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..
x

Diminished Emotions.

"The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear."
-Stephen King

Sustained Word Vomit.

Good morning bloggers and readers alike
It's 5.19 AM, and having had a slight case of insomnia, I found myself miraculously on facebook.
You know what I hate? People who post up pictures of themselves on facebook and caption it 'ME :D'. Nooo. Really, genius? Who else would it be. It's only natural that any photo you post up as YOUR display picture on YOUR facebook page would be of you. The only time you would need to specify who the person in said photograph is would be when they're not you, a drink, food, friends, nails, feet, or some other part of your body where I would need clarification to the identity of the person. Even then, tags are sufficient. Captions are reserved for descriptions of the place, time, and happenings of the picture, or other related nonsense.

And why the smiley face? Are you so happy to be posting up a half naked picture of yourself up on facebook that you feel the need to tell me that it's you, in capital letters, and append a smiley face?

I'm not really against posting up half-naked pictures of yourself on facebook (insert sardonic, hearty laugh here), but I think it's much more appropriate if it's caught in the moment. Not when you're posing in front of the mirror, hands through your hair, breasts squished together, blowing a kiss at the camera. To me, that just reads needy, attention-seeking, and pathetic.

I don't know, maybe I'm being too critical, but the sight of things like this makes me cringe. I had to physically stop my fingers from typing, "Take that down. You look like a slut."

New Leaf. Old Leaf.

I decided that I'm not going to relive the past few days in my running memory. I won't absorb it. I won't believe it. I won't think past this summer, and when this summer is over, I won't think past the fall semester, and so on. I have a plan, a large plan. It resides in my head. The only people who know of it are the people who approve of it, the ones who would encourage me. Anyone who has the ability to actually stop me cold in my tracks and shed light on all the obstacles before me has no idea of it. They don't know how ambitious I really am. They don't know how big I want to get. They don't know how far I'm willing to go. Expecting to go. If I let their poisonous words infect my brain, I'll just collapse.

The only thing I have is my mind. It's my only refuge and my only escape. When I'm longing for something I can't get instantaneously, I get it for myself in the recesses of my imagination. When I want to spend a day on the beach, a book in my hand, a cold drink on the table, his warmth, I'll close my eyes and make it happen. When I wake up and yearn to look into…his eyes, I simply close my own. If I want to step out into the frigid rain of the city streets, by God, I'll do it. I won't shut out my thoughts because my thoughts are the sole reason I keep going. The possibility of everything in my head becoming a reality is my only reason for pressing on.

So, yes, I will shut out my brain, but only that one tiny part, that dark infectious hole that seeks to poison everything around it. Green with envy and marred with disgust, it takes pleasure in watching hope collapse.

And I refuse to let it prevail.

I can't.

Olfactory Disgust.

You know how some people have certain smells? My brain memorizes them, like you wouldn't believe. Every single smell reminds me of something: an event, a season, an action, an ~era, a person, something, anything. Usually, it's smells of people, but what my brain has taken a liking to, and I can't get it to stop doing, is memorizing the smell of people's breaths. The other day, I used our house phone for the first time in ages, and the speaker smelled like my grandfather's breath. Today, my aunt returned a shirt she borrowed, it smelled exactly like her... and her breath.


I know; that's the most disgusting thing in the world. Exacerbating this is myabhorrence for the smell of anyone's breath: minty fresh or fish gross, Idon't want to smell it. I just don't, so get your mouth away from my nose when you open it. And you know those people whose breath just permeates the air when they speak? It's not a particularly horrid smell, it's just so thick, and it's everywhere. I try to breath through my mouth, but then I just feel like I'm tasting it. I alternate with my nose, and that doesn't make it any better. It brings me to the brink of gagging.

I Dreamed a Dream - Glee.

But the tigers come at night
With their voices soft as thunder
As they tear your hope apart
As they turn your dream to shame
...
I had a dream my life would be
So different from this hell I’m living
So different now from what it seemed
Now life has killed the dream I dreamed

Nowhere Else to Go.

I have so many thoughts jumping around in my head, but I can't write them down. None of them are particularly insightful or eloquent, they're simply things I would like jotted down. I feel like I don't have the time, although I've been at my laptop for the past two hours and will be for another hour, but there's just so much on my mind, it's all a-clutter.

In short, I love Rome. I honestly didn't think I'd love that city as much as I did. It's breathtaking, the people, the atmosphere, the food, the places. It's like a not-so-homey city – the people I encounter on a daily basis, come and go, I live in the vicinity they call a “vacation”, it's definitely not urban, but then everyone's so lovely and everything is so close. Everything about it. The mystery, the darkness, the grandeur of Colosseo, the enchanting little cafe’s, the cobblestone streets, its almost as if your in the presence of something truly…historical? Magical. And my words are failing me. But the life I lived there for less than two years is the life I want to live for the rest of my life. Ive been to 23 countries (and counting) in my 19 years on Planet Earth, its astounding the diverse cultures, history, traditions, customs and languages you come across. The people you meet. The minute, yet vast impact they make on your life. To be honest, I complain a lot but I would not change my life for anything. I just happen to be another fortunate ungrateful being but, hey. We’re all allowed our monthly rant quota. :)

I didn’t fall in love with Sydney when I saw it the way I did with Rome, I just might be rethinking my life plan.

Nauseous Regrets.

I stepped into the room inhaling the remnants of your fading perfume. I looked for you in the empty corners. I painted your ghost on the cushions. I stood and listened to your silent whispers. I attempted to siphon your words from the memory of the wood, the space in a thought. I drew your gestures in the nonexistent breeze. Swift flutters of dust outline your memory. Half empty teacups and unsettled pillows scream of your presence. I held your breath close to my ear. The rising and falling cadences of your voice played notes across my skin. Your empty smile, your hollow eyes, I closed my eyes and saw you there, clear as my fingers before me. I waited. Fearing that you would appear, hoping that these memories would be all that I had -I waited.

Amidst the Greenery.

It physically pains me to see the world rushing past me while I stand there frozen. And it's not a fear, knees buckling induced type of inaction, it's just that I can't. I'm glued. I'm stuck. I've stared into the eyes of truth and it's turned me to stone. My fingers are haunted with the memory of movement, the sensation of blood flowing through their veins. My arms recall the excitement of goosebumps. My hardened heart tries to remember what it felt like to beat, what it felt like to quicken with anticipation, with fear. My eyes recall tears, my mouth craves moisture, my tongue longs for a taste of salt. The kisses of wind are wasted on my numb body, the whispers of trees fall on blind ears. Laughter fractures my stone, painting jealousy in its everlasting cracks. I try to smile, but the corners of my lips split and break until I'm left with nothing more than a wretched scowl. And there it is, my stone edifice, my testament to my wasted loyalty. There stands my failure. There stands my lost hopes and dreams. There stands everything I would have fallen for.

Rayne I

Wrapped in her towel, she lays on her back on the floor. Shoulders back and head high, she places her hands on her stomach and closes her eyes. She takes a deep breath as she allows the thoughts to shroud her, evaporating all worry with the glistening drops of water. She hears a knock at the door, "Come in," she calls through closed eyes.Lucas walks in, "Oh, sorry," he hastily apologizes turning around to exit the room.
"No, no," she tilts her head to look up at his frame behind her, "come join me," she grins invitingly. He reluctantly closes the door and lays down beside her, adjusting his body to mirror hers. Closing his eyes, he asks, "What are we looking at?"
"The stars," she replies wistfully, her eyes still closed.
"What about them?" he asks again as he begins to picture them.
"Everything," she sighs.

Verbal Constipation

You know when you have so much to say and so much to write, then you go and write it down, and you stop less than a paragraph in? There's still so many unwritten words, but to add anything would just be redundant because you've described everything fully; you're just in that state of mind where you think it's not perfect because you're the author, and only you know how it completely feels, and your chest doesn't feel light enough yet? And then you try to articulate everything into words. You try to make sense of it all, but then it either sounds contrived or superfluous. Or it comes out sounding like some cheesy metaphor and you erase it, and it's short again, and seemingly incomplete. I know it's quality and not quantity, but the quality simply doesn't seem up to par.

This post ends here because of the aforementioned points.

Soliloquy

I often found myself wishing for a reason for heartbreak. Wishing for someone that I loved so much, there was actually a reason for me to have some form of fluctuation in this stagnant heart of mine. But they say be careful what you wish for, and I usually am, but not this time. In the dark of the night, my jaded mind on the pillow, I come to the realization that I am heartbroken. This weary muscle in my chest is chipped and faded, weary and unmotivated. I do have a reason. Just not the reason I wanted.

Soft Surrender.

"I can't do it!" she yells desperately, "I can't! Don't make me do this!" she begs curling into the fetal position on his bed as her tears engulf her, as her body shakes with their intensity. Her body awaiting the touch of his comfort hoping for some remorse, some understanding, some rationality to be begotten from her words. Surprised with her own sincerity and passion, she allows the waves to flow through her, her eyes shielded from the sight around her.

"Get out," he mutters in surrender. But his words fall on deaf ears, they land in disbelief: that someone so close, so dear could look upon her broken frame and utter those words. "Get out of my room," he repeats as she hears the opening of a door. She opens her eyes to see him disappeared into another location. She stalks angry, hurt, and hopeless out of the room as she collapses onto her bed and cries herself into a numb sleep. As she surrenders to that bitter refuge she's tried so desperately to refrain from. As she breaks after bending in resistance for so long.

edited for sarah k.

f men. f them to the hell they came from.

f society for setting all these rules: he opens the door. he proposes. he pays. he's macho. he's your hero. false... he's a douche. that's what he f-ing is. these rules just reduce women to waiting, hopeful idiots. you wait, and primp and wait and primp and wait. you wait for the one. then you wait for the one that opens doors, that gets on his knees, that proposes, that sweeps you off your feet and melts your heart with a smile- you start to think, if i were just skinnier, if my hair lay just so, if my skin glittered like butter, if my eyes shone like the moon, if i ran longer on the treadmill, if i fit a size 2, if i withstand the pain of the heels. if i look at him at the right moment, if i bat my lashes. if i grow my lashes. if i smiled, if i read and laughed and was the most entertaining in the room, he will come. and you wait just like that.

but you'll wait forever. because statistics, good old mathematics is not on your side. the percentage of men who fit the expectations pumped into us by society, is in fact very small. in my mind it is 0.3%.

mr. darcy doesn't exist.

and you know why? because miss austen, poor, old jaded miss austen is another me. she is a dreamer, someone who doesn't find love and then imagines the best kind, and then makes it into a person- this one man who encompasses all good in the world. in my case, it was sirius black. if austen had truly fallen in love, her stories would have taken a different turn, probably to the likes of a heathcliff and catherine story.

lesson: the heroine and the rich, smart, fedora wearing, cigarette smoking, cool-line spouting man never get together in reality.

and so, to all of you. i bid you a bad evening and a head full of nightmares.