inreaction

Note: much of the following is from a conversation I had with conor. It is a recap of my evening and is somewhat emotionally involving. It’s honest in a way that scares me and I’m not really sure if it’s appropriate for others to see. If you’re going to read it please read the note at the bottom as well. Goodnite.

i got in trouble for not eating enough or some stupid excuse for our family to explode again. then i went upstairs and was quitely listening to music and writing. then my mom walks in and starts yelling at me and takes my laptop. then i went downstairs and ate ice cream and realized that i can’t take this anymore, so i went upstairs and tried to explain to her that if she could face herself then she wouldn’t funnel all her problems through us [which I’ve tried so hard to do in a fair way but somehow have always failed at] which naturally didn’t go over smoothly. so she started yelling at me. and i said its a matter or principle and took my laptop and left—really as a matter of principle i could give a shit about this laptop now. and then she followed me and was screaming and the like, so i screamed back and slammed my door. then she opened it screamed some more and as my dad and sister come into my room she threw a book at me. and i snapped. it was unlike anything i’ve ever seen or felt and i took the book and idk what happened to it and just started yelling louder than I ever have and when I ran out of oxygen began crying in a way I hadn’t at least since high school started if not since middle school started. and it as if they were shocked—they just backed away and left me alone. it was heartbreaking—it was as though they had forgotten that I could feel that pain. All this time they had seen me as this arrogant young boy who never cried even in the face of dying loved ones and they eventually had given up—they gave up on trying to believe that I felt the same despair and pain and longing that everyone else does. I didn’t know what to do it was so foreign to me. I just collapsed and sobbed for an hour. Then my sister tried to come in and talk to me and I told her to leave. Then same with dad. Then mom came in and she was crying and tried to tell me I was right and I couldn’t take it so I went into the other room and then she followed me so I went into the linen closet. Then she said she would leave me alone so I went in my room. It’s just a weird feeling. we get so wrapped up in our problems that we forget that others are human, even if they’re our sons and mothers.

and then to top it off i didn’t know what to do so i turned on my computer and looked at the news. And saw that gallery [a gallery of bombings in Lebanon from CNN.com and there is this picture I’ll never forget as long as I live—a Lebanese Red Cross worker is holding this 4 or 5 year old girl that was killed in the bombing. And he or she is holding her body so tenderly it is the single most terrible thing I’ve seen in my life] and i don’t know it was just a bit too much.
“This was a mistake, and we will have a full investigation,” Israeli government spokeswoman Miri Eisen told CNN. It said that in the article. A mistake? 37 infants and children are killed and that’s the best you can do. So I had just calmed down and saw that girl and the expression on her face and I couldn’t take it. I broke down again and talked to conor online and then I was even more depressed that I was online on my laptop and I felt guilty about all we have and all we don’t appreciate.

I’m not writing this for pity and I would appreciate it if I didn’t receive any. All I hope is that the world can progress to a state where we don’t need moments like the one I described in order to remember that everyone is human. It’s true that there are people I hate in this world—and it’s sad that I must admit that. But tonight taught me that there are boundaries in hurting that we cannot cross. There’s no real harm in joking behind one’s back—that is a pastime that all take part in and a few pretend not to. The harm lies in invalidating one’s existence and making them feel as though their humanity has been forgotten. That cannot happen because I can attest that it is the worst feeling one can ever experience—I can tell you because I felt it tonight.

July 27th, 2006.

No.

I didn’t know that I would one day think of you so often.

Don’t be mistaken—I’ve always thought fondly of you. But until now—until these past few moments, weeks, and eternities—I was ignorant to such dreams.

In fact, I didn’t even sleep. My writing was not my way of loving you—it was my way of self-medicating myself into a repetitive slumber. I was far too absorbed in the idiocy around me—my thoughts clouded not only my mind but my vision—I didn’t see the indescribable.

It’s futile and fantastic—painfully ironic that I wasted such time playing a role, saying all the right words to the wrong person. It’s amazing to find myself dumb and mute now—stripped of an opportunity to have seen what I missed.

It’s certainly not just—to be here now—unscathed but lacking the verbosity I normally find comfort in.

Had I been lucky and wise enough to tried to gain real comfort (not the kind found on a cheap twin mattress at all the wrong times)—the kind I crave and feel when I dare to write these lines in your vision—had I been so graced, I would undoubtedly had been scoffed—perhaps even mocked—but I may never know such honest pain.

Had I known that I would so selfishly want to make your eyes glow with the smile that matches that which appears on your lips—had I known such poetry could flow undiluted from your presence, I may have been aghast, antsy, and decidedly afraid.

But had such anxiousness entered my mind, there exists the chance to one day find comfort in the magnificence of it all. Amongst all the anxiety, I could have rediscovered that which I long ago lost—a spark—not of love, nor of lust—but of hope; of childish, brash, crude, amazing and wonderful hope.

It is possible, most clearly, that all these notebooks, these few hundred pages and restless nights have all prepared me for this chance—not to be confirmed and find assurance in all I’ve done, but to realize that I’ve been wrong.

Not merely wrong, but high-and-mighty. Not just arrogant, but ignorant. If this letter doesn’t even get passed the pages of this notebook, let it be known that I’ve never felt so calm. Not just calm but unsure. I’ve never felt more complacent with the fact that the ground lays not beneath my feet but far above my head. Never have I been so relieved to think I am wrong, never so glad to be upside down.

I am wrong. But my foolish pride beckons me to hang on to one thing. Not a thing, rather, but an entity entirely too enlightening and breathtaking to be lost. Forgive me for my presumptuous nature—please overlook my arrogance in this matter.

I was wrong, but I feel as though this is the only right thing I’ve done my whole life. No—I didn’t know I would think of you so often…but that doesn’t mean I can help it.

With love.

so i wrote this. and then was in the mood to be insane so i tried to write poetry again. it’s rough but it’s what it is.

July 21st, 2006 — To Not Be Moved By You

Perhaps it’s only because you’re not here.

Maybe that’s why I feel as though I need you . Maybe I miss you because you are so indifferent to my condition. Maybe just maybe, this is the only honest thing I’ve ever done—to plead (if only to myself) for you to notice. Perhaps my admiration of your sudden charm and my realization of all you mean to me—that you can be the key to all the questions I need not to answer but to forget. Maybe you can be the bliss that comes not from ignorance but from your eyes. Maybe I can fall farther than I’ve ever fallen before—maybe I can pray, maybe I can trust that I need you.

It’s fascinating—amazing and debilitating. I can’t breathe or think but you seem to rease the need for both. The comfort I feel when I can place myself with you has a breadth far wider—a scope far greater—than any air I could inhale.

I crave to be the cause for smiles on your face and I wish to spark light into your eyes. I need nothing more—I want nothing less. You could read these words—and all the books before and all the blank pages to follow—but you could not read what you seem to do—this is not a time for any semblance of reason, not a time for any number of words.

I’m moved by you. I’m inspired—I’ve held this damn pen more confidently than ever before. I’ve put it to paper without a care to how greatly I will fail. I’ve picked at the guitar and screamed under the shower and over the sound of my own chaos. You’ve brought out a renewed vigor—one I never thought I could find again, one I have always failed at faking.

I wish to beak all the words of joking negativity that I uttered to you. You are wiser than those I once thought mature. You carry more grace than those I praised as beautiful. This is ridiculous but I’ve never felt as free—never felt as much me and never needed so much you.

Flying

Why does this stab my lungs so?
Why does such seeming perfection draw me in with its faults?

These questions are liars—
Their answers bring no truth.
Clarity fails me as I fall
But to fall with no ground beneath you
Is to fly.

It matters not why you leave me breathless,
It’s inconsequential—why I can’t ponder any possibilities is irrelevant.
All I need is to thank you—
Thank you for freeing me of such foolish pastimes.
Why would you need a breath,
When a glance fro your eyes could fuel a nation of honest men?
Thank you for such simplicity,
Thank you for such grace.

Eyelids

I see you in all the places
That fools fall in like.
And I’ve grown to dislike
All of those who fill them with their emptiness.

I see you everywhere but without you I find no comfort.
I see all the smiles I wish to bring you.

This is ridiculous—this is all too ugly.
These words scream of rashness,
They whine with desperation.
This is disgusting but all pales in the face of such grace.

It seems as though you’ve found a home,
And though I only see your face
As it’s painted on the inside of my eyelids,
I crave to know you with my eyes open.

I Will Not Rest

I will not rest until I make reason
Of such insidious joy—such foolish bliss.
I will not leave this eurphoria forgotten,
Every young soul deserves to feel this.

Sleep will not catch me this night,
No—not until I find my sense.
My eyes will not close until I’ve lived a lifetime in this twilight.
Everyone needs a chance to see through such lenses.

Clarity will not escape me at this turn,
I never knew of such a chance,
I never felt all I know could burn
With such brilliance.

My reason has never been conveyed through rhyme.
I don’t know what I am meant to feel,
I don’t even know what’s mine this time,
All I know is that to give the world to be with you is a steal.

And yet I can’t say you’ve stolen my heart,
Just know every moment without you tears me apart.

the results of a few days of writing binges.

July 8th, 2006.

I’m writing this in the foolish grips of utter foolery. But I’ve never been as complacent with my current craziness. It seems as though personal growth has become—for my line graph of sanity—a breathtaking drop from cautious logic to haphazard giving ins.

You see, I’ve just recently chosen to try-on living with all those “restrictors” turned off. That is, for a limited engagement, I will not engage all the faculties that can ensure limiting my interactions. Rather, I will make every effort to ensure nothing, bar none, and risk everything—even if only on paper and in mind. By ensure nothing, I mean to converse about everything I wish to with everyone I need to. By bar none, I mean to be open to all. And by risk everything, I mean to hold nothing as valuable as any single item, person, or feeling which I find uncontrollably desirable—whether for a fleeting chance or for a solid tenure.

This will undoubtedly engender a wave of trend-emotion. Possible euphoria may easily be countered by postponed disappointment. Joy may be balanced by any measure of pain. But this is a time when the former subjects of both statements are to be welcomed without any thought of the latter aspects of life. I crave, I need that comfort. And if I find it, I will give it all I have. I’ve lived the latter and ignored it for a chance at any meaningful matters but I must decide to find the very antithesis of it—if I am to enjoy this time of goodbyes.

These words are rash and the sentence structure is scant but editing is not in the plan tonight—there is no plan tonight. The only scheduled events are distractions—work will bring the necessary structure to my supposed scheme of emotional spontaneity. It’s a wonderful thing, to experience flight. Such is the feeling when one tries to be above everything foolish, almost gets there, and lets go.

I’ve fallen before, but I’ve always done so with the intent of grabbing hold to the first shred of elitism I can find. This time is different—I’m ready for progress through digression, ready for growing up by living it down. “Heaven’s not waiting.” That may be a bit of a stretch—but anything is better than rooting oneself to the ground.

I can’t help it. I’m so far gone and it’s so early. But we will see.

July 14th, 2006

It’s odd, to begin writing in a notebook with the United Nations logo emblazoned on the cover. It’s odd because the world is at a turning point—turning away from the UN ideals of peace and openness towards ignorance and “open wary.”

Peace is certainly an odd subject to breach. Is peace ever really existant? It’s certainly debatable—both on a worldly level and a personal one. Does world peace come when bombs cease being dropped? Or will it come when they stop being built? Can a world of jealous, restless, feeling, loving, and living souls ever really be at peace?

Is there room for humanity in a world of peace? Certainly not in its current form. Perhaps peace is the absence of greed, of grief, of hurt. But in the human mind-a mind with two halves with distinct functions and differences—can there be satisfaction, joy, and comfort without their respective antitheses?

Hardly. There is proof in our every action and in each yearning. One has only to look within oneself to see this world within for evidence that we cannot prosper in singular and unitary modes. We cannot crave another’s presence without being reminded of how they will be missed when gone, how nervous we may be around them, or how nothing we mean to tell them comes out as intended. And yet, we need these people like air—we breathe in their company like a calming cocktail of loaded words—love, comfort, a moment of eternal joy in the eyes of another.

But that’s all this continuous juxtaposition can leave us with—moments. True peace comes not just from this unfair cycle of ups and downs, but from accepting the injustice of it all—by choosing to look for eternal balance instead of temporal joys.

Make no folly—this is not advice. It may be no more than a restating of what is so clear t all but elusive to my penning. It is not a lecture, nor is it a litany of words to live by. It just occurs to me—too often—that facing balance may be more difficult than looking for fleeting joy. It strikes me—just now—that I don’t want everlasting peace. For the world, I wish the end of war and playground battle antics, but for myself? No—I want to feel the pain of disappointment. I want to stagger under the agony of occasionally unrequited yearnings. I even feel no qualms about being broken in all means. You can feel free to empower yourself through the exploitation of my weaknesses. Take it all.

I’m not concerned with peace. Perhaps even “meaning” is a bit much for me—I could never describe it in these lines anyway. “Love” can wait too—I can’t pretend to have any qualifications or definitions for that either.

So go ahead-do as you were and come as you are. Don’t worry about the pain you may cause—I don’t need peace. You see—peace would consist of an eventual elimination of all the hurt. I don’t mind the hurt—your eyes make it al inconsequential. I’ll take the hurt—as long as I can have your fleeting closeness with it. It’s worth more than any eternal peace. You’re refuge enough.

July 16th, 2006

It’s always odd to me when I return to a stringent schedule of nightly writings. I never know what forces me to take pen to paper but I’m mostly grateful when I can write again.

It’s a sort of validation—as if exploring pain, desire, and everything in-between reminds me that I’m actually feeling all these things, that I’m actually feeling alive. Certainly, it’s easier and more desirable to be numb at times, but I suppose taking life without an indulgent dose of anesthesia is more righteous.

It’s also always odd how certain words pop into my mind as I scribble so haphazardly. Even more ambiguous and baffling is how I’m actually intently listening to music or thinking of something else as I write. It’s amusing to suddenly realize that I’ve written four pages in the time I’ve listened to two songs.

It’s interesting how often I write about a proverbial “you.” It’s definitely quite high school and cliché but its true that there have been far more “you”’s than actual young ladies that I’ve been involved with. It’s as though I either have an interest in the ideals or there’s someone I have yet to discover. Anyhow—you’re amazing, do you know how we meet?

Nowadays I have faltered fro my original trends. I was never really able to address a specific person in a positive manner in writing—the people I wrote about had usually been the subject of my verbally repressed intentions, be they angry, loathing, or some form of the same. But the last few pages have spoken admiringly (and some might say desirably) of a specific friend. I choose, however, not to use names because I find names to be too binding—they strip emotions of their universality.

That is the problem I suppose. I always find myself looking for that “universality.” It’s not enough for me to speak to one I love—I want to be apart of the archetypical conversation of love. It’s not enough to dislike someone—I bunker down until I feel nothing but a deep textbook loathing for this poor sap. That’s where I find myself—deep in the handle of a craving for depth. I feel a need to experience all I do in the utmost. I wish not just to be alive—but to live with a sense of all that is “grandeur.”

So yes—I make “like” her, but that is not enough for me. I crave a perfect, charming, and breathtaking “winning over.” And I don’t mean that she’s a sort of prize to be attained. Quite to the contrary—she’s too great to be a prize. She’s the game, the only contestant playing and worth waiting for; she’s the setting for a perfect time—all the company you’ll need—something too grand to be a thing and someone too special to be attained.

I don’t want a piece of her and I don’t want her to give any part of her. I just want a chance to fulfill the archetypical romance I know she wants as well. “Goodnight my dear.” I wish to have a chance at gentlemanly endeavors and a real sense of like with no devious intentions—no intents of barring any part of me. The story wouldn’t require me or she to play any part. It’s not fakeness to fulfill a yearning already inside of you. It’s human in its finest form and living at its best.

Time to live. To ballroom dancing, Friday night movies, laughing, to silence, to comfort and to honesty about what matters. To feeling alive and raw, to a youthful wisdom and healthy immaturity. To all of this and to all I may not know exists. To anything appealing and to this final summer—to faling without looking for something to grab onto…to freefall.

dashboard confessional – stolen

We watch the season
Pull up it’s own stakes
And catch the last weekend
Of the last week
Before the gold and the glimmer have been replaced
Another sun soaked season fades away

You have stolen my heart
You have stolen my heart

Invitation only
Grand Farewells
Crash the best one
Of the best ones
Clear liquor and cloudy eyed
Too early to say goodnight

And from the ballroom floor
We are in celebration
One good stretch before our hibernation
Our dreams assured and we all
Will sleep well

Sleep Well

Watch you spin around
In your highest heels
You are the best one
Of the best ones
And we
All
Look
Like
We
Feel

You have stolen my heart

sometimes anger can clear the mind marvelously. sometimes rage is just numbing. the latter is more applicable to my current state. this family is simply not a family anymore. friends of long time are folding into no more than “made better plans” individuals that seem to play ignorance to the basic facets of supposed friendship. then again, there are certainly a few people who have shown themselves to be worthy of trust. in this period i’ve gotten accustomed to adapting to accepting that this trust may breed disappointment at some time. more on that later maybe.

i’m growing exhausted but i refuse to call it pressure. living life is not “pressure.” pressure is a word weak people throw around to give their petty problems a label. i’m just ailing because i’ve come under too much undue stimulation of late. i always looked at people who go through their phases with such judgement but i never took the time to look inside their lives. watching your family fall is the most overwhelming experience. i’ve lived a life where my family has been the foundation. the problems i’ve faced (be it with relationships or other little things i occupy my time with) could always have been thrown against the foundation under me until they cracked. without that foundation i’m throwing these things at mirrors–they’re coming back and knocking the wind out of me. i’m trying to do the “nice” things and stop pretending i’m above all that shit but i’ve spent so long fighting these things giving in is not as easy as it should be.

it just seems as though this whole game is really just that. nobody tells people what they feel, and barely anyone tells themselves to listen to their own thoughts. i’m not judging anyone–i’m just as guilty as anyone else. it’s hard for us when we keep ourselves from reaching out to those that we think could be the support we crave and the comfort we need. at the end of the day we all play games because we thrive off of avoidance and speculation-because we’ve learned that confrontation and realization are always as pleasant as we wish.

anyway. i’m going to write some advice i’ve been meaning to give myself. it’s not a lecture, just of personal interest.

be nice without worrying about being fake. be yourself without worrying about what that means. never strive to be different in ways that only lump you into subcultures instead of allowing you to accept and interact with those of all groups. look people in the eye at all times. there’s glimmers in the eyes of those you love that will keep you going when life feels like shit. don’t think you’ll ever change anyone’s life. this is not meaning–it’s arrogance. never be ignorant. hate people but know that you’re only belittling yourself and empowering those you’re contemplating. reach out to people you think you could love. get over waiting and seeing what happens. stop playing games with friends. stop trying to stay close to people who will only be there if they don’t have another girl or person to throw themselves at. don’t throw yourself at anyone. give up on trying to find truth. ask questions and let people feel comfortable enough to speak to you about what matters to them. watch your language and uphold your own worth. stop worrying about all the empowerment bullshit. don’t stop writing. let people see how you actually feel. don’t worry about how you think they’ll respond–it doesn’t matter. tell people the truth but not when it leads to resentment. tell people the truth but don’t look for the truth with a scope of negativity. get out of the house.

“You would rather have a Lexus? or justice?
a dream? or some substance?
A Beamer? a necklace?
or freedom?”
– dead prez – hip hop.