Elephant.

Just a little older, that's all.

that's not all I'd do for you.

Lately, my hands, they don't feel like mine. So I bought myself a hard pack of cigarettes, that I know I'll never smoke. I guess I just did it, to mirror my unrecognizable behavior as of late. These kids are fucking nuts, but I seem to love every minute of what they give me. I know I'm rather peculiar, but they seem to dig that, which is completely foreign to me within these city walls. Of course, I have stumbled upon a few like these before, however not often, as I believed them to be few and far between. I just wanted someone who I could be myself with. Someone who could appreciate what I give and don't give. Most people just want you to hand everything over to them. But what people never really get is that those people who just spill themselves all over you, do it because they don't have a lot in them to start with. I guess I just thought high school would be different. But it turns out that I'M the one who's different. And people don't think "different" is too hot these days. Look, I'm not trying to say I'm some kind of misfit, crawling around on all fours stirring up rallies or holding up picket signs about how "different" I am or anything. I'm just saying, that people are a lot more intolerant than they'd like to admit. But I don't feel like making this a painstakingly long entry. I cry when I should and laugh when I can. That's mostly how it goes these days. And so it is, just like they said it would be. Or It could just be the power of red knickers.

Oh, for fuck's sake, don't tell me I'm starkers on top of everything else.

nuero-centro-might-be-fucked-over-compensating-lucid-languid-syndicated-fuck.

I opened my door.
And there he stood.
Lovely, putrid, and pale.

Where are we going Walt Whitman? The door closes in an hour. Where does your beard point tonight?

"Towards the eastern skies, my dear. Take me to your king, so I may tell him what a lovely guide you have been."

But Walt, I need a sign, something to give to my children. No guns, no gays, no immigrants will do. I need poetry or prose, something insurgent and mutinous.

Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a small steel bench. We thought the same thoughts of the soul, bleak and blue and starry eyed, surrounded by swarthy young henchmen.

I says to him, "Jack, these guys, they're not real cool."
He says to him, " Hey man, get off of my shoe."
That guy says to me, " Hey chump, find your own goddamn bench."

Why does everything worth anything have to be imaginary?

Death and all of his friends

I've been thinking about death, immoderately these days. I don't know what it is that intrigues me so, but when I'm lying in bed, I tend to think about life and death and all of the people I've known who have passed on and the impact that they have left on this earth. If nothing else, I know that these men and women have left their marks in my heart and my life. And maybe it's enough just to impact one life while you're alive. To spark a light in the dark for someone who's searching and learning and looking for more, for a feeling of unity or love or something like that. Maybe its that every death signifies a passing on of something inside of you as well. It hurts, it burns, its a flame, so coarse and strange that some never fully recover. And, there are some whose touch on the earth, is alone, the very act of dying.

I knew this man, a very young man with a young wife and a little girl who had just moved to the U.S from India; full of life and excitement and the thrill of opportunity and luster in their sails. My family and theirs became as close as any could be, sharing our lives together, praying together, and celebrating each others life and triumphs. We had only known each other for about 6 months, when unexpectedly and most harrowingly, This young man was diagnosed with an advanced case of colon cancer. The world stopped for them, for all of us. (I've never talked about this to any one of my friends. They'd have never understood death or loss, or maybe wouldn't have even cared. It hurts to say that, but I know its true.) But anyways, they were devastated. As were we. They were a young couple, married only for about 7 years. So in love, so beautiful. Their little girl was 6, and full of life, when suddenly, everything turned to black. They were so scared. You should have seen it. It was enough to make anyone sob and sob and sob until no tears remained. Only after 6 months in America, full of optimism and opportunity, and only have a death sentence to show for it. We as good friends, supported them, and loved them as much as we could. We stood with them until the very end. To see the rapidly deteriorating man, who was once so young and strong for his family, turn to dust. To see his once vibrant and beautiful young wife weep with such pain over his coffin, and his little girl look at her father's lifeless body with tears streaming down her face. For this, we stood. For this, we wept... For them. They had only been a part of our lives for 1 year. But they will stay with me for the rest of my life. Its the kind of hurt that runs too deep for words. To see youth and love stripped away so viciously and cruelly. To see a woman destroyed, and a little girl left fatherless. Its the kind of hurt that doesn't go away. I think about them often. I think about their pain, and how their lives might never be the same. I think about my life, and how it will never be the same. This man, so young and vulnerable; was the mark he left on this world, his life? Or was it his death?

One of these things first.

I guess when it comes to the future, there are three kinds of people: those who let it happen, those who make it happen, and those who wonder what happened. I haven't always been tiresome and over analytical. Sometimes I think to myself, "who the fuck are you?" well I - I'm the most terrific liar you've ever seen in your life. As of the last two years, I've turned into this ticking clock, counting down the seconds to when I think my life should begin. OK, granted I'm not in the most formidable city, flanked with terrific people, but I think I need to do this for myself. I need to stop being so goddamn asinine and reserved. I used to be bold and confident, free spirited and ready to go. But as of late, I feel completely diminished. I'm constantly over thinking things just to be absolutely right. And who the bloody hell wants to be right all the time? By sitting here, talking about affecting the world and loving everyone and everything, I'm not satisfying myself. In fact I feel completely stupid. So, you know what? I'm coming out of this cloistered shell I've built for myself. I'm going to love them until their ears fall of and their toes curl. I'm determined to live and experience everything I've ever written in these entries.

Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism.

I value honesty and beauty.

It takes strength to be gentle and kind.

Oh, the starkness of the streets and the vastness of the universe!

Are you naught but a mirror image of our hearts?

Little glass luminous orbs float into a dark, and incredible expanse.

Are you and I but a small part of some inconsequential breed of lovers and kind-hearted missionaries?

If so, As candles lighted at full moon; do not let the sun dim your flame, so phantastical and bright.

A tender heart, hating the wide black void, may illuminate this squalid and impenetrable darkness.

Be ignited if not for you, then for me.

But I want you to stay, sometimes.

I had it coming, I've always been a sentimentalist with too much to gain. I'm a complete idiot when it comes to those with heavy hearts and a smile to discover. But why can't I speak with an air of estranges and detachment? It seems, people enjoy that more than when one speaks with a cadence of kindness and an eagerness to please and comfort. They don't want a friend. They want someone who will sneak up when their not looking, and write "Fuck You" right under their noses. I cannot fake interment once I've fallen in love. And I fall in love with everyone I meet. Is that so hard to recieve? Why do they make me feel like a first class idiot for trying to love them?

Wax Worth.

Love me, because love doesn’t exist,
and I have tried everything that does.

I have cultivated my hysteria with pleasure and terror.

Joy and sorrow are inseparable.

(tobereadinonebreath)

I feel like screaming,
with grief and trembling,
happiness riddled with sadness,
but wait for me in my hour of preoccupation,
for Life Is Just A Four Lettered Word.

Love one another; but make not a bond of love

I'll look for excuses, a warning sign.
Don't make me sigh, or tell you my dreams.
I'll break your heart, to save it.
We know not what love is,
and your guess is as good as mine.

It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us the most.

My task is not to seek love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within myself that have shielded me from it. We are all of us born with walls and blinders, this, a punishment of Man. Our journey in life can be influenced and defined by whether or not we have eradicated these barriers and indeed loved another so fiercely, that in the very end, all question of Man's Deity is vanished.

Everyone else is either asleep or having sex. I've been watching cable television and eating jello.

I am longing to understand how everyone loves each other, but no one really likes each other. Being a wallflower is very strange, in that, you see what most people don't and you learn to keep quiet about them. That's why everyone likes you and smiles at you because they know that it is you they seek to impress. So, this is my life. And I want you to know that I am both happy and sad and I'm still trying to figure out how that could be. I don't know if you've ever felt like that. That you wanted to sleep for a thousand years. Or just not exist. Or just not be aware that you do exist. Or something like that. I think wanting that is very morbid, but maybe it's good to put things in perspective. But sometimes, I think that the only perspective is to really be there. Well fuck, not everyone has a sob story and even if they do it's no excuse. Things change, and friends leave and don't give a damn anymore, and life doesn't stop for anyone. I really don't know, I guess we are who we are for a lot of reasons. And maybe we'll never know most of them. But even if we don't have the power to choose where we come from, we can still choose where we go from there. Sorry, I've been ranting a lot over the past few days.
Just bare with me, alright? I'll get through it.

Say the unsayable, make the invisible visible.

We are islands to discover, and I've got to tell you what a state I'm in. Well, amidst happiness and charming squalor, there lurkes a feeling. A feeling of heartbreak and sadness. It is for myself and what I used to be. I am moving through a chapter of my life as if there were some great dormant monster waiting to devour me. I suspect that this monster, would represent life, love, and responsibility. You see, although most would disagree, I am still a small child in this world of ridiculous games and tricks. They can't understand that I do not understand. I am mesmerized, but I shall never take part. Its all too strange and cumbersome. I am not yet so corrupt, as to feel fufilled.

I could feel it go down.

I miss the indescribable charm of weakness. Being strong is something held on a pedestal only for the weak, and the weak are the most deserving of strength, and yet, it is not given to them. I'm tired, I shouldn't care, but I do. So I'll cry for myself and for you. I'll cry for the pain that we share, and the suffering that we bare on our shoulders. I'm missing something. I taste it in my mouth, and I hear it all the time. It's you, its me, its what I used to be.

Too Much Too Soon

If I was some kind of neurotic,
I'd understand my plight.
But I am a woman,
in a time of sodomy and sin.
Revolutionaries blow too far past my head,
and most never stop to say hello.
I've been stumbling for blocks,
and not one has paused to tell me their name.
I am a friend to the trees and clouds,
of soups and sounds.
I love, but cannot be loved.
I am loved, but cannot love.

Sideways

This feeling is tormenting flames and ambiguous phrases.
It is disheartening and empty, a vacant and thrilling chasm marked only by desolation and failure. All that I hate, I am. All that I want is unattainable. I am alone in togetherness. Does no one care for the disabused and melancholic youths? To the shy and the quiet, for whom do you keep silent?

I am a man and a woman, a child and a beast. I am the wealthy, the poor, the sexfiend, and the monarch. I am the druggie, and the violent. I am the punk, the gangster, the teacher; the fucking salt of the earth. I am the daughter and heir of nothing in particular. I love and I self indulge to the point of reckless abandon. No, fuck that, I am a ruling planet in a solar system of Bullshit.