“Of course all life is a process of breaking down, but the blows that do the dramatic side of the work—the big sudden blows that come, or seem to come, from outside—the ones you remember and blame things on and, in moments of weakness, tell your friends about, don’t show their effect all at once. There is another sort of blow that comes from within—that you don’t feel until it’s too late to do anything about it, until you realize with finality that in some regard you will never be as good a man again. The first sort of breakage seems to happen quick—the second kind happens almost without your knowing it but is realized suddenly indeed.”

“But I had a strong sudden instinct that I must be alone. I didn’t want to see any people at all. I had seen so many people all my life—I was an average mixer, but more than average in a tendency to identify myself, my ideas, my destiny, with those of all classes that I came in contact with. I was always saving or being saved—in a single morning I would go through the emotions ascribable to Wellington at Waterloo. I lived in a world of inscrutable hostiles and inalienable friends and supporters.”

- The Crack-Up

What?! No.. What?! No.. What?! No..

My life is rated NC-17.
What is your life rated?

::giggles uncontrollably::

Inspired by somebody else..

Screaming
I like to stand under his window,
for all the seconds in twelve's hour,
so he can hear me scream his name,
as he sits and wonders
whether or not he accidentally
left the television on
my favorite show downstairs.

He walks outside, dressed down,
and sees me under his porch light,
drinking the rain,
and the stars and the moon
and says to me, "Go home."

I turn and walk away
following cracked down lanes
that weave between fake traffic
until I remember I don't know
where I'm going.

So I follow my own footsteps
back to his window
where I scream his name
and hope that this time
he'll come out and say
he loves me.

Prose in progress...

...Now my thoughts are more like wishes. Wishes for these thoughts to solidify and form themselves into a concrete three-dimensional image standing in front of me. Wishes to be able to wrap all my senses around these thoughts, and see the color of your expression, and feel the weight of your breath, and taste, taste, taste the perspective of your eyes. If I had one wish, it would be to hear my thoughts being drawn from your mouth, by a seen innerlying force of this, our love, as they resound against my skin and echo into the silence of our kiss.

I actually wrote this out to a friend of mine.. I was giving advice and went on a sort of tangent :-\ I liked it regardless.. my true voice comes out when I don't stop to think.

Tangent
Do you ever feel really old sometimes? And you just sort of shake your head because you see all the little games everyone else is playing and you know how they're all going to turn out. And it makes you sort of sad that they even bother trying.

And you just shake your head, solemnly, with your best little half smile.

And you wonder when they're ever going to learn, if they're ever going to learn, and whether maybe they've got it right after all. You've already lost Eden for youself, but it saddens you that nobody else can see as you do, can tell that it's not worth it.

It makes you feel so old just to be able to see the pattern of spinning and pairing and spinning away again. And you know that this is a dance that never ends, that never pauses for anyone, no matter how they wish to stay that way.

Because everything only happens for a moment, like a mosquito alighting on your wrist, but soon enough, the smallest motion, and it's off again. And it all just feels so trite, like our collective world vision has gotten plastic surgery, so we see the ephemeral as lasting forever. Does it hit you that much harder to realize that it's not? I don't know, I don't know. All I really know is that it doesn't last, that even the tallest mountains will be worn down by the rains and that to a man that day comes so much sooner.

Sometimes I feel too old for my skin, like I'm living in Atria squeezing into low rise jeans and teenage conversation, posed awkwardly on the outside and trying to make sense of what I'm doing there, what it means to me, to them.

I'm talking jive and nobody really seems to know what to do about it.

How long is it going to be before everything that matters falls flat?

You're going to sit up your whole life staring out your window down the street waiting for something that's never going to show up. How long are you going to keep this vigil?

And were you truly happy in the not knowing, in the believing of the promises you swore to yourself since childhood? Is it better to have the hope that the sun will still be shining tomorrow or the knowledge that one day it's going to be gone forever?

Do you ever look at the people you know and wonder how long it is before they'll break up and who's the one who's going to be doing the breaking off and who's the one who's going to be broken? And you wonder how it'll happen and how long it'll stay with them.

Because you know that day will come eventually; it's only a matter of time.

And it makes you sort of sad for teenage love, because it takes how long, it lasts how long, but it feels so real, doesn't it? I wouldn't know. I'm too old for that.

Do you ever wonder how long it's going to be before the people you see as lifelong friends aren't even a memory of the people you don't know anymore? They're just the faces in the street you swear yuo recognize as if from another life, but you never bother to stop and ask yourself why. You just keep on walking past.

How long is it going to be before all those friendships have scuffed their heels and been covered with the dust? Sooner or later it doesn't matter to you anymore, and the part that sticks the most is the fact that you don't notice it and neither do they and the time will come when they won't even remember why they love that Incubus song, or who introduced it to them, but they'll know there must have been a meaning as they hum along to the words. And then the music ends and they feeling passes and they don't think of that number they never called when they wanted to and theyt don't think of the face attached to it or the way it all felt. And they don't think of the long drives on night roads, or the stage lights on their first kisses and they don't remember the games they played, the turning twisting games of nicknames and clumsy painful exchanges of affections too big for their realities and how they all turned out the same.

They don't think of the fingerprints all those hands have left on their lives.

They don't think of a time that was infinite, now that it's passed.

They only remember that strange sort of sadness, the knowing that they just missed out on something important and that even if they'd flung out an arm to stop it, it still would have gone rushing past.

Bend
Sloped smoothly
we form a curve
over the moment
front to back
you
me

a celebration

of one.

Pause, Please?
We sleep wrapped in overdue sheets
and we're running on empty tanks
through desolate towns
and concrete skies
buried beneath the sun.

But none of that mattered to us;

because we walk out, in too loud shoes,
accidentally slipped on before bed with
the intoxicated prince-charming-me act
and I am more than taken.

I wrote this for my Angela's Ashes journal.. I kind of liked it though.

So Sorry
I watched as the wind changed courses
and swept you away along with it.
Moonlight candled around your face
as tears blanketed mine.
Everything was held back from the stars
in simple small breaths that broke
back across my tangled heart
and twisted around your soul.

Emotional waves rose above tongues
and traced along the walls of bodies,
curved, while memories washed up on shore.

Then I watched your eyes burn out
in a series of familiar notes.

Delirium
it may have been something i ate
or lack of sleep
that leaves me so weak today

today i offered you
a peeled and dripping fruit
and as you took it
(i could not watch)
i began to tremble
like a leaf,
life a leaf
hanging on to a slender tree
despite wildest wind

and when you pronounced good
that which i'd never dreamed i'd offer
i became the young tree itself
in an earthquake,
shuddering
as unseen
uncontrollable
tremors
raged through my
deepest roots.

i understand little
and can explain less

of the how or why
of this heart-
pounding
in every pulse point
and in a few new ones,
of the senselessness
of my senses today.

i can barely stand
or see,
especially
if i think about it for too long;
my hands
sssstttuttter

but
strangely, my voice
remains strong
and
vibrant...

something i ate.
lack of sleep.
sure-
ly.