branches on a tree

gonna try out tumblr for a bit, so posts are going to be happenin' over there at insipid-inanity.tumblr.com.
if I decide to return here, I'll either say so over there or just start posting here, depending on where ya look.

caw, caw.

shut up.
shut up.
shut up.

creatively dead, laying in bed to feel unalive again. aches and sores and roses for stupidity down and around. the dark tells me why I want to follow a fool and be swallowed by your misunderstanding sundering and plundering.
I don't like you, who fakes like a faker faked. who cries about lies twice told by someone who isn't real, who isn't actual. I don't like you being there where I can't see you objectify my existence, and make me think twice about who I am.
I don't like you who can tear me down and stand tall, a damn dame who owns not a single mirror.

but I don't hate you, though I'd love to, though I ought to. it's easier not to. it's easier to move on and let you rot a bitter memory, than let you fester in false prominence. because I didn't lose you, you who can't even find you, yourself.

so shut up.
you're blatantly spouting foul falsities about idiocy twice gained, unaware of honesty and self awareness.
so shut up, and don't bother me until you wake up. wake up and realize the difference between who we are, how we are.
but since no one ever will, let's just leave this a bridge once burnt, and never one rebuilt.

kangaroo.
goodnight.

g'night wish.

I'm not sure what I think life is all about,
what I need or want it to be, or how I want to interact with anyone, and everyone.
I'm sure I want to smile, but how or why - I have no idea at all.
Also, I'm not sure why people can't be honest with me or themselves,
and I wish they'd stop using others as excuses for their life.
I don't know why it bothers me what others decide,
I realize everyone likes to think no one can affect how they live,
but that's a naive delusion.
Join another species, you know?

I will find happiness, I just don't quite know how yet.
But I'll try and try and try.
And I'll remain hopeful that honesty can remain prevalent.
I want people to tell me what they think honestly,
I want people to save me from unrequited honesty.
I want people to realize the importance of nurturing their emotions,
I want people to realize that what they really think, isn't evil.
That it shouldn't be hidden, it should be shown.
Maybe not to everyone, but definitely to those who should know,
or can know.

Well, I don't know, whatever, right?
I want honestly, good and bad. I want you to talk shit openly,
or say scary things truthfully, because to be honest, people may
surprise you. They may even save you from the numbness of
your own foolishness.

So no more hotheaded fools, please.

Night.

unsure why

Unbeknownst to you, the unloved staple of worldly affairs, I can read your eyes.
I can read your eyes that tell stories, poetically rather than phonetically, if you get it.
Here is where I tell you how wrong it is to believe in you, and your heart,
it's the time where I say to you, why do I even waste time pretending I don't care?
For that matter, I can remember thinking, why do I waste time wondering if I actually do?

Life is a confused mass of twisting, and constricting veins, moving emotions though time,
transcribing existence between people, between you and me. Between us and them,
we exist simply to notarize the bond between boy and girl, and any combination of.

If this is confusing for you, then try to understand.
Close your eyes, breathe in and hold it in your chest,
hold it til it burns, til the muscles in your neck flex,
til your body desperately tries scraping around for oxygen.
Do this, and breathe out. Gasp, and gulp air,
and realize how much affection you have,
affection for something you never think too much about.

Humanity is a beast so fickle and frightened, full of harsh unloving ignorance,
so full of unrealistic beliefs and practices, and woeful hypocrisies.
Yet it exhumes such beauty, such raw expression of emotion and creativity,
that without even trying it easily varies between under-and-overwhelming.

And yet, with no good reason, you've chosen.
You've decided that I'm impossible, without understanding me,
or worse - yourself. It's pitiable, because as hurt as I can
pretend to be, or not to be - it won't bother me like it will you.
Or so my humanity says,
as I walk away quietly,
slowly pulling chances
from your fingertips.

No matter how many I want you to have.

conversing with a headstone.

are you still writing?
I know you pricked your finger on the coffin hangnail, but has that meant anything?
life is a mess of exaggeration, so I'm not fully sure where to stand, lest I break something. then again, you never really held breaking things against me. did it ever bother you?
it would bother me.
I don't know if I can report good news or not. all I can say, is I'm still here - whether you like it or not, though I prefer to think you like it.

I'm alive still.
did you ever stop writing? I never could read that mixed handwriting of yours. too confusing, too cryptic. or so you may think.
right now, my soul has fret buzz. not that I mind, or that you care.

dear you,
do my changes bother you?
would it be love if you saw it?
you can be honest,
it's not like it's important.
my existence is mine to judge, can't you get over that?

is your grave clean?
do you get visitors?
would you care?
do you even have a grave?

are you dead?

when did you die?
why did you die?
do you even know who I am?

I wonder if we'd be friends if you weren't in a grave.
are you in a grave?

or is it just that you're so cold,
you may as well be dead to me.

would it be love?
no, you'd know it, especially
since you never have.

by the way,
get over it.

sex and art and sex. (and the number 42).

so I've been thinking.
but it hurt, so I stopped
and haven't posted much lately.

but that stops now! sorta.
I mean, it's not as though it really matters,
since this is mostly self-gratifying.. for now.
I do have readers, and people have talked
to me about this blog, which I appreciate
immensely.
anyway..

for one thing, first and foremost, I'm going
to talk about my grammar/typing habits real quick.
I usually spell everything correctly,
I pride myself in that fact, because I love words.
but it has been brought up to me that I don't
capitalize correctly, and format my blogs awkwardly.

to that I say, I don't care.
it's something I constantly shift between,
I realize full well it's improper, but the entirety of this..
experience?
isn't proper. it's just a mess, a mish mash, a gash of
my flooding thoughts and so on, and so forth, et cetera.

so yeah, back off my letters, hoe. ho? hoe. gotta be hoe.
urban dictionary says it's hoe, so.. safe. well, I say "safe".

anyway anyway anyway.
this has little to do with the original intentions behind the post,
being sex.. and art.. and more sex, obviously - if you read the title.



the first sex is irrelevant, I just thought double the sex might spice the post up.



I love art. drawing mostly, in fact I do the majority of my drawing in pen.
not good art pens, just really sharp tipped pens I have.
if I'd given any amount of attention to my drawing over the years,
perhaps I would have improved - if at least slightly.
so I've decided.. I'm going to draw every day, until I'm not awful.
not that I'm awful, I just tend to do crazy collage-style drawings
and I always feel like they have a very singular focus and I'd like
to do more than just that.
agh. blah blah blah, more arts.
might start posting a comic I've been considering about an abstract
bird and a little girl, using them as a medium to discover the intricate
details of life (namely the number 42 if we get right down to it).
anyway, that may happen at some point - or not. I haven't decided.

as for the sex - sex thing,
I've been watching Mad Men lately (up to Season 2) and I'm really
enjoying it. however what I've noticed in all these big budget,
uncensored television programmes is the prominence of sex,
and it's emotional misguidedness (not a word but whatever).
not that I'm booing sex at all, I'm just saying I feel a bit of a disconnect
when I see some of these scenes because when there's reasoning
behind the scenes it proves to make less sense that it would have if
they just decided "right then.. LET'S FUCK." and then fucked.
and typically all the scenes in Mad Men are result of promiscuity
and passionate urges - which causes no disconnect between me
and the characters. it makes sense in the show for it to happen.
BUT *spoilers-maybe-kinda-sorta-not-sure*
there's a scene where the main character becomes incredibly
helpless and seeks out the attention of a love interest for
sexual comforts. well.. I can't say that's TOO odd, and it's
probably me that's the odd one out, but I feel like when
a character in a show is having a crisis of emotion and identity,
the comfort they seek should be less sexual.
it almost felt like it shattered the perception that the character
is feeling weak, falling apart even, and instead of seeking
the arms of a loved one, it just kind of forces a sex scene
on the situation awkwardly.
if it were real life, I'd be like.. well the guys got a hard on, whateva.
but in a show, it's kinda like.. why does "hollywood" have to force
a seemingly great and emotional scene for the character into a
cookie cutter sexually masculine scene so it's like
"he's no bitch, he's gettin' pussy" or something weird like that.
now this is a half-rant, and seems totally baseless as I read back on it,
and I wouldn't argue it with this, but there is a disconnect in that scene
thanks to how the sex scene feels forced, and it bothered me.
it's like.. sure, sex is sexy, but if you ate ice cream whenever the fuck
you wanted you'd just get fat and lazy.
hm.

anyway.
art. gotta do that shit.

PS

there's this girl I talk to
she is the bomb
and quite funny

but she's mean to me,
she threatened to beat me.

the end <3

on my funeral.

I don't want one.

A funeral, that is (if you didn't read the title). I'll obviously think about it more later in life, but right now? I want to be cremated and mixed in with some fertilizer for a flower garden or something.
No service, nothing churchy, nothing fancy.
I feel irritated whenever I hear it's not for the deceased, it's for those in mourning to gather and find solace - or peace. I feel irritated because while I'm not against mourning, I am against an event being held under such a flawed pretense. I don't want my post-mortem moments to be awash with negativity and a memory wrapped in dark clothing and smeared makeup.

Of course this is assuming I'll find anything in my life that'd result in such a funeral, but either way.. If it's my death, I don't want it glorified in boy public manner. No food, no service. Group up and mourn on your own if you truly wish, but don't arrange something as foolish as a wake for me.

Or something. Half-asleep ramblings. Goodnight.

short, unintended hiatus. to end.

it's been a little while since i've written on here. I wouldn't necessarily call it neglect, so much as the fact that I've been busy enough that I don't have to call it neglect.
I've been in Spokaneland since Thursday, staying at my friend Wayne's house.
on tuesday my friends Wayne, Justin, Collin, and I will be leaving at like four-something to go to Kennewick. why Kennewick? we wanted to turn going to see the Red Hot Chili Peppers reunion on screen into a roadtrip. so we'll leave a few hours before the time of the show, and let destiny take it's golden course.

anyway, I have blogworthy thoughts on hold. they shall be coming.

title post broken.

Dear cellular-sounding-board,

I have writers block, and it won't go away. Expressing myself is made difficult by invisible walls, and yet I'm going to try anyway.
Why do I have writers block, you don't ask? I'd attribute it to feeling depressed, but sometimes I can find inspiration there so I'm making that a symptom, because I want to write but can't. So I get frustrated with what I do write, constantly deleting/scrapping entire paragraphs and pages of dissatisfaction in a flurry of fury, grinding teeth, eyebrow scrunching and all.
Despite this I'm going to try anyway.

By now I've deleted about twelve paragraphs of unfocused, disorganized, half-hearted thought that I've tapped - rather than punched, my phone is newer than that - into this digital blogfront.
So.. I'm going to see if I can't sleep off this feeling of broken English and whatever, whatever, etc, whatever.

Adios,

Mister-interweb-blog.

it's today, I hate today.

it's today.
it's a day that will probably end in dismay,
that's the way it usually is anyway.
today is the majority reason I hate August,
the "morbidity" isn't near as real as the morbidity.

I have faith in everything that ever was or wasn't,
I hope to move past my everything and anything.
it's not like I'm eternally broken,
I know I can recover.. eventually.

I hate today,
and I stupidly keep wanting something very specific to happen.
but I know there's absolutely no chance of it,
who do I think I am? someone worth it?
I wouldn't go out of my way for me.
or something, right?
emo rant over?
did it start?

I have happiness somewhere to be pursued,
but I can't pursue anyway.




ANYWAY



I'm in Spokane right now.
It's my home, always has been.
Things in Yakima have progressively been getting worse,
actually that remains true since I moved there.
Sure there were moments and weeks and months..
Where I could see myself staying a while.

But now I'm thinking seriously,
I don't really want to live in the town
where I found out you don't exist anymore.
I don't really want to live in the town
where my family went from broken to shattered.
I don't really want to live in the town
where I meet shreds of hope and lose them soon after.

Right now I'm thinking about working a little while, and saving saving saving.
And after I save, save, save, I'm thinking about moving back home, to Spokane.
Away from you, and you, and you. Sure.. away from some of my friends,
but I'd still see them. But I don't want to see you, or you, or you either.
I'm thinking about moving back, and attending community here, and working,
and saving saving saving, and then after my community years.. Either Gonzaga or CWU.
I want to be an English major. I want to move on with my life,
as many people have already done.
I'm a stupid little bug drowned in amber,
a fool eyeing the barrel of a gun, I know it's odd.
but that's what I am, and that's what I have to overcome.

My greatest hits,
my soon-after heartaches,
move on from me quick and easy.

and whatever?

plan,

job, save, spokane, job, community, save save save, gonzaga/cwu, live.

to the girl from the gamestop, but not the one I met that was working at the one in spokane today, although that one liked my shirt but it doesn't matter.

dear cellular diary.

there is immense beauty in a place, and it's very much not a foolish dream. there are wonders here and there, that I can't hope to obtain.
it's always the simple things I find I enjoyed most. the fact that I can make someone with such an overwhelming sense of presence feel embarrassed and barely able to contain a smile may have been one of my favorites.
that level of unconditional and awkward happiness I could help another achieve just by being me, it still feels unfathomable.
but achieve it I did, and whether you read this or not, or even realize it's for you, since I'm too weak to say it to you myself, I'll have to convey it through this cellular dialogue between boy and blog..

it wasn't just "fun", it was surprising and scary. but while it may turn out that I'm totally wrong, I still felt there was chemistry.
it was very complicated beneath the seemingly simple exterior of our hanging out and occasional dates.
but no matter what it may or may not have been, it was great. it felt good. and among my favorite things about you, other than how you genuinely seemed embarrassed by me (in such an adorable way to boot), I honestly think I'll miss your honesty, the look you got when things were quiet, and that despite the surface feelings of fear and insecurity.. deep down you actually made me feel warm, and calm.

anyway, this is the best I can do for you, whether you read this or not.
I do hope life treats you beautifully, and as much as I'd like to be the boy you wrap yourself up in, I do hope you find happiness and don't let fear or anything overwhelm your ambitions.

so.. goodbye, you.
thank you for existing in my life,

no matter how short it was,
it was definitely beyond sweet.

skip this one.

I don't know what you think of me,
probably very little, or much less than that even.
That's alright though, I don't really know what I think of you either.
To be honest, there's never been space for consideration, or any
form of understanding. We occasionally exchange words, sometimes
many, sometimes few, sometimes often, sometimes rarely.
Things I've learned about you..

You're cautious, and naive. Not that that's bad, we all have our
little quirks, in fact I'm probably more anti-social than you are,
I just happen to attract people for some reason.
You're very smart, and creative. It's something about you I respect,
I'm always wanting to see your creativity in action although I rarely
get the opportunity. I'd like to have the opportunity though, right?
Well, I don't know.
You're wonderful, even if you don't notice it, beautiful, even if you
won't acknowledge it. The world could easily collapse under your
bidding, if only you allowed it, though I doubt you ever would.
Sometimes I feel like you're lying to yourself to protect yourself,
though I can't argue with that without being a hypocrite.

I wonder, if you read this, would you know it's about you?
Would it matter if you instantly thought it was about you?
Maybe you'd take this as some kind of confession,
though I don't know why you would, there's nothing of
the kind here. To me, a "confession" has more mutuality than that,
more substance.
Would this scare you? I'd probably be disappointed in you if it did,
your personality isn't nearly that weak, if weak at all.
I wonder, if you read this, and knew it was about you,
what would you do? What would you think?
If you knew this was about you, maybe I'd tell you that it's okay to
let others in, find help and build bonds with those close to you -
not saying I'm one of those people of course, I don't know what
you think of me - you're much too confusing a person.
You never paint a picture in black in white, there's only ever a
canvas of greys, what should I think?

If you read this, and thought it was about you..
What do you think the chances are of you being right?
Am I talking about a real person? Who knows.
The fact is.. I doubt there's anyone strong enough to
react to this anyway, though I highly doubt you're a reader.
Or are you? Or aren't you.
Is this confusing enough?

You, who I'm talking to, who you don't know if it's you or not,
may or may not exist. I may just be speaking figuratively,
imaginatively, while that's a little odd in itself, it follows my.. character.

However, also talking about a real person would make sense too.

BAM.
I decided not to do the PC game blog thing, my irritation ran dry,
and I decided it would break any flow this blog maintains.

*cough* "flow", yeah right.

Caffeine High 51

Apparently that last one was the big five oh, whatever's big about that.
Fifty blog posts in nine months, I honestly could have done much more,
but I'm extremely impressed with myself for sticking with it this long.
As a present, tonight I'm going to rant about video games,
specifically what's ruining PC games, and fascism or whatever.

Not much of a present, I don't know who my supposed readers are,
but it's something I want to do.. Just not yet, maybe tonight if I can
manage any form of a caffeine high.

there's a silver bullet for you in the cupboard.

clarity.

I honestly don't know what I think,
there's a great many things that have been washing over me lately.
From friends, to family, to everything and anything that may or may not be.
Today I stuck a needle in my heart, to try and sew the gap closed -
figuratively of course. I'm not fucked up enough to actually try that.

What I realize is that I don't usually have what people need,
and I'm alright with that. What others sometimes don't realize
is that I don't have what they need.. I wish it were easier to
deal with that.
In my own special ways, I'm fairly broken,
and yet there are many who wish to lean on me.
It hurts as my soul cracks and creaks under
the collective weight of my gathered fate.
To be honest, I only truly have enough of myself for one person,
and while some may think that's odd - it's true.
I don't have it within my power to make the right people smile,
nor do I have it in me to express myself in a way that feels right.
It's a common curse, I don't think I'm special because I'm not,
no matter what anyone might read in my words.
Pulling meanings from them that aren't there,
like pulling off the toe nails of the clueless.

I'm not special, in any way shape or form,
and this isn't a method of self-deprecation,
it's just the honest truth.
Because just as I'm not special, in most ways..
Neither are you.
It's not a bad thing, of course we all have
little quirks that make us who we are,
we are unique little flowers, and blah blah blah.
But no matter what I have that you don't,
I'm definitely not more important than you,
nor am I less important.

No matter what issues anyone may be dealing with,
we're not the first to suffer by any length,
and there are definitely those who have suffered more.
Every life is significant, I guess.

It's officially August, and I hate this month. I associate it with a bad memory,
and use that memory to funnel every single one of my other bad memories,
a way to deal with my PTSD on a yearly basis almost (as unhealthy as that
is in reality), I've slowly been doing better with it though.
But still, I don't like August, it makes me feel sick to my stomach at times.
Even now realizing it's here, I don't feel well. But I'll get through this, not
like I've never managed before.

Goodnight, right?

love, hurt, pain, and love again.

to cough, to scoff. to lick and be licked by the flames of pain that have no aim but to close itself to those that have no wealth of self, holding a rose by the thorns until their palms are torn and their patience worn. to laugh, and laugh away what might be right or wrong, whether or not the choice belongs it is a moment we shan't rejoice or revel in - and a liar so-called might find themselves a mired soul on this day to inspire. inspire what is fake, the very thing that makes our shitty souls quake in such nonchalance, a chance to burn and learn, to make what's ours to take and let it be for your sake - a choice never-ending but always-ended, as we rip rend the flesh of the mesh of reality, so unequal in rite and spite, like a clock broken on a dock or a hawk crushed by a rock, we don't know one from eleven or two from blue. our souls, they vomit subtlety and cascadian viridian, a mountainscape of blatant pain. pain that licks the eyes dry, and cracks the lips wet.
pain, the undeniable emotion that's the source of our ever-eroding soul, that which makes us whole.
pain is chemical expression, a splatter of any colour on any canvas in the world.
it branches and weaves around heart and never sets apart you and I,
you and I.
the ever subconscious progenitor, the ever realizing subjugator,
hurt is the fleeting epitaph of negativity, bastard of wrong and relativity.
locked in a bad space, it seeps into our veins and corrodes our heart,
it blossoms into hurt, and so willingly blooms into pain.
it's pain I want to share with you,
to bring our negativity so close together,
a chemical.. atomic.. anatomical reaction.
don't console this blooming black rose of pain,
whose thorns so wholly dig into what makes me sane.
I share this pain with you,
watching your budding hurt, bloom into beautiful pain,
as it starts to rain, the drops drip splatting on my window sill,
and just by pure will we find tearful thrill in this chill.
as I force pain into your vein,
and let it coalesce in your heart,
your soul.

humanity is stupid and broken, unwilling and messy. but we were born this way, it's a reality. no matter how much we want to help those we've come close to, they often just want to bleed out into your stupid soul, a role I willingly take every time no matter the reason. because I'm stupid and broken, as humanity is.
when we hurt from life, and feel pain, we almost always want someone to help us shoulder it, rather then let someone lift us from the shallow hole we've dug. it's the human way, and for some reason (with great complication often) it works.
it works because we let it work. because for every time we do it to someone, there is bound to be one to do it to us. we share in each others pain, and let it bring us close - a gothic beauty, and idealism.
I wouldn't say that I like it, no.
I wouldn't say that I in particular find it beautiful at all, no.
but I find a kind of.. realistic attribute to it's philosophical implications.
to live is to to be, to be is to experience, to experience is to feel.
to feel is to inevitably hurt, and revel in self pity and pain.
and as a response to that hurt, that self pity, and pain,
we shake the chains of the bonds we've made.
and we find clarity.
and we find a smile.
and we find love.

because to be human, to have this figurative idea that is our soul at our very core, is to love. even the darkest, and most broken among us feel this, this love so clearly bubbling and bursting from within us. and as love can birth hurt, and pain.. it's the emotions sought to recover from those experiences that can lead to more love, as life so ironically loves to come full circle.

goodnight,
internet.

damn.

A couple of years ago I was sitting with my friend Dominique in class, and she was talking about how she was doing the vagina monologues that year. I was curious about it, and she had me read the piece she was performing that Valentines Day, or Vagina Day, or whatever you want to call it.
I read it, I enjoyed it immensely, and I felt oddly.. Inspired. I then proceeded to write a short monologue, from the point of view of an older woman and her past experiences et cetera. It was fairly well received by Dominique, who I'd written it for, a new bit of experience to add to the ol' arsenal (or something silly like that).
I wanted to share it with you, but sadly (for the time being) it is lost.
I hope to find it, or maybe she'll find it and send me a copy, but either way
when I have it before me again I will surely post it on here for the semi-plural mass to read.

rant end.

What about the term "riptide romance"? Nah.
I kind of find it funny how people can be openly dishonest with themselves, something I can never quite achieve to the level of which is currently on my noggin. People are, on the whole, annoying creatures. They're constantly fighting their nature, fighting realism, fighting against everything that is, and might be, anything. I find it annoying, amusing, trivial, transparent, simplistic, and entirely unnecessary. But they won't realize that any time soon, if ever, so how about I go ahead and cough up some text on the subject?
The entire concept of romance seems as though it's being bastardized by my generation (though this may change when we start hitting the ol' midlife crisis, so that it might be passed onto the next generation). Romance has become an overdramatized soapbox of trepidation - yet another annoying label for us to bear as a whole.
We all have our own overbearing issues and crippling disorders to triumph, sure - but there are limits. Humanity, humanity, humanity is a beast, an incomprehensible number of bodies, of litres of blood, of souls. We all fall in love, whether we define it in that manner or not is of no consequence to me, because loosely termed it's the best way to describe it. To love, to marry, to share in age, and to bask in a wealth of good health. It's not about falling to the status quo, or succumbing to conformity - you idiots. It's about life - it's about evolution - it's about the continuation of the species sure. But since we're humans, it's about emotion. It's about the future. It's about aspiration. It's about everything and anything.
If you don't think you're going to fall in love, to copulate and in turn reproduce, if you're "against" that very idea, then I'm glad you won't be the ones doing it. Humanity won't need to suffer, nor survive your stupidity and masochism.
Even my friends that still claim they'll never be with someone again - that they'll definitely never marry - that they'll never have children.. I kind of feel bad for them to be honest. Humans are dragged along by their feelings - commonly referred to as what they feel in their heart (which is a simplistic way of describing that tight feeling in your chest when you're emotionally committed to a situation).
I feel bad for them, but at the same time I know it's alright. The majority of people who are standoffish on the topic will meet someone. Or realize how they feel about another. The ball will roll, and the feelings of anxiety, confusion, and nonconformity will simply melt away.

There's that group of people, who needlessly lie to themselves - but there is another group that needs addressing forthright. Those who are in denial about the reality that is relationships and the sharing of human emotion. Sometimes it's because they're emotionally broken, like myself, and unlike myself unable to overcome themselves. Other times it's simple stupidity (a word I seem to like lately), a quaint disregard for how the world actually works, and paving their own special individualistic cell in which they must equate irrationally that "My sour one month relationship definitely hurts worse than my Grandfather felt when his wife of sixty years passed away, and his consequent near suicide." That may be an exaggeration, but I think you'd be surprised if you delved a little deeper with some of these people. And it's not just that emotional and logical disconnect that I'm encompassing with the word "stupidity" either.
It's the ones that are more.. Simple than that. The people that simply give up before ever really starting - who've had no real experience in the world and feel they have full comprehension of how it all works.
To those people, I have this to say:
While it's not difficult to comprehend by any means, it's definitely something you can't even begin to understand until you've stood there with your own feet. Talking to a best friend about their broken string of hellish relationships that eventually end in keyed trucks, stalking, and house fires doesn't offer you any actual experience. The fact of the matter is - you don't understand how the whole thing works until it's your truck that got keyed, you that's being stalked, or your house that was set on fire (or your exes truck you keyed and set on fire while he was inside during your stalk-happy-rampage).
Even things as endlessly simplistic as an embrace (note, I'm not saying hug, those close semi-empty things you share with friends, but embrace, I even put it in italics so you'd notice) is going to be beyond your comprehension until you share one. And don't get me wrong, even then you have a ways to go. A lingering kiss, a candlestick dinner, a spur-of-the-moment adventure to nowhere, a sky full of bright stars, a night of passion - they're all beyond you until you're brave enough to put yourself out there. The issue here isn't whether or not they're good enough, it's all on you.
And some advice to you, you who totes imaginary experience and situations, you who speaks as though you know better than those who have, and are going through these moments in your life..
It'll hurt.
I can't say how often, if at all.
Maybe you'll meet Miss/Mister Perfect-for-you right off the bat.
But the entire concept of opening yourself up to someone,
is also giving that person the ability to cause harm.
You may not think you're strong enough for that,
but I honestly think you'd be beyond surprised.

A few moments of genuine happiness,
a few memories of times that were,
are sometimes all it takes to make the hurt worthwhile.

So my fakey wakey shake and bakes, how about putting yourself out there to get stepped on now and then? It's definitely not your whole "No one walks all over me, by Jove," thing so much as your cowardice to start looking. "What if they turn me down?" you ask? "What if they don't like me?" you ask? "What if things are too complicated to work?" you ask, you ask, ask ask ask ask ask.
I say those questions are cowardice as well. They're procrastination, they're fear.
Because what if they don't turn you down? If they do, then you have closure and you're not hung up on it.
What if they do like you? If they don't, oh well, you're an adult now - act like one.
What if things work out well? To assume there's no such thing as complication in a healthy adult relationship is naive and silly. Complication comes in colours from "best friends ex" to "difference in religion". Complication is  easily described as a pillar of failure, or a hurdle on the track. Knock it down, jump over it - it doesn't matter as long as you overcome it. Because when you do, you'll feel much better.
You have no reason not to act like an adult and chase your human desires, so just fucking do it already and stop filling everyone around you with lies - it's annoying them.

Random bizarre rant - end.

soul.

Dear not-diary-but-public-accounting-of-my-life-that-anyone-can-read-bur-probably-doesn't-but-that's-okay-because-I'm-mostly-writing-to-you-to-let-off-steam-or-exorcise-irritating-emotions,

I'm not having any epiphanies of late,
not that I've ever had any at all, certainly not in a manner that would suggest it's odd that I haven't had one recently.. But still, I haven't had any period, and while it's not odd, it's a little annoying. Why? Obviously the reason is because I want to have one, isn't that how it usually works?
I mean, clearly there's some kind of great emotional disconnect and discontent within me at this moment if I'm reaching out for something that I don't usually, if ever, have - that being an epiphany - and I'm more than casually aware of what the problem is. Oh yes, indeed I am, I know every reason why I'm feeling every single feeling that's coursing through my body.

On a separate note, I like to refer to my soul and other peoples souls often in my expressive and documentary writing. I'd like to make it clear, I don't really know what to think of souls or their soulfulness, just that it's an idea I'm constantly reaching back for. I don't believe it's some kind of freudian subtlety in conjuncture with my self-proclaimed atheism (or aforementioned circumstantial disbelief), so much as it's a comfort word that I pull into my word-spillings to define something that has no definition.
I suppose in my hip, and now disreligion, a soul would be a mixture of ones conscience, subconscious understanding, morals, and overall convention of feelings. A soul is the best available word in a metaphorical symphony of boredom and patched-together letters that don't stimulate the proposed (let's underline proposed) reader.

Now, back to the silly things I was talking about before with a little bit of tie-in from the in between.
My soul is feeling uneasy, like my stomach feels queasy, my breath is wheezy, and my mind is breezy. My soul is expressing my hearts, well, heartache. It's giving me a depthy feeling in the pit of my stomach, a feeling that is often times toeing a fine line between sexual stimulation, unceasing depression, feverish guilt, giddy excitement, and overpowering joy to an extent where they're sometimes indistinguishable. And I'm sure it's the bit about unceasing depression.
I'm stuck in a pit of pathetic sadness, like a Jedi who has lost touch with the force, or a first-time convenient store clerk that just got robbed on his first night. It's not unbearable, not the worst pain I've ever felt, not by far - and I realize how young I am. I realize these feelings will all pass, regardless of any clinical aspects.
But it is sadness, and I think the worst part of it all is how undeniably confusing it is, because by definition, I'm just not even certain how to begin describing why I'm sad, or depressed. Reaching back into this post, it has to do with my subconscious understanding, I subconsciously understand why I'm upset - but I can't consciously grasp that idea and work it out.
Honestly, I was going to put a Star Wars reference here - but decided against it because it really didn't flow well, and it felt a little redundant what with my previous Star Wars analogy about a Jedi losing touch with the force. Anywho..

I have these feelings. Feelings that won't go away, and are more than likely unrequited.
I've always liked the term whirlwind romance, defining an event in ones life that is quick, and fleeting. But I think most people forget that there's also an aspect of destruction in this term, as it's quick, and fleeting sure - but it leaves you wondering and confused, picking up bits of yourself that you'd left open to the experience.
And I think these romances are so startling and profound, because they end in odd ways - often without closure (not that you'd want any in this case, it'd probably make things more difficult), and with an abundance of confusion, discontent, and great many what-if's.
However, I think as great as my whirlwind romance was, life could have pulled a few punches this time. Demitri Martin sang in one of his songs about how fishing should be called what it really is - trickin' and killin', and as inelegant as quoting a comedian is, this term feels sufficient.
I was in a state where I wanted to remain as an emotional Fort Knox, because I'm so used to disappointment and a great many adjectives that feel very.. inadequate in describing how I let people treat me in relationships.

Anyway, there's some thoughts and some emotional exorcising for my soul.
Tomorrow we'll tackle people who lie to themselves constantly, and certain corners of humanities foolishness. Or I'll be so completely excited about the new episode of The Guild that I'll forget I even have a blog for another few weeks.

Adios.

A house called Blake.

I can't wiggle my toes,
nor can I feel my elbows.
I feel numb, unsure about what I do or don't think.
Not sure about what I do, don't, should, shouldn't want, think, understand, hope for, believe.
I'm broken, bits and pieces of me lay around me, as I'm a shattered mirror and my soul empties itself out onto the cold marble floor. Why? Why not? Why so, how, who, when, where, what, wendigo?
I don't know what to do, I'm frozen in not-time, not-place, not-anything-at-all. I'm frozen in place, terrified to wiggle waggle a toesy woesy, woefully benign upon the line that ends at no sign, frozen in place while I let my heart race and my feet pace, frozen in place, place, place.
Unsure. I implore a state of decadence upon this very matching of souls, for me to wish, for you to kiss, for a hiss of bliss, a conundrum that blasphemes this silly dream of lost and humdrum. I don't know what you want, I don't know what I have, I don't know, know, know until it's all I can do but sew a quilt full of woe. I can dream, a pleasant little dream of budding blossoms blooming, busy bees buzzing, beautiful birds basking in the glory that is nature and all of it's domain.
I can't wiggle my toes,
nor can I feel my elbows.
I feel numb, and dumb. I imagine this is what it doesn't feel like to smile, but rather to file, file, file away a lifetime of smiling memories, to file, to file and to lock, to lock and let dust settle upon the metal of the file cabinet while I sweat, I sweat a billion drops of would-be dreams for you to chuckle at, to chuckle while I buckle, knees kissing the ground.
I feel numb.
Like I can't breathe, no matter how much my lungs heave, no matter how much my soul grieves, my heart believes my lungs can't breathe, and so it's like I can't breathe, like I can't breathe, breathe, breathe, or weave a basket of tragic dividend so unclear it tricks and stutters until the project hits a dead end.
If my soul could scritch scratch on the back of a government building, it'd say it exists, and then request validation by form number number number. To get this and engrave it into lumber, and wake great massive number man from his humble slumber - he clicks, he clacks, he wiggity wacks the clicker clackers until it's found that I legally have no validity to life. I capsize, I capsize and twist myself into discombobulated rapture, and it's my own self I seek to capture, my validity, my validity. I don't know what it is I can't, what I won't, what I shouldn't and couldn't.
But I want to try. How many roads must a man walk down until he realizes that cliche can be risqué, yet he lets himself trip and stumble along a mass confusion of what-if's, what-if's.

I cling, I cling to off-chance, and indecisive gratification of radical determination. But what's the point, what's the point of chasing after something that probably isn't there? I won't know until I've tripped, and fallen, been dragged through mud and blood, to find where I stand a time from now that isn't now.
A separation of realization and globalization.
My heart and mind, my faith so different,
my heart and mind made available.
Though broken, and often unwaking.
I used to live in a house on Blake street, it was nice.

I like that we're not the same.

I don't want to be a misread label,
or succumb to your pretentious endeavor to understand humanity.
It's not that I misunderstand you, because I do understand,
not only do I understand, I accept and embrace.
It's not as if I'm going to object your sense of self,
what makes you so truly and utterly.. you.

I don't see you as unable to grasp reality,
or speaking to imaginary friends.
In fact, the simple act of thinking I see you that way..
Isn't that intolerance in and of itself?
To make a wildly generalistic assumption about my personality,
without so much as consulting me about it for a second?
Way to read into things that aren't there, right?

What I believe or don't,
if I don't bother myself with it then why do you?
Not that I mind you expressing your feelings,
I do encourage that.
Since it's not like I'm saying "He doesn't exist"
I suppose I still tend to fall under an agnostic
pretense, and maybe that's more attractive?
I think science is fantastic and all that, but it's
impossible to disprove anything when the universe is
so vast a place that things could exist beyond the
comprehension of said science.
Adopting the title of atheist?
It's not a title or anything, it's not an evil cloud
burying itself within my eternally sinister soul.
It's not like I'm saying it's impossible,
it's just that because my life is my life,
I've come to not believe.
You can call it circumstantial disbelief if you want,
that's a-ok. Others call it atheism, that's fine too.

But in the end, it's just that I don't believe.
Between reasons for it, and whatever else, I just don't.
Maybe someday my life will change and I will find faith again,
who knows what's in store for them?

But don't label me.
Don't label anything.
Don't say all atheists are pricks because one time there was one
shouting about how your savior didn't exist and Mary wasn't a virgin.
That guy was a prick, yes.
But don't label us when there are christians picketing soldiers burials.
Don't label us when there are muslims blowing up buildings.
Don't label us when there are catholics molesting children.
Don't label for a group, but label for a man.

If here I stand, and tell you that your whole life, your faith, your everything
were completely false and truly disgusting. Then label me as a prick, and intolerant.

But here I do stand. Accepting you, as I want to be accepted in return.
We don't believe the same things, I can't help what I don't believe.
Sometimes I'd like to believe, but I cannot seem to make that step.
Sometimes I envy you for believing when sometimes I'd like to think I try.
But I don't believe. Whether you like that or not, that's how it is.
No one is similar, and religion should never be a disconnect between people.

You and I should be connected by our differences.
We should learn from one another, and rejoice.
But we won't, because you think things about me,
things that aren't true. Just as people labeled
similarly to myself treat you.
But don't label groups as you do individuals.

I'm sorry we're not the same colour.
I'm sorry we don't have the same eyes,
the same nose,
the same teeth,
the same hair,
the same fingers,
the same toes,
the same DNA,
I'm sorry I don't think the way you do.
But I like you for all those differences.
I like learning about you,
I like your eyes that aren't mine,
your nose that isn't mine,
your teeth that aren't mine,
your hair that isn't mine,
your fingers that aren't mine,
your toes that aren't mine,
your DNA that isn't mine,
I like every single one of the thoughts
and opinions that we don't share.
I like that you give me perspective as a human being,
and make me consider things that I otherwise would not.

I like that we're different,
and I wouldn't have it any other way.