite artist, but you can’t connect to his passion–you can’t understand the words you’re singing. nor can i.

i’m forcing this but i can’t sleep anyway–i’ve gotten accustomed to living on no more than a handful of hours–hoping the hairs rising on the back of your spine save you from seeing the fallen shadows beneath my eyes.

irony is no more than an overstated lie, and all you want to do is grow up. i can’t grow with you–i apologize. i won’t give up on everything i do’nt want to know. i’ll never tire of being tired and youthful–naive and carefree and utterly selfish. it’s taken me three pages and more months to warm up and i’m still too hard to talk to. themes mean no more to me than silver screen quotations. i’ve given up on growing up and crave childhood like the addict finding his place in the piercing piece of pointed metal.

it’s criminal how deceptive life is, and how little it matters how hard you try to be yourself. you’re no one until someone loves you and you’re no one to be loved because you’re too lovely to know anything of value. i’ve been conditioned to know that nothing is unconditional.

to speak of anger and to speak of too much of a good thing is to speak in repitition. to speak of pain and sameold is to do the same. to take every third word and break it in half would let you conceal truth through a broken jaw of script. i wrote you make me happy but i didn’t know that joy would be so foreign and so…vulnerable. i fear that i’m just as strong as your weakness, that anything else i spell would make me too cautious to ever be nauseous again.

every pages starts slow and every song blue but pace and color mean nothing to such a proverbial phrase–tu me mis en colere. ‘don’t believe me when i tell you it’s something unforgiveable’–that it’s something i started in fear of finishing.

i’ll stop because i’m afraid of starting or slowing, neither living nor dying. but not before i tell you that ‘best friends means you get what you deserve’–and you just met your new best friend: fate.

but before i set down this brush, let me remind you. remind you of what it takes to put chills down your spine, remind you of what it takes to write something you appreciate the beauty of. if you know me, this will make sense. if it doesn’t, my loss. the anger is no more than the result of a punctured perfection. the gaping wounds were created by no more than the reality of perfection: they don’t sleep in the same room anymore, the second letter is the best i can do, nighttime behavoir is more fit for the day, nothing rings in my ears but regret, every up is brought down by two lows, and the few i care for are slipping past caring.

those last few strings were the most specific chords i’ve ever played. figure them out, or ask. if you choose neither–not that wasn’t an option for friendship. give up. thanks for your time.

lyrics. frank sinatra – youre nobody till somebody loves you.

You’re a nobody till somebody loves you
You’re nobody till somebody cares
You may be king, you may possess the world and its gold
But gold won’t bring you happiness when you’re growin’ old

The world still is the same, you’ll never change it
As sure as the stars shine above
You’re nobody till somebody loves you
Find yourself somebody to love

You’re a nobody till somebody loves you
You’re nobody till somebody cares
You may be a king, you may possess the whole world and its gold
But gold won’t bring you happiness when you’re gettin’ old

The world still is the same, you’ll never change it
As sure as the stars shine above
You’re nobody, nobody till somebody loves you
So find yourself somebody

Gotta get yourself somebody

Because you’re nobody till somebody loves you
You’re nobody till somebody cares
You may a king, you might possess the big fat world and its gold
But gold won’t bring you happiness when you’re growin’ old

The world, the whole world’s the same, you’ll never change it change it
As sure as the stars shine above
You’re a nobody till somebody loves you
So find yourself somebody somebody to love

i’m at school. :) / :(

in tutorial. in newspaper.

ya.

that’s about it. i hate typing on macs.

what should i write about? i’m bored.

how about some more random things about me?

“you’re very well dressed, and you like sweater”
“you play hardcore tennis.”
“you’re confident enough to wear plaid.”

i like french. i eat power bars. i drink…water. i like writing. bye!