The representative from Jingle Town has the floor...

To paraphrase the great Jane Lynch, I’m nothing if not falsely arrogant. My mind is a wonderful place, and I tend to brag about that little aspect of my personality a bit too much- or some would say. Actually, those people are lying; I never brag, I just state the obvious. Is it my fault that I have been simultaneously cursed and blessed with a superior mind? No, so let’s continue.

But behind that air of confidence; that public façade, the veil-if you will, lies as always, an insecure little girl. Well, not little, but that’s a story for another day. Scratch that, I’ll never tell you that story. As a matter of fact, as we speak, I’m locking it away in a chest and hiding it in a scary attic. Anyway, that’s not really news to anyone. We all have our little fears and inhibitions, don’t we? We are a generation of broken people because we were allowed to speak. Because however insignificant, we had a voice. In retrospect, it seems as though that in an effort to silence said voice, it was answered with wishes of hope and promises of happiness and dreams being lived in the face of social adversity with belief as our only weapon and having faith in one’s self as a cigarette in your pocket.

But you see, my beliefs have made a pessimist out of me. Did I set the bar too high? Did I not get the memo? Because, apparently, me and a handful of people are living the lies of a promise, given to us by the people we thought wanted the world for us. But as it goes, the English dictionary needs an update on certain definitions, because by today’s standard, a promise is nothing but a blatant lie.

Moral of the story: I can fake anything I want to, from ambition to potential, because at the end of the day, nobody will ever get a chance to see it all play out. So by all means, smother me in promises and I'll shower you with, what's that you call it? Oh yeah- teenage angst.

Immortal.

What is this fire you've started?
It burns in my soul with a fury
To live with purpose
To go beyond what the living do
an eternal expansion
unrest.
As you faded
It grew
and now that you're gone
it burns hotter than ever.

I think it is you.

My breath
in and out in and out
adds fuel to the fire
and creates an unquenchable
thirst.

You live.

Sentimental Heart.

“O-o-old habits die hard
When you got, when you got a sentimental heart” –She & Him

So I’ve always been the self-proclaimed “girl who felt too much”. I let emotions rule me while logic sat by shaking it’s head in disapproval. I loved to wallow in them and feel the chemicals at work. This all began to change, however, after a major break-up. Slowly but surely, I learned to pick myself up. Stop whining. Fix the things I could. Take responsibility for the events in my life. I was reformed. Responsible. If I found that I was upset about something, I looked at myself to see if there was something that I may have contributed- something that I was doing that could have changed the situation and with that came the freedom to help control and affect my situation.

But with that realization came an unexpected irritability at the people around me who didn’t do the same- at those who still chose to wallow in those feelings without any action on their part to change them. I could no longer listen to people venting to me in frustration without offering advice on how they might reverse their situation. What I found was that most of those people did not really want to change the issue. And who was I to try and tell them to change it anyways? It’s their lives, afterall.

This change was reflected in every aspect of my life.

My belief that I should “give to those who ask of me” changed to “do not cast your pearls before swine” or “if anyone is not willing to work, let them not eat”.

In the last few months, this change has not sat well with me. I didn’t want to be so jaded- so uncompassionate. I resolved to exfoliate the soul every so often to keep from getting jaded by choosing to trust more. To be patient with people who don’t necessarily share the same world view as me (and why should they?) All this has been pretty well balanced I think until today.

It was a simple thing. I was at the gas station and an older man- in his mid to late thirties- asked if I had a couple bucks for him to get gas because he was running on fumes and had forgotten his wallet. Reformed Natalie was saying to let him fend for himself. After all, I had no cash on me anyways, just my card. But having felt so jaded lately, old Natalie was recalling the times that I’ve been in that situation, stressed, and having to call my Dad or AAA to bring me gas and I decided to try and help him out. After all, he was driving a nice car and didn’t seem like this was an everyday occurrence. He said he just needed a couple gallons and I said I’d help him out… you already see where this is going right? Well, I put my card in for him to put in a couple gallons and returned to my car to wait for Steve to come back. Next thing I know, the guy has filled his entire (empty) tank on my card when I really didn’t have the money to spare in the first place. I feel like an idiot. I let my emotions take over and predictably got taken advantage of. So my question is this: how do I balance my emotions with not being stupid? Steve later asked me why I couldn’t have prepaid? Why I didn’t say something when he was taking too long? Why I didn’t just say no?

I can’t seem to square my ideals with reality. I always expect people to do the right thing and it seems like I’m always surprised when they don’t.

I need to say the serenity prayer about a million times.

Strumming my Pain with his Fingers.

What came first, the music or the misery? People worry about kids playing with guns or watching violent videos afraid that some sort of culture of violence will take them over. Nobody worries about kids listening to thousands, literally thousands, of songs about heartbreak, rejection, pain, misery, and loss. Did I listen to pop music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to pop music?

-High Fidelity

Every breath I take feels like the gasp of an oncoming sob. Every time I swallow my desperate exhalations, the dam in my chest begs to break. The cement is cracking, the bricks are coming loose, the water's seeping. It's not even water anymore, just pockets of steam burning empty molecules in the air.

Procrastination.

I think I write better and am more interesting (literarily) when I'm depressed.

What I really mean is that my writing is more appealing when it's based in reverie. Anecdotal compositions just aren't my thing.

"you didn't love her. you just didn't want to be alone.
Or maybe, maybe she was just good
for your ego. or, or maybe she made you
feel better about your miserable life,
but you didn't love her.
because you don't destroy people you love."
-Grey's Anatomy

The teenage years, let's hope.

The closer I get to the possibility, the further away the reality seems. I try to run, but people are holding me back. I try to break free, but the bruises on my arm tell the story of how that goes. No matter what I do, I'll always know that I'm wasting my life, my youth. I could have done, seen, and learned more. I could have been frowning less, and smiling more. I could have loved instead of hated. Happy could have been my default emotion as opposed to a rare occurrence. I know that I'll always look back and pity myself. Though, I do hope I know better when I leave adolescence and youth behind and brace a day where all this angst and hate goes away. I really do wish that, twenty years from now, I look back at this ol' blog of mine and see the words of an immature brat and not the truth.

Current State.

HAPPY NEW YEAR Blogsville!

I completely lost track of my blog, no surpise there.
Optimism is on vacation, and I'm fretfully awaiting his return. He promised he would write. He does. But not enough. Cynicism took it upon himself to operate in his stead barking out orders he never would have gotten away with previously. He's got everyone on a Melancholy Diet. Though they slip out of his vigilant eye occasionally, he makes sure they report to the ICU and are administered The Drug intravenously. His buddy Pessimism has returned from back east choking everyone with the foreign stench of his cigarettes. The halls are consequently dark and grey requiring gas masks to get through.
Hope sleeps twentythree hours a day. Ambition is bored and unmotivated scratching his new belly while he flips through unstimulating TV channels. Attempting to get an ounce of the tonne of work piled up on it's table.

I hate The Killers

for filling me to the brim with hope

while that light has long ago flickered into oblivion

Fate.

I believe in the little impossibilities. That you and I are listening to the same song. That we’re looking at the same moon. That I just missed you at the convenience store. I believe that one day the stars will align to defy the odds. I believe that I’ll be waiting in line to order a smoothie and hear that oh so familiar, yet so distant laugh. I believe that I’ll stop breathing, that the world will stop breathing, and a smile will paint itself across my face. I believe that at that moment, and only that moment, will I be overcome with disbelief.

The stars, they all aligned.

At home or in school, the Aries child lives in a world of make-believe and reality, constantly blending, where truth is often portrayed as fantasy, and fantasy is disguised as truth. He may give the impression of exaggerating or even telling lies. But he just can’t help splashing a little color around when he’s relating an incident, and he often convinces himself it really happened that way.

Okay, so I don't really believe I horoscopes, I think they're all codswallop if you ask me. But this is scarily accurate. Mind you, I still don't believe in them, it's just...whoa.

Sick.

When all else fails, pretend to be selfish. Be social. When you want everything they want and talk to them about their interests, that’s when you seem normal. That’s when you fit in. Why are you unhappy when they’re not, they wonder. Perspective? There’s only one. Life is what you make it for them. You are what you look like; that costume in your closet, what you avoid. Not your mind; not who you are.

You’re hounded with voices telling you about this thing you have called liberty, but it’s all just another lie about you. But isn’t lying apart of the job description? What’s an actor but not himself at all times? A lie among art.

I've had all the big breaks I need and more than a few outstanding performances in my repertoire, I'm ready for retirement.

Pain(t)ed

My flight touched down paradise last week;
feels good to be home.
"You look different," my aunt shares when she first sees me.
"Different? How?" I inquire.
"Your eyes.. it's like they're wilting."

It's raining.

It’s 22.54. I might be the only one, but I adore this weather. I could live it in it everyday. This sense of macabre just lulls in the air, weighing down all the clouds. And it threatens. For hours, minutes, it threatens to pour. Then it does; that first drop of rain, that unearthing of dust, the darkening of the pavement. It’s all beautiful. It’s so serene, like the world is connecting with you. And in the silence of everything, the raindrops cull your racing mind, your racing thoughts, your racing heart.

How high can a broken man cry.

I'm tired of making the best of what I have. I hate that I have a privileged life that people can use against me. I'm tired of feeling guilty about how and what I feel and having to justify it every goddamn second . I am physically sick in every literal sense of the word in seeing broken pieces of good people lying around the floor; constantly subjected to the feet of the ignorant, and for what? To further prove their superiority? Hey! We broke you. Now, we're gonna smother what's left of you into dust. We're gonna reduce your existence into nothing but specks of nothing to permeate the air for young dreamers. As if to say, this is what will become of you. This is a warning. But being the optimists that they are, that we were, they smell potential. They don't cough, they inhale. All that whiff of ambition was nothing but hope masked as a threat. The tragedy of reality disguised as a sweet scent of possibility. We were just cursed with seeing the good in things.

Is it wrong that I want something different? Not better, just different. From where I am sitting, it feels like a crime. They tell me I'm not thankful. They say that I'm selfish. The world doesn't revolve around you. Well let me tell you something, MY WORLD DOES. I'm allowed to want things that you don't approve of. I am entitled to my emotions as much as you are to your beliefs, to your logic, to whatever the fuck is in that sorry excuse of a skull.

One day all that dust is gonna gather and suffocate all that's left of the world; all who let their feet follow an empty voice, not bothering to look down at the broken pieces of hope they were stepping on.

Sleepless nights make for fruitful discoveries.

Melancholia:

A heavy heart and a foggy mind, blurry eyes and weighed down lungs. In the shower, tears hit the ground with the same force as the dripping water, and your fake love. You stare as the drops hit your palm, expecting some sort of epiphany to reveal itself in the creases of your skin. Finding none, you avert your gaze towards the tiles waiting for some revelation to shout at you. But epiphanies don't come as they do in the stories. They don't appear just as you near rock bottom. They wait until the world beats you to a scintilla of your original self. They wait until you're all but gone. They wait, if they ever come at all, they wait forever.

------
this is nowhere near as good and coherent as it was in my head.

Nathaniel.

"You could love me if I knew how to lie," he writes in a note, words hastily scrawled on a piece of ripped out newspaper. His bags packed with his empty closets and his scent lingering a fading farewell. I collapse into the chair, his note shaking in my hands. I see him buying a ticket and boarding a train to the middle of nowhere, where I can't find him. Deserts and sparse shade trees. Mountains in barren wastelands. Despondent countenances and weary eyes.

The note still shaking in my hands, I don't cry. I simply find myself wishing for ignorance.

for a moment,

i was released from this corporeal vessel, and i was watching myself from afar. for but a moment, i questioned my reality, i questioned my existence. too fleeting for my mind to have processed it. i saw my hands and my screen, and i saw the letters on the keyboard, i saw white and orange and yellow, but none of it made sense to me. then i was back to reality, back inside my body, and that out of body experience -as we call it- was over. its remnants are still hanging over the clouds of my mind. like those foreign thoughts have evaporated and are now suspended in a mist at the roof of my cranium, waiting for a crack, so they can seep in again and carry me away with them. To you. If only you knew..
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