~Tall and tan and young and lovely...~
So here I am again after all this time.
Ha, 18 and I feel like I've woken up finally for the first time only to realize that I've royally fucked myself for the last three years. High school. What the hell was I thinking? Now I'm here, awake, alone, and I strangely feel somewhat empowered. I think I'm going to do it. Just stop caring and get on with life. I'm done school, I'm done with many people around me, and I'm ready to do whatever the fuck I want, when I want.
I think I was in denial for a really long time. I turned 18 and nothing changed so I thought. But it did. I grew out of so much. Especially my boyfriend, unfortunately. Though we're the same age, I just found him to be too young for me. He hasn't figured out anything in his life yet, and he's so scattered and confused. I'm not saying that I'm not, but I feel like I have a very calm head on my shoulders, and I know what I want.
I guess that's actually the main difference. I KNOW what I want. He has no fucking clue. It's sad, but we've drifted too far apart. I respect him, I love him and above all I want to be his friend. We've agreed to that and taken out the obligation of a relationship. I think that's the best possible thing we could have done for each other. I'm finally at peace with this. I'm so happy that he agreed to it.
Well, I must learn to love, let go, and it he comes back... Hell who knows, we might have stumbled onto the same path again.
Until then...
~ No she doesn't see~
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Random Thoughts On The Midnight Train
I don't know where to start. I've been gone the last while. Lost in a land of stress.
I'm here now.
I don't know where here is.
I'm having a hard time typing. My hands are shaking.
I miss my boy.
I want to talk.
I'm slowly going crazy.
My mind is a cataclysm.
Go me. I can spell.
Good night subjective perverted world.
Sleep in peace.
Eric Clapton, I love you.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
S.O. S.
Physical Condition: Sore hips, sore head, sick stomach, disoriented, awake, really tired.
Mental Condition: Confused and afraid.
Music: I Want To Tell You - The Beatles.
Food: No Thanks.
Drink: Coffee.
Current Thoughts: Oh god. What now?
These last few days have passed like something out of an amazing dream that is (in reality) a nightmare.
I don't know how to explain it. I guess it would be summarized by TOO MUCH SUBSTANCE. So I guess I gotta clean it up. I've done so many reckless things these past few days. I've broken promises to myself, I've shared experiences with people without even thinking about after effects, and I've literally just let go, to see what happens.
What happens is you essentially can not distinguish between your real feelings and your drug addled feelings. You may do something that you normally wouldn't be comfortable doing without so much as even a second thought. You will look back at this experience, and go, "Wow, that was amazing, we didn't even decide to do that, we just did." and not even care. Life just seems to random and different.
As disgusting as I feel, I believe I've learned something these past few days. Sometimes it's better to let go and see what happens. Start again from scratch. Just do everything, and when a bad experience crosses your path, learn from it. When a good one does, learn from it, grow, and possibly repeat it. Never question any of your experiences. They are unique only to you. Live life, and learn from it. Do not fear it. Do no judge before first hand knowledge is applied, and always ask questions when curious.
This is the beginning of Spring Break, and unlike the rest of the teenage populace, I actually do not believe I will be partying the whole time. I've gotten enough of that the past few days. I don't feel the need to get that done anymore as I've done it so much this past week, Hell, actually, this past month. I apologize to myself for all the abuse. It was unnecessary. I don't much care about the condition of my body, but when both my mind and my body are under constant attack, it's time to fix it.
Tomorrow will be a day of hard work and reflection.
I realize now that I don't need you. I want you to be there for me, I want you to trust me, and I want to be friends with you still. I want to know you. You, however, have made it apparent that this cannot be for now. I want you to know that I care about you and I want you to know that if you need me, I'll be there for you. We're done now though. I see that. And you want to portray that. I'm fine with it.
I'm going to let life write itself now. I don't know what that's going to entail, but I'm excited to see.
I guess it means that I have to take precautions to make sure I stay alive long enough to let it write itself.
--Joi
Mental Condition: Confused and afraid.
Music: I Want To Tell You - The Beatles.
Food: No Thanks.
Drink: Coffee.
Current Thoughts: Oh god. What now?
These last few days have passed like something out of an amazing dream that is (in reality) a nightmare.
I don't know how to explain it. I guess it would be summarized by TOO MUCH SUBSTANCE. So I guess I gotta clean it up. I've done so many reckless things these past few days. I've broken promises to myself, I've shared experiences with people without even thinking about after effects, and I've literally just let go, to see what happens.
What happens is you essentially can not distinguish between your real feelings and your drug addled feelings. You may do something that you normally wouldn't be comfortable doing without so much as even a second thought. You will look back at this experience, and go, "Wow, that was amazing, we didn't even decide to do that, we just did." and not even care. Life just seems to random and different.
As disgusting as I feel, I believe I've learned something these past few days. Sometimes it's better to let go and see what happens. Start again from scratch. Just do everything, and when a bad experience crosses your path, learn from it. When a good one does, learn from it, grow, and possibly repeat it. Never question any of your experiences. They are unique only to you. Live life, and learn from it. Do not fear it. Do no judge before first hand knowledge is applied, and always ask questions when curious.
This is the beginning of Spring Break, and unlike the rest of the teenage populace, I actually do not believe I will be partying the whole time. I've gotten enough of that the past few days. I don't feel the need to get that done anymore as I've done it so much this past week, Hell, actually, this past month. I apologize to myself for all the abuse. It was unnecessary. I don't much care about the condition of my body, but when both my mind and my body are under constant attack, it's time to fix it.
Tomorrow will be a day of hard work and reflection.
I realize now that I don't need you. I want you to be there for me, I want you to trust me, and I want to be friends with you still. I want to know you. You, however, have made it apparent that this cannot be for now. I want you to know that I care about you and I want you to know that if you need me, I'll be there for you. We're done now though. I see that. And you want to portray that. I'm fine with it.
I'm going to let life write itself now. I don't know what that's going to entail, but I'm excited to see.
I guess it means that I have to take precautions to make sure I stay alive long enough to let it write itself.
--Joi
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Little Black Room
Time: 9:40 am.
Music: Wait And Bleed - Slipknot.
Mood: Dead.
Physical Condition: Wish I was in a coma.
Current Thoughts: Why is this such a mess?
I am in a cold black room, there is no sound in or out. There is merely no presence of light. Inky blackness, no more, no less. This is a small room, maybe five feet wide and 7 feet tall. The walls are lined with meticulously sharpened daggers, each four inches from another. There is only enough room to stand still. Any movement causes the daggers to stab me, causing blood loss and fatigue.
I am tired.
I'm so tired.
All I am able to do day to day is stand. I am ignorant as to how long I have been here. All I know is that I am here, standing in the black. I know about the daggers for I have bumped into them in moments of weakness. Moments where I feel I can no longer stand, and must rest, no matter what the cost. The temptation of the walls, of a moments rest becomes so overwhelming. All I want is that break. So I finally take it, and I get hurt.
I try so hard.
I'm losing.
I've been fighting for so long. I don't know how long, but its been so very long. I've been fighting the impulses to fall, fighting the fatigue of standing for so long. For exerting myself so much. I've been trying so hard not to injure myself. Not to fall onto those daggers. No sleeping, crouching, leaning.
How long have I been here?
My eyes are heavy. I sometimes wonder if I even have eyes anymore. It doesn't seem to me I do. There is no difference between having them open and closed. They no longer even itch if I leave them open. I wonder if perhaps I am blind. And that this room is no darker than the sunny side of heaven. I am somehow disinclined to believe that, but I have no way of disproving it. All I know is I can no longer see.
Claustrophobia.
It feels like the walls are closing in on me. It's hard to breathe. I'm panicking, and in doing so, I am repeatedly stabbing myself on the daggers surrounding my dark prison. After trying so hard for so long, I've become so tired and so weak that I can no longer hold myself up. I've used up the last of my energy fighting for consciousness. Though I can not see them I am anticipating the sting of the daggers. Any moment now.
I laugh.
As the cold metal bites through my skin I am laughing.
The lights come on. I am laughing.
Blood pours from my multiple wounds, and I am laughing.
This is the first time I've seen the light, felt real, and been warm for who knows how long. I can't remember. Of course I have no way of knowing.
I am dead.
Music: Wait And Bleed - Slipknot.
Mood: Dead.
Physical Condition: Wish I was in a coma.
Current Thoughts: Why is this such a mess?
I am in a cold black room, there is no sound in or out. There is merely no presence of light. Inky blackness, no more, no less. This is a small room, maybe five feet wide and 7 feet tall. The walls are lined with meticulously sharpened daggers, each four inches from another. There is only enough room to stand still. Any movement causes the daggers to stab me, causing blood loss and fatigue.
I am tired.
I'm so tired.
All I am able to do day to day is stand. I am ignorant as to how long I have been here. All I know is that I am here, standing in the black. I know about the daggers for I have bumped into them in moments of weakness. Moments where I feel I can no longer stand, and must rest, no matter what the cost. The temptation of the walls, of a moments rest becomes so overwhelming. All I want is that break. So I finally take it, and I get hurt.
I try so hard.
I'm losing.
I've been fighting for so long. I don't know how long, but its been so very long. I've been fighting the impulses to fall, fighting the fatigue of standing for so long. For exerting myself so much. I've been trying so hard not to injure myself. Not to fall onto those daggers. No sleeping, crouching, leaning.
How long have I been here?
My eyes are heavy. I sometimes wonder if I even have eyes anymore. It doesn't seem to me I do. There is no difference between having them open and closed. They no longer even itch if I leave them open. I wonder if perhaps I am blind. And that this room is no darker than the sunny side of heaven. I am somehow disinclined to believe that, but I have no way of disproving it. All I know is I can no longer see.
Claustrophobia.
It feels like the walls are closing in on me. It's hard to breathe. I'm panicking, and in doing so, I am repeatedly stabbing myself on the daggers surrounding my dark prison. After trying so hard for so long, I've become so tired and so weak that I can no longer hold myself up. I've used up the last of my energy fighting for consciousness. Though I can not see them I am anticipating the sting of the daggers. Any moment now.
I laugh.
As the cold metal bites through my skin I am laughing.
The lights come on. I am laughing.
Blood pours from my multiple wounds, and I am laughing.
This is the first time I've seen the light, felt real, and been warm for who knows how long. I can't remember. Of course I have no way of knowing.
I am dead.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Stirring The Pot
I am sitting in the bath tub, eyeing the hot water. I do not understand why, but for some reason I feel I must stick my face below the water and submerge my ears, like I did as a child. I can't remember why. I just want to. I close my eyes, take a deep breath and submerge my head. The water rushes into my ears, deafening me to world around me. I am blind because I have closed my eyes. I feel nothing but comforting warmth. I drift.
I awake in my bed. This is the third night in a row. It's 3:12am. As usual. It's always the same time, but never three nights in a row. I don't understand. I peel back the covers and sit up in my bed, feet resting inches above the icy floorboards. I am six years old.
There are noises coming from the kitchen, and I can tell the lights are on even through the towel shoved under my door.
I have come to associate a towel placed under a door with covering an unpleasant scent. I'm not sure what it is, but I know that the fumes can't be good for me.
I hear noises coming from my kitchen.
Cautiously I slide out of bed, taking care not to upset the dollhouse by my closet or the tower of blocks by my desk. My mother told me to clean my room, but that was a week ago. I never got to it, and I don't plan on doing it anytime soon. Whenever I clean my room I find that, well, I simply can not find. Everything is missing. I can never tell where exactly I put everything. I can never remember. Sometimes I wonder why my short term memory is so bad. I wonder if it has anything to do with the fumes creeping under my door.
My door is creaky. I know this because it has a bad habit of getting me in trouble when I don't want to be heard. Three weeks ago I figured out that if you apply enough pressure to the hinges, the door opens silent, like a ghost.
I am a ghost. Dressed in a small white night gown, long curly hair rolling down my back, I glide breathlessly through my door and down the hallway. I take refuge from the fumes in the washroom, closing the door completely and blocking it out with a towel. The washroom is safe because it has a lock. I figure that no one can harm me in there because no one can open the lock.
The noises in the kitchen stop. A knock sounds upon the door.
"Jennifer, are you in there?"
"Yes dad!"
"What are you doing up? It's late and you have school in the morning. Get to bed." I can tell that he is angry with me. He doesn't want anyone to see what he's doing, because what he is doing is bad. I may not know much, but I know that if you're awake at three in the morning filling your house with fumes, you're doing something bad and secret that you don't want anyone knowing about. I believe it is secret, because he only does it in the dead of night. I can't be sure though. I hate my curiosity.
"I'm sorry dad, I woke up and needed to use the washroom." I lie.
"Well in that case it's fine," he grumbled, "could you go out there and stir that pot for a moment then while you're up? I need to use the washroom as well, and I can't leave it sitting."
"Yes dad."
Finally my curiosity will have an answer. I will know the image of the source of the fumes. I will know where they come from, and maybe if I'm lucky, what it is."
The stench is foul. I stand on a chair in front of my stove stirring the pot. There is a thin green liquid inside. The source of the smell. It reminds me of rubbing alcohol, but with something different to it. Rubbing alcohol isn't bright green. Once again I am so confused and curious.
My father emerges from the restroom, eyes red and puffy from being exposed to the fumes for too long. "Get to bed." He snarls.
"Dad, what's in the pot?" I ask.
"It's daddy's medicine kid, now beat it." He scolds as he cuffs me in the ear.
I have two daddy's. Night daddy and day daddy. Day daddy lasts from eight in the morning until six in the evening. Day daddy reads to me, plays with me, and makes me laugh. Night daddy likes to hit and yell. I don't like night daddy. Sometimes they trade times. But not often. Tonight I am not so fortunate.
I leave the kitchen in tears, humiliated that he scolded me and hit me even after I helped him with his medicine. All I did was ask one question. I don't understand why being curious is so wrong. I have come to believe that daddy likes his medicine more than he likes me. He spends so much time making it and preparing it. He never scolds it or strikes in. He never gets mad at it or throws it against the wall. He must love it more than he loves me.
I often wonder why I am not good enough to be loved. If mommy and daddy loved me, would they continue to ignore me so? If mommy and daddy loved me wouldn't they hate each other less. I do not sleep much. I lie awake and wonder why my parents don't love me, and why they love their medicine so much. It hurts me to know that I am always second. I am six. I am a child. They should love me. I am life, whereas the medicine reeks of death.
I close my door and leave my lights out. There are things far more frightening than the dark. I don't fear the dark, I embrace it. It makes it harder for night daddy to find me. It makes it easier to hide. I love the dark. I return to bed and cry myself to sleep.
Tomorrow I get to pretend nothing happened and that I'm just a normal grade one student with a normal life. I will call my nights horrible dreams if asked, and I will never tell because I still love them.
I often wonder why.
I raise my head out of the water to take a breath and then submerge it once again. Like I did as a child, only now I remember why I did this.
I can still hear my mother screaming and the crunch of a body against cement.
The hot water masks my tears.
I awake in my bed. This is the third night in a row. It's 3:12am. As usual. It's always the same time, but never three nights in a row. I don't understand. I peel back the covers and sit up in my bed, feet resting inches above the icy floorboards. I am six years old.
There are noises coming from the kitchen, and I can tell the lights are on even through the towel shoved under my door.
I have come to associate a towel placed under a door with covering an unpleasant scent. I'm not sure what it is, but I know that the fumes can't be good for me.
I hear noises coming from my kitchen.
Cautiously I slide out of bed, taking care not to upset the dollhouse by my closet or the tower of blocks by my desk. My mother told me to clean my room, but that was a week ago. I never got to it, and I don't plan on doing it anytime soon. Whenever I clean my room I find that, well, I simply can not find. Everything is missing. I can never tell where exactly I put everything. I can never remember. Sometimes I wonder why my short term memory is so bad. I wonder if it has anything to do with the fumes creeping under my door.
My door is creaky. I know this because it has a bad habit of getting me in trouble when I don't want to be heard. Three weeks ago I figured out that if you apply enough pressure to the hinges, the door opens silent, like a ghost.
I am a ghost. Dressed in a small white night gown, long curly hair rolling down my back, I glide breathlessly through my door and down the hallway. I take refuge from the fumes in the washroom, closing the door completely and blocking it out with a towel. The washroom is safe because it has a lock. I figure that no one can harm me in there because no one can open the lock.
The noises in the kitchen stop. A knock sounds upon the door.
"Jennifer, are you in there?"
"Yes dad!"
"What are you doing up? It's late and you have school in the morning. Get to bed." I can tell that he is angry with me. He doesn't want anyone to see what he's doing, because what he is doing is bad. I may not know much, but I know that if you're awake at three in the morning filling your house with fumes, you're doing something bad and secret that you don't want anyone knowing about. I believe it is secret, because he only does it in the dead of night. I can't be sure though. I hate my curiosity.
"I'm sorry dad, I woke up and needed to use the washroom." I lie.
"Well in that case it's fine," he grumbled, "could you go out there and stir that pot for a moment then while you're up? I need to use the washroom as well, and I can't leave it sitting."
"Yes dad."
Finally my curiosity will have an answer. I will know the image of the source of the fumes. I will know where they come from, and maybe if I'm lucky, what it is."
The stench is foul. I stand on a chair in front of my stove stirring the pot. There is a thin green liquid inside. The source of the smell. It reminds me of rubbing alcohol, but with something different to it. Rubbing alcohol isn't bright green. Once again I am so confused and curious.
My father emerges from the restroom, eyes red and puffy from being exposed to the fumes for too long. "Get to bed." He snarls.
"Dad, what's in the pot?" I ask.
"It's daddy's medicine kid, now beat it." He scolds as he cuffs me in the ear.
I have two daddy's. Night daddy and day daddy. Day daddy lasts from eight in the morning until six in the evening. Day daddy reads to me, plays with me, and makes me laugh. Night daddy likes to hit and yell. I don't like night daddy. Sometimes they trade times. But not often. Tonight I am not so fortunate.
I leave the kitchen in tears, humiliated that he scolded me and hit me even after I helped him with his medicine. All I did was ask one question. I don't understand why being curious is so wrong. I have come to believe that daddy likes his medicine more than he likes me. He spends so much time making it and preparing it. He never scolds it or strikes in. He never gets mad at it or throws it against the wall. He must love it more than he loves me.
I often wonder why I am not good enough to be loved. If mommy and daddy loved me, would they continue to ignore me so? If mommy and daddy loved me wouldn't they hate each other less. I do not sleep much. I lie awake and wonder why my parents don't love me, and why they love their medicine so much. It hurts me to know that I am always second. I am six. I am a child. They should love me. I am life, whereas the medicine reeks of death.
I close my door and leave my lights out. There are things far more frightening than the dark. I don't fear the dark, I embrace it. It makes it harder for night daddy to find me. It makes it easier to hide. I love the dark. I return to bed and cry myself to sleep.
Tomorrow I get to pretend nothing happened and that I'm just a normal grade one student with a normal life. I will call my nights horrible dreams if asked, and I will never tell because I still love them.
I often wonder why.
I raise my head out of the water to take a breath and then submerge it once again. Like I did as a child, only now I remember why I did this.
I can still hear my mother screaming and the crunch of a body against cement.
The hot water masks my tears.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Confusion Will Be My Epitaph.
Mood: Adjacent to 'fine', but closer to 'neutral'.
Music: Piano Lessons - Porcupine Tree.
Drink: Fruit Punch.
Outlook on Life: Neither here nor there.
Current Thoughts: Medicine is the death of modern man.
I wonder why the world turns 'round, and why the sky doesn't fall though it's far from the ground. I wonder who I am to be allowed to wonder such scandals. I wonder about death and what happens after the fact. I wonder about human existence, and whether or not it is real. I wonder what real is. I wonder.
Does this mean I think?
I can not simply think that the world turns around, and that the sky doesn't fall - can I? I can not simply think that I am allowed to think. I can not think that there is something after death. I can not think on what is real. I can not think about my existence, because I have no way of knowing any of these things are real. Because I do not know. And no one else knows. Because knowledge is not fact. It can not be reality, if no one knows what is real.
Is anything real?
I think, therefore I am.
Am I?
But of course I must be. Because I think. Because I wonder. Therefore I must be. It doesn't matter as to WHAT I am. All I know is I am. Because I think. So if I know I am, because I think. Does that not make some knowledge real?
Could we not prove the existence of reality by the knowledge of ourselves?
But does that mean, we all exist inside our heads? Or does that mean that reality is open to interpretation? Would our mind be so complex as to invent our reality, or are we all crazed psychic brains all hallucinating in sync so that our realities all appear the same?
I think, therefore I exist.
Knowledge. I know I exist. I don't know what I am. But I KNOW I exist. Therefore reality must be real, at least to me. Because I exist, I perceive, and as long as I perceive, there is reality. But it is my reality. It will be different from other's realities. But it is real to me. And therefore it is reality.
Reality exists, as I exist, for if I didn't exist, my reality wouldn't exist, and there would be nothing.
Music: Piano Lessons - Porcupine Tree.
Drink: Fruit Punch.
Outlook on Life: Neither here nor there.
Current Thoughts: Medicine is the death of modern man.
I wonder why the world turns 'round, and why the sky doesn't fall though it's far from the ground. I wonder who I am to be allowed to wonder such scandals. I wonder about death and what happens after the fact. I wonder about human existence, and whether or not it is real. I wonder what real is. I wonder.
Does this mean I think?
I can not simply think that the world turns around, and that the sky doesn't fall - can I? I can not simply think that I am allowed to think. I can not think that there is something after death. I can not think on what is real. I can not think about my existence, because I have no way of knowing any of these things are real. Because I do not know. And no one else knows. Because knowledge is not fact. It can not be reality, if no one knows what is real.
Is anything real?
I think, therefore I am.
Am I?
But of course I must be. Because I think. Because I wonder. Therefore I must be. It doesn't matter as to WHAT I am. All I know is I am. Because I think. So if I know I am, because I think. Does that not make some knowledge real?
Could we not prove the existence of reality by the knowledge of ourselves?
But does that mean, we all exist inside our heads? Or does that mean that reality is open to interpretation? Would our mind be so complex as to invent our reality, or are we all crazed psychic brains all hallucinating in sync so that our realities all appear the same?
I think, therefore I exist.
Knowledge. I know I exist. I don't know what I am. But I KNOW I exist. Therefore reality must be real, at least to me. Because I exist, I perceive, and as long as I perceive, there is reality. But it is my reality. It will be different from other's realities. But it is real to me. And therefore it is reality.
Reality exists, as I exist, for if I didn't exist, my reality wouldn't exist, and there would be nothing.
Backlog.
2009
Good morning. Blink. Good afternoon. Blink. Good evening. Blink. Good night. Blink.
Narcolepsy, one of the wonders of the human mind.
How delightful to blink and wake up at a different time, in a different place. Day after day after day. Everything seems to meld together into one massive thing. Everyday is just a part of one long day.
A month goes by.
"Who am I? Where am I? What month is it? Which year?"
Exaggeration.
It is now January, I feel as though I just woke up for the first time since September. In a room full of friends. A room full of new faces. A room. It's spinning. Am I about to fall back asleep? No. I think I'm awake. Finally. How droll.
I remember this time last year. I was in a strange house full of strange people I barely knew. Plastic faces plastered to my dry-wall memory. I remember. It was so fake. Now I ask myself, why?
Why?
Because there was nothing better to do? No. Because he was there. He wanted me there. So I went. Am I just a puppy; destined to worship ever pretty face who returns my devotion? No. Because I'm here. With people who care. I'm here, out of my own accord, because I want to be. Not because of one individual.
I'm not as blind as I appear perhaps.
Blink.
It is four years from now. Where am I? Who are you? I don't understand!
"Happy New Year Darling!" He calls out and kisses me fiercely against the wall.
Blink.
It is now again. I am back in 2009. Will that happen? Could it? No. Because I am different now. I am not the same person, chasing the same people. The same ideas. I'm no longer a dog chasing cars.
I have a "car".
I have a life and and I'm content to spend the rest of it in the same fashion as I've been doing this past two months.
Blink.
It is now six years from now.
"Hello guys. Happy New Year, here's to another six."
-New Years Eve 2009-
Good morning. Blink. Good afternoon. Blink. Good evening. Blink. Good night. Blink.
Narcolepsy, one of the wonders of the human mind.
How delightful to blink and wake up at a different time, in a different place. Day after day after day. Everything seems to meld together into one massive thing. Everyday is just a part of one long day.
A month goes by.
"Who am I? Where am I? What month is it? Which year?"
Exaggeration.
It is now January, I feel as though I just woke up for the first time since September. In a room full of friends. A room full of new faces. A room. It's spinning. Am I about to fall back asleep? No. I think I'm awake. Finally. How droll.
I remember this time last year. I was in a strange house full of strange people I barely knew. Plastic faces plastered to my dry-wall memory. I remember. It was so fake. Now I ask myself, why?
Why?
Because there was nothing better to do? No. Because he was there. He wanted me there. So I went. Am I just a puppy; destined to worship ever pretty face who returns my devotion? No. Because I'm here. With people who care. I'm here, out of my own accord, because I want to be. Not because of one individual.
I'm not as blind as I appear perhaps.
Blink.
It is four years from now. Where am I? Who are you? I don't understand!
"Happy New Year Darling!" He calls out and kisses me fiercely against the wall.
Blink.
It is now again. I am back in 2009. Will that happen? Could it? No. Because I am different now. I am not the same person, chasing the same people. The same ideas. I'm no longer a dog chasing cars.
I have a "car".
I have a life and and I'm content to spend the rest of it in the same fashion as I've been doing this past two months.
Blink.
It is now six years from now.
"Hello guys. Happy New Year, here's to another six."
-New Years Eve 2009-
Saturday, December 27, 2008
It's Too Early For Spring Cleaning.
Time: 10:04am
Mood: Worried.
Music: Sunday Morning After - Amanda Marshall
Current thoughts: I'm rather bored. No one is up. Why the hell can I not sleep that long too?
Swish, swish, swish, swish. It is the sound of the broom as it slides gracelessly across the floor. Dust particles fly askew, some of them towards me, other's in their intended pile, and the last bit still eluding the broom by staying behind on the floor. For each dust particle there is a different fate. The ones that become airborn, that fly up towards me, are either destined to remain floating in the air until a gentle wind places them beyond the reach of my broom, or they are destined to give me allergies, as they have found a lovely resting spot within my nasal cavity. Then there are the particles in the pile. These dust particles could go anywhere, but first they journey to the dustpan, then to the garbage, then to the curb, then to the truck and then to the dump. Their route is slightly more concrete. Once they get to the dump it is up to fate. They can either be blown away in the wind, because of course the bag has ripped, or they can join the ground along with the decomposing trash. The last dust particles are the ones that eluded the broom and rested behind on the floor. These may get stepped upon, kicked, tracked around the house, and then swept up a week later. That is the way it works.
We are dust. Some of us are lucky and are destined to float upon the wind until we find out comfortable niche. Some of us are destined to rot with the rest of the trash upon the planet, and those of us who are unlucky get beaten to shit before we get to rot with the rest of the trash. We are all under a constant broom called the economy. You see, the floaters are the lucky ones. They're the ones who float (because someone is funding them) until they find their niche. That means essentially to use layman's speak, they're the rich kids. This is how our world works. The rich get off easy, while those of us who are less monetarily privileged get left behind to rot. It's a very sad reality. There are those who simply accept their role as the decaying flesh of the world. These are the kids who live in poverty in underprivileged countries. They know that because of where they live, and because of their governement and because of who they are, that they can't really get up from here. So they don't try. They work damn hard to survive without the money that everyone is after. Then there are the ones that get beaten up because they tried. This is the dust that managed to elude the broom for a short amount of time.
This is my role.
I am the dust that managed to sneak under the broom and not get swept away, but I'm still lying on the floor. I'm getting kicked around and beaten up and I'm scared, because I know that broom is coming back to get me. That's how it works. The broom will always come to get me. How many times can I elude it and stay on the floor? Am I going to be able to catch a breeze next time? Or am I going to the dump with the rest of the decaying flesh of the world? I don't know.
The only reason I'm saying this is because I find the comparaison odd yet somehow accurate. I mean, what if we really are just dust? What if we're just a tiny speck the broom hasn't noticed yet? Our entire universe is that speck the broom hasn't noticed yet. We're so small.
How can one person matter?
Mood: Worried.
Music: Sunday Morning After - Amanda Marshall
Current thoughts: I'm rather bored. No one is up. Why the hell can I not sleep that long too?
Swish, swish, swish, swish. It is the sound of the broom as it slides gracelessly across the floor. Dust particles fly askew, some of them towards me, other's in their intended pile, and the last bit still eluding the broom by staying behind on the floor. For each dust particle there is a different fate. The ones that become airborn, that fly up towards me, are either destined to remain floating in the air until a gentle wind places them beyond the reach of my broom, or they are destined to give me allergies, as they have found a lovely resting spot within my nasal cavity. Then there are the particles in the pile. These dust particles could go anywhere, but first they journey to the dustpan, then to the garbage, then to the curb, then to the truck and then to the dump. Their route is slightly more concrete. Once they get to the dump it is up to fate. They can either be blown away in the wind, because of course the bag has ripped, or they can join the ground along with the decomposing trash. The last dust particles are the ones that eluded the broom and rested behind on the floor. These may get stepped upon, kicked, tracked around the house, and then swept up a week later. That is the way it works.
We are dust. Some of us are lucky and are destined to float upon the wind until we find out comfortable niche. Some of us are destined to rot with the rest of the trash upon the planet, and those of us who are unlucky get beaten to shit before we get to rot with the rest of the trash. We are all under a constant broom called the economy. You see, the floaters are the lucky ones. They're the ones who float (because someone is funding them) until they find their niche. That means essentially to use layman's speak, they're the rich kids. This is how our world works. The rich get off easy, while those of us who are less monetarily privileged get left behind to rot. It's a very sad reality. There are those who simply accept their role as the decaying flesh of the world. These are the kids who live in poverty in underprivileged countries. They know that because of where they live, and because of their governement and because of who they are, that they can't really get up from here. So they don't try. They work damn hard to survive without the money that everyone is after. Then there are the ones that get beaten up because they tried. This is the dust that managed to elude the broom for a short amount of time.
This is my role.
I am the dust that managed to sneak under the broom and not get swept away, but I'm still lying on the floor. I'm getting kicked around and beaten up and I'm scared, because I know that broom is coming back to get me. That's how it works. The broom will always come to get me. How many times can I elude it and stay on the floor? Am I going to be able to catch a breeze next time? Or am I going to the dump with the rest of the decaying flesh of the world? I don't know.
The only reason I'm saying this is because I find the comparaison odd yet somehow accurate. I mean, what if we really are just dust? What if we're just a tiny speck the broom hasn't noticed yet? Our entire universe is that speck the broom hasn't noticed yet. We're so small.
How can one person matter?
Monday, November 24, 2008
The Forgotten Path
Mood: Reminiscent
Music:Hard Road - Sam Roberts
Time: 11:23 am
Period: 2 - Social Studies.
Current Thoughts: Where is that girl? She certainly is taking her time in there... Oh well, her loss, I'm done my portion... And part of hers. Funny how that works.
Last Chance
I wonder if you notice,
I wonder if you care.
Can you see my lack of focus?
Now that you're not here?
Do you even miss me?
Am I so transparent?
Are you full of embarrassment
To be seen with me?
What happened to our plans?
What happened to our faith?
We have so many loose ends.
Yet we do not speak face to face.
It hurts me to look and see
Every single day.
That glorious girl you used to be.
Seems to have faded away.
You've changed so much,
As I have too,
But I still regret loosing touch
But I don't think you do.
So next time you're thinking
And have nothing to do.
If you miss me too.
Please give me a ring.
Can we talk when we pass?
Can you meet my gaze?
Because this is the last
Chance you're getting in this faze.
--------------------------------------------------------
I'm so sick of it all. Yes, I'm aware, I'm redundant as I think I've started at least 8 posts with that sentence in the past 2 years. It's pretty bad, but hey, never a dull moment. It's always something new when it comes to my life. Yay positivity. I'm really not in that positive of a mood, but I really don't feel inclined to angst it out right now.
I'm really starting to NOT be able to depend on this girl. She's starting to wear down my thick layer of patience I had for her. She's starting to bottom out and grind on my nerves. I don't want to snap at her though... I can't. She'll self destruct. Yes she has issues. Everyone does. Yes hers are apparent. So are others. I dunno why, but for some reason it really feels like she's attention seeking. I mean, it's pretty horrible, her problems and whatnot, but they're easy to handle in my eyes. I guess what it comes down to is she is not me. And we were both raised very differently. The only thing I really don't understand is why she keeps telling me that she and I are so alike. Any who, I hold nothing against her, I'm just in a bad mood and want to complain. I do love her. We have fun together. It's just... Some days. I bet she feels the same. It's easier to take me in small doses so I've been told.
I can't take it. I can't. There is too much on my plate. I can't listen to everyone at once. Everyone - everything is managing to grate somehow. I want a week off. I can't though. I've been trying to get better. I know what I was doing was just hurting myself... What I am doing is still hurting me. I look like I'm doing better. My attendance is reflecting it. But am I really? There is a price on this reform. That price is my nights. I can't keep myself out of the black, especially at night. I seem to look like I'm on it. Like I'm getting by with a smile. But honestly, short though they may be, these are the most painful lows I've had in a while.
My health is hitting the drain again as well. I've decided I may as well try to make the most of it while I can. Nothing seems to heal properly, my blood pressure has dropped since last time, I can't keep a constant weight (it keeps dropping), I have random feverish moments, I have intense headaches and I overall just do not feel well. I'm starting to wonder if it's all just mind over matter. Maybe it's happening like this because I feel so ill in my head. Mind over matter. I feel like hell, I'm too stressed and now I'm getting sick. This simply isn't working. Perhaps if I wasn't so sick in my head, I'd be less ill physically. Perhaps if I was bubbly and blank like most girls I'd be healthy.
I don't like trying new things that look dumb.
Now that I know people read this I feel creeped out to write things about myself and how I view everyone. Because people know who I'm talking about, or hell, they even recognize themselves as being one of my random mentions, it makes it very difficult to write what I want. So I'm putting this warning out now --
THIS BLOG IS NOT CENSORED. I WILL NOT CEASE TO WRITE EXACTLY WHAT I AM THINKING ABOUT YOU, BECAUSE THIS IS FOR MY OWN SANITY, IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT YOU MAY BE OFFENDED. IT WAS YOUR CHOICE TO READ IT.
Anyways. Now with that stated I must go as the bell is about to ring. I have full intentions of writing more this week, but you know how those go.
"I've got too much on my plate.
Don't have no time to be a decent lover.
I hope it isn't too late.
Looking at the time that has gone so fast.
The time that I thought would last.
My ever present past."
Music:Hard Road - Sam Roberts
Time: 11:23 am
Period: 2 - Social Studies.
Current Thoughts: Where is that girl? She certainly is taking her time in there... Oh well, her loss, I'm done my portion... And part of hers. Funny how that works.
Last Chance
I wonder if you notice,
I wonder if you care.
Can you see my lack of focus?
Now that you're not here?
Do you even miss me?
Am I so transparent?
Are you full of embarrassment
To be seen with me?
What happened to our plans?
What happened to our faith?
We have so many loose ends.
Yet we do not speak face to face.
It hurts me to look and see
Every single day.
That glorious girl you used to be.
Seems to have faded away.
You've changed so much,
As I have too,
But I still regret loosing touch
But I don't think you do.
So next time you're thinking
And have nothing to do.
If you miss me too.
Please give me a ring.
Can we talk when we pass?
Can you meet my gaze?
Because this is the last
Chance you're getting in this faze.
--------------------------------------------------------
I'm so sick of it all. Yes, I'm aware, I'm redundant as I think I've started at least 8 posts with that sentence in the past 2 years. It's pretty bad, but hey, never a dull moment. It's always something new when it comes to my life. Yay positivity. I'm really not in that positive of a mood, but I really don't feel inclined to angst it out right now.
I'm really starting to NOT be able to depend on this girl. She's starting to wear down my thick layer of patience I had for her. She's starting to bottom out and grind on my nerves. I don't want to snap at her though... I can't. She'll self destruct. Yes she has issues. Everyone does. Yes hers are apparent. So are others. I dunno why, but for some reason it really feels like she's attention seeking. I mean, it's pretty horrible, her problems and whatnot, but they're easy to handle in my eyes. I guess what it comes down to is she is not me. And we were both raised very differently. The only thing I really don't understand is why she keeps telling me that she and I are so alike. Any who, I hold nothing against her, I'm just in a bad mood and want to complain. I do love her. We have fun together. It's just... Some days. I bet she feels the same. It's easier to take me in small doses so I've been told.
I can't take it. I can't. There is too much on my plate. I can't listen to everyone at once. Everyone - everything is managing to grate somehow. I want a week off. I can't though. I've been trying to get better. I know what I was doing was just hurting myself... What I am doing is still hurting me. I look like I'm doing better. My attendance is reflecting it. But am I really? There is a price on this reform. That price is my nights. I can't keep myself out of the black, especially at night. I seem to look like I'm on it. Like I'm getting by with a smile. But honestly, short though they may be, these are the most painful lows I've had in a while.
My health is hitting the drain again as well. I've decided I may as well try to make the most of it while I can. Nothing seems to heal properly, my blood pressure has dropped since last time, I can't keep a constant weight (it keeps dropping), I have random feverish moments, I have intense headaches and I overall just do not feel well. I'm starting to wonder if it's all just mind over matter. Maybe it's happening like this because I feel so ill in my head. Mind over matter. I feel like hell, I'm too stressed and now I'm getting sick. This simply isn't working. Perhaps if I wasn't so sick in my head, I'd be less ill physically. Perhaps if I was bubbly and blank like most girls I'd be healthy.
I don't like trying new things that look dumb.
Now that I know people read this I feel creeped out to write things about myself and how I view everyone. Because people know who I'm talking about, or hell, they even recognize themselves as being one of my random mentions, it makes it very difficult to write what I want. So I'm putting this warning out now --
THIS BLOG IS NOT CENSORED. I WILL NOT CEASE TO WRITE EXACTLY WHAT I AM THINKING ABOUT YOU, BECAUSE THIS IS FOR MY OWN SANITY, IT'S NOT MY FAULT THAT YOU MAY BE OFFENDED. IT WAS YOUR CHOICE TO READ IT.
Anyways. Now with that stated I must go as the bell is about to ring. I have full intentions of writing more this week, but you know how those go.
"I've got too much on my plate.
Don't have no time to be a decent lover.
I hope it isn't too late.
Looking at the time that has gone so fast.
The time that I thought would last.
My ever present past."
Monday, October 27, 2008
Internal Deluge
I died again last night. The sun never shines the day after you die, mind you, it's understandable. I mean; who opens their eyes the day after they die? Those of us who have taken to dying are similar, in my mind, to Lazarus. When we die we are subject to a three day period of depression where we may feel dead and decaying, then we rise when called forth.
But what happens when we are left longer than three days?
What happens when no one comes for us?
Nails on a chalkboard.
Cellar door.
Tires screaming on wet pavement.
Time is running out.
We die. No more of this constant death and resurrection. We die, cold out, game over, final match - die. We are not Lazarus. We do not have a savior to tell us to come forth. What if instead of "Lazarus come forth!" Jesus had called "Come forth!"? Who is to say that the entire graveyard would not have risen? Have you ever tried to call back the dead? If so you have probably noticed that no one came forward. Once you're in the ground you're gone, that's life. Focus on bringing forth the dead people who are still walking. Bring forth the depressed, bring forth the dying, bring forth the dead. We are not all dead. We are not all dying. We are not all too far gone.
We all need to be saved.
The sun is still not shining. My eyes are still closed. I am still hiding behind painted eyelids of indifference. It is strange to awake to pure darkness, yet be aware of all.
There is an old saying: "Ignorance is bliss." Does it contradict "Knowledge is power."? Or do they compliment one another like vanilla and chocolate? Supposedly vanilla and chocolate are opposites, yet they go very well together. Does the power of knowledge go hand in hand with the bliss of ignorance? Or does the power of knowledge make us unhappy? Would we be better off ignorant? Would we be better off dead? Who knows?
Lazarus, come forth.
But what happens when we are left longer than three days?
What happens when no one comes for us?
Nails on a chalkboard.
Cellar door.
Tires screaming on wet pavement.
Time is running out.
We die. No more of this constant death and resurrection. We die, cold out, game over, final match - die. We are not Lazarus. We do not have a savior to tell us to come forth. What if instead of "Lazarus come forth!" Jesus had called "Come forth!"? Who is to say that the entire graveyard would not have risen? Have you ever tried to call back the dead? If so you have probably noticed that no one came forward. Once you're in the ground you're gone, that's life. Focus on bringing forth the dead people who are still walking. Bring forth the depressed, bring forth the dying, bring forth the dead. We are not all dead. We are not all dying. We are not all too far gone.
We all need to be saved.
The sun is still not shining. My eyes are still closed. I am still hiding behind painted eyelids of indifference. It is strange to awake to pure darkness, yet be aware of all.
There is an old saying: "Ignorance is bliss." Does it contradict "Knowledge is power."? Or do they compliment one another like vanilla and chocolate? Supposedly vanilla and chocolate are opposites, yet they go very well together. Does the power of knowledge go hand in hand with the bliss of ignorance? Or does the power of knowledge make us unhappy? Would we be better off ignorant? Would we be better off dead? Who knows?
Lazarus, come forth.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Je Veux Et J'exige.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16... --- Ready or not! Here I come!
Remember when hide and seek used to be fun? Remember when we were all so young and innocent that hiding from people and waiting for them to come to us was so natural? What's with all this reaching out blindly in the dark for something that you're not really certain is there? Why bother groping blindly? Why isn't anyone coming to find you anymore? Why are we playing reverse hide and seek? When did humanity stop caring?
We stopped caring when we became selfish and vain.
We stopped caring when we started using those around us for personal gain.
We stopped caring when we constantly put ourselves first.
We stopped caring when we were ahead.
So is it only when you fall behind that you care?
Is it only when you think you're in danger that you want to help?
Do you only care when you're benefiting?
No, because that's going back to being selfish.
So does anyone really care about the well being of others out of genuine interest? Or is it all for self gain?
I know I'm hiding and reaching out blindly in the dark. But I think my eyes are beginning to adjust. I think I can see what's there. So many people are doing the same as me. No one is being the seeker, as everyone is seeking. When I open my eyes and strain a little I can see; everyone is wandering blindly in the dark, arms out stretched hoping to grab onto that one thing that may be concrete. Then a light appears, well not a light, but it's a faint glow, and in it walks a boy. He walks around with his eyes closed, seeing none of us. But we all see him. He approaches me, and when he's in front of me, he opens his eyes and holds out his hand. I take it. Instantly I begin to glow as well. Then I see it's not just us, but if you look hard enough around you can see a few other people walking around with their eyes closed glowing.
Then I realize. We're not all as alone as we seem.
There are a handful out people out there who care. A handful of people who can glow around us and make us see. A handful of people who can brighten our days. A handful of seekers in a crowd of children hiding waiting to be tagged.
Everyone is waiting to be tagged, everyone is waiting for their turn to seek.
Tag, you're it.
Remember when hide and seek used to be fun? Remember when we were all so young and innocent that hiding from people and waiting for them to come to us was so natural? What's with all this reaching out blindly in the dark for something that you're not really certain is there? Why bother groping blindly? Why isn't anyone coming to find you anymore? Why are we playing reverse hide and seek? When did humanity stop caring?
We stopped caring when we became selfish and vain.
We stopped caring when we started using those around us for personal gain.
We stopped caring when we constantly put ourselves first.
We stopped caring when we were ahead.
So is it only when you fall behind that you care?
Is it only when you think you're in danger that you want to help?
Do you only care when you're benefiting?
No, because that's going back to being selfish.
So does anyone really care about the well being of others out of genuine interest? Or is it all for self gain?
I know I'm hiding and reaching out blindly in the dark. But I think my eyes are beginning to adjust. I think I can see what's there. So many people are doing the same as me. No one is being the seeker, as everyone is seeking. When I open my eyes and strain a little I can see; everyone is wandering blindly in the dark, arms out stretched hoping to grab onto that one thing that may be concrete. Then a light appears, well not a light, but it's a faint glow, and in it walks a boy. He walks around with his eyes closed, seeing none of us. But we all see him. He approaches me, and when he's in front of me, he opens his eyes and holds out his hand. I take it. Instantly I begin to glow as well. Then I see it's not just us, but if you look hard enough around you can see a few other people walking around with their eyes closed glowing.
Then I realize. We're not all as alone as we seem.
There are a handful out people out there who care. A handful of people who can glow around us and make us see. A handful of people who can brighten our days. A handful of seekers in a crowd of children hiding waiting to be tagged.
Everyone is waiting to be tagged, everyone is waiting for their turn to seek.
Tag, you're it.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Plus Qu'autant
<3
Oh no what I have I done?
I've dug a hole to bury the sun,
I've cried black tears of innocent blood,
I've done things that no one should.
Running from something I swear I can see,
Having no one ever believe me,
Screaming at the wall with it's indifferent stare,
Who am I to say who will be there.
Wandering slowly and blind in the dark,
I restlessly swing to and fro in the park,
Appear you do not, but it's already forgot,
And I have no despair to be sought.
Forgive and forget, better to love and have lost,
I would not have tried love if I had known the cost.
And now though I trust it, and try to be brave,
Something inside always wants to misbehave.
If you forgive me, I'll never dispute you,
I'll be with you always trying to clear the blue.
And leave you not, unless it's what you want,
Je te veux encore, plus qu'autant.
<3
Oh no what I have I done?
I've dug a hole to bury the sun,
I've cried black tears of innocent blood,
I've done things that no one should.
Running from something I swear I can see,
Having no one ever believe me,
Screaming at the wall with it's indifferent stare,
Who am I to say who will be there.
Wandering slowly and blind in the dark,
I restlessly swing to and fro in the park,
Appear you do not, but it's already forgot,
And I have no despair to be sought.
Forgive and forget, better to love and have lost,
I would not have tried love if I had known the cost.
And now though I trust it, and try to be brave,
Something inside always wants to misbehave.
If you forgive me, I'll never dispute you,
I'll be with you always trying to clear the blue.
And leave you not, unless it's what you want,
Je te veux encore, plus qu'autant.
<3
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Only Once
I don't know why, nobody told you, how to unfold your love.
Mood: Not bad not good.
Physical Condition: Not in TOO much pain, just not comfortable.
Mental Condition: Actually a little annoyed, but nothing intolerable.
Music: Don't Cry - Guns N' Roses
Food: Sammich.
Location: Pincher Creek Alberta.
Current Thoughts: This room has so much echo it's unbelievable. That piano is SO out of tune. AH!
Pincher Creek, lovely little town, well kept museum, and quite pleasant people. That last post sounded a touch dark, but it's just something that came to mind. Now I have something to explain it next time someone asks me. It's nice to know I can explain things, they just come at the wrong time.
I've been so all over the place lately it's ridiculous. I've been really high, then really low repeatedly. I think I've worn my body down so much that I'm beginning to get a repeated case of the shakes. Oh well, I've got something working for me though. I entered another relationship.
As trivial as that sounds for someone my age, I'm really happy with it. The circumstances under which it's started though are somewhat dubious. He's a failed social experiment of mine. Now we're dating. Either I am weak in my resolve, or he's absolutely amazing. I think it must be about half and half.
I was talking with Dan, and he was telling me how he's had crushes on girls since we split but apparently none of them feels the same way I did to him. Personally I think he might be being a little melodramatic, but honestly I think I get how he feels. It's supposed to be like that though, I mean, no two people are the same. I loved him, I still do, it's just not the same though. And it's putting a lot of pressure on me to try and deal with everything. I don't want to tell him though, because I want to help; but before I help him, I think I've got to help myself.
It's nice to feel love in that sense again though, I'm not going to deny it. I really enjoy the feeling. I hope Dan can get back up after what we went through and get to it again. He really deserves to be able to. He's a sweetie.
Anyways, I've got to head off. I'm on a break. I've been performing at the Pincher Creek Harvest Festival all day, and I'm starting to get pretty wiped, but I've got another set to go do.
And Steph, my condolences.
Mood: Not bad not good.
Physical Condition: Not in TOO much pain, just not comfortable.
Mental Condition: Actually a little annoyed, but nothing intolerable.
Music: Don't Cry - Guns N' Roses
Food: Sammich.
Location: Pincher Creek Alberta.
Current Thoughts: This room has so much echo it's unbelievable. That piano is SO out of tune. AH!
Pincher Creek, lovely little town, well kept museum, and quite pleasant people. That last post sounded a touch dark, but it's just something that came to mind. Now I have something to explain it next time someone asks me. It's nice to know I can explain things, they just come at the wrong time.
I've been so all over the place lately it's ridiculous. I've been really high, then really low repeatedly. I think I've worn my body down so much that I'm beginning to get a repeated case of the shakes. Oh well, I've got something working for me though. I entered another relationship.
As trivial as that sounds for someone my age, I'm really happy with it. The circumstances under which it's started though are somewhat dubious. He's a failed social experiment of mine. Now we're dating. Either I am weak in my resolve, or he's absolutely amazing. I think it must be about half and half.
I was talking with Dan, and he was telling me how he's had crushes on girls since we split but apparently none of them feels the same way I did to him. Personally I think he might be being a little melodramatic, but honestly I think I get how he feels. It's supposed to be like that though, I mean, no two people are the same. I loved him, I still do, it's just not the same though. And it's putting a lot of pressure on me to try and deal with everything. I don't want to tell him though, because I want to help; but before I help him, I think I've got to help myself.
It's nice to feel love in that sense again though, I'm not going to deny it. I really enjoy the feeling. I hope Dan can get back up after what we went through and get to it again. He really deserves to be able to. He's a sweetie.
Anyways, I've got to head off. I'm on a break. I've been performing at the Pincher Creek Harvest Festival all day, and I'm starting to get pretty wiped, but I've got another set to go do.
And Steph, my condolences.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Concrete
Cause surrounded by these walls, just makes me feel uneasy.
Mood: Detached.
Physical Condition: Half beaten to death.
Overview: Do I have to?
Music: Papercut Skins - The Matches
Current Thoughts: Being lost in one's head is not pleasant. One cannot escape. Even with the promise of sunshine on a stormy day, one still cannot unearth what lurks therein.
Being concrete doesn't mean much to me. Am I made of stone? Am I as strong as I appear to be? Am I lucidly dreaming my entire reality? Where am I?
I am lost.
Yes, that's where I am, somewhere lost deep within the depths of a world I've created. It's littered with shattered memories of seamless pasts; it's soft sand screaming underfoot. A place of dark existence with small pinnacles of light too far away to grasp, yet close enough to hope. A place of musical silence as if a greater power has pressed the mute button, yet the song continues. This is a place outside of the exterior of the inside. This is my place. This is where I reside.
Welcome to my central desert of forgotten indulgence, where the night terrors creep and the sun rises only to set. Welcome to the hole. Welcome to the activities taking place inside the scum of the world. Welcome to the nightmare of false reality. Welcome to the past. Welcome to the present. Welcome to the future.
Hello.
How kind of you to join me. I know you're not really here, but that's okay, mirages are a rare sight in the pit of the blind. You may stay as long as you'd like. If you like.
Oh... Right. You're a figment of my imagination. So I suppose you're leaving again like all the others.
That's fine. I knew it all along. You haven't hurt me this time. You haven't caught me. Because I knew. Because I am capable of learning. That's where the stars come from.
Good bye.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Hello Darkness My Old Friend
Do you want to go to the seaside? I'm not trying to say that everybody wants to go. But I fell in love with the seaside.
Physical Condition: Ouch. Ouch. OUCH. My hip is dislocated. Woohoo...
Mental Condition: Confused mainly, but becoming more lucidly pensive.
Time: 10:52 pm.
Mood: Grey.
Colour: Grey.
Sky: Grey (Alright, I made that one up, but for some reason everything feels grey.)
Music: Epitaph - King Crimson.
It really has been one of those five day spans of "I'm sorry but, what the FUCK is going on in my life??!?" I've been up, down, upside down, and thrown around. I still don't know where I stand, much less if it's solid ground. It's been um, interesting at best.
School life has been pretty much same old same old. I have teachers, most of which I don't like, I have homework, most of which I don't want to do, and I have people around me, which doesn't hurt. I have decided that social studies this year is going to be terrible, as is french. I think I might be able to pull math out of my hat, only because for the time being I'm amused with it. Bio so far has actually been a blast, so no complaints there. Plus I like the teacher. That pretty much sums up school though.
Social life has been good. I miss hanging with Katie and Josh hither and dither, but I'm enjoying greatly the company I've been with lately as well.
Love life. Oh god. 'Nuff said. I don't really know what I'm doing with it. I think I'm coming closer to a decision though. I'm going to give it... Maybe another week or two though just to be sure. Am I too cautious? Who knows.
Life on the inside has been revealing. I know have fully identified my illogical logic circle complex. Now I just need to approach it and disable it. That'll take time, but at least I know what it is, and what must be done. It's nice to know small things about yourself from time to time.
Anyways, that's just a brief update on my life as Joi Grey in the real world.
Sometimes I really wonder how real it all is.
Physical Condition: Ouch. Ouch. OUCH. My hip is dislocated. Woohoo...
Mental Condition: Confused mainly, but becoming more lucidly pensive.
Time: 10:52 pm.
Mood: Grey.
Colour: Grey.
Sky: Grey (Alright, I made that one up, but for some reason everything feels grey.)
Music: Epitaph - King Crimson.
It really has been one of those five day spans of "I'm sorry but, what the FUCK is going on in my life??!?" I've been up, down, upside down, and thrown around. I still don't know where I stand, much less if it's solid ground. It's been um, interesting at best.
School life has been pretty much same old same old. I have teachers, most of which I don't like, I have homework, most of which I don't want to do, and I have people around me, which doesn't hurt. I have decided that social studies this year is going to be terrible, as is french. I think I might be able to pull math out of my hat, only because for the time being I'm amused with it. Bio so far has actually been a blast, so no complaints there. Plus I like the teacher. That pretty much sums up school though.
Social life has been good. I miss hanging with Katie and Josh hither and dither, but I'm enjoying greatly the company I've been with lately as well.
Love life. Oh god. 'Nuff said. I don't really know what I'm doing with it. I think I'm coming closer to a decision though. I'm going to give it... Maybe another week or two though just to be sure. Am I too cautious? Who knows.
Life on the inside has been revealing. I know have fully identified my illogical logic circle complex. Now I just need to approach it and disable it. That'll take time, but at least I know what it is, and what must be done. It's nice to know small things about yourself from time to time.
Anyways, that's just a brief update on my life as Joi Grey in the real world.
Sometimes I really wonder how real it all is.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
How Am I In Grade 11?
And the walls came down, all the way to hell.
Music: Tweeter and the Monkey Man - The Traveling Wilburys
Mood: Resigned
Physical Health: Sore back and head, but limber legs. Tired.
Current Thoughts: What the hell kind of drugs do you have to be on to write the song Tweeter and the Monkey Man?
So tomorrow is the first day of grade 11. Holy shit tomorrow is the first day of grade 11. I think I really want to prove myself this year. I'll work hard and try to get it to pay off. I want to impress myself, prove to myself I can be more than a lost cause. I want to make myself better. I have so many demons in my head, and not enough time or effort to get them out. I want to get them out so bad. I hope that if I just work at it that they'll leave, or I'll resolve them.
So my timetable first semester looks terrifying. I've got Biology 20, Social 20 PF, FLA 20 and Math 20 PF. It looks ferocious. Yeah so what, I'm not in the highest classes, but I think I'll do just fine. I don't want to be perfect, I want to make mistakes and learn from them.
I cried my eyes out last night. I blame Norm, he pretty much showed me exactly where my problems are and kinda stabbed them. It was disheartening. Everyone thinks I'm so strong, like a rock. Like I'll always be their rock. But I'm so weak, and even though I hate being perceived as so, I can't change a fact about myself that fast. It'll take work.
I suppose I'm to go to bed in order to wake tomorrow. I'm interested in seeing what the day will bring.
Wish me luck.
Music: Tweeter and the Monkey Man - The Traveling Wilburys
Mood: Resigned
Physical Health: Sore back and head, but limber legs. Tired.
Current Thoughts: What the hell kind of drugs do you have to be on to write the song Tweeter and the Monkey Man?
So tomorrow is the first day of grade 11. Holy shit tomorrow is the first day of grade 11. I think I really want to prove myself this year. I'll work hard and try to get it to pay off. I want to impress myself, prove to myself I can be more than a lost cause. I want to make myself better. I have so many demons in my head, and not enough time or effort to get them out. I want to get them out so bad. I hope that if I just work at it that they'll leave, or I'll resolve them.
So my timetable first semester looks terrifying. I've got Biology 20, Social 20 PF, FLA 20 and Math 20 PF. It looks ferocious. Yeah so what, I'm not in the highest classes, but I think I'll do just fine. I don't want to be perfect, I want to make mistakes and learn from them.
I cried my eyes out last night. I blame Norm, he pretty much showed me exactly where my problems are and kinda stabbed them. It was disheartening. Everyone thinks I'm so strong, like a rock. Like I'll always be their rock. But I'm so weak, and even though I hate being perceived as so, I can't change a fact about myself that fast. It'll take work.
I suppose I'm to go to bed in order to wake tomorrow. I'm interested in seeing what the day will bring.
Wish me luck.
Monday, August 11, 2008
Her Name Is Stella
Her name is Stella, and she calls to me.
I started hearing her four years ago after my accident. She never spoke her name, but somehow I was certain she was called Stella; so that's who I thought of her as.
I had been climbing without a harness; one of the greatest thrills imaginable. I died that day. I trained for over a year, and I died. I had almost reached the top of the cliff when I slipped on some loose shale.
Suddenly there was no solid life supporting ground beneath my feet. I was falling. I don't remember hitting the ground, but I do recall the sound of shattering bones upon impact. Then I died.
My name is Gregory Slom, Greg for short. I am twenty-four years old, and a medical miracle. I am also terrified of heights.
The first memory I have of after my accident is the sound of her soothing voice. It reached deep into my coma and pulled me like a rip tide to the surface, towards my conscious life.
I awoke with her heeding calls still ringing in my ears. I don't suppose the doctors expected me to wake, and I'm sure they were truly surprised when I opened my eyes and groaned. I was in the ICU at the time, lying face down on an operating table with a scalpel in my spine. I then felt the icy kiss of a hypodermic syringe, and darkness returned with Stella's voice riding hauntingly atop the waves of sleep.
I don't think I could have made it through the healing process without her. I felt I owed it to her, as though she'd been there all my life, calling my name in her lilting voice. I had to relearn how to walk, and after many weeks in physiotherapy with her gentle coaxing in my ear, I was nearly back to my healthy self.
She never spoke anything other than my name, but it was comforting to know she was there - that she cared. Around this time I began to doubt my sanity, as any sane person would do. As it turned out, Dr. Harper doubted my mental stability as well. After a period of observation I was diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder, and send to a mental institute just off the coast of Ireland.
The island was... green. As the ferry approached the shore I was able to discern a series of jagged bluffs on either side of the landing. Terror raced through my entire body as a bolt of lightning through a glass of water. My already weak knees crumbled under my weight as I relived the past four years of my life at a glance.
"It all happened so fast." I stammered, "I haven't been near a cliff for the past four years, and I just- I didn't expect it to have that effect on me." I finished meekly.
"That's perfectly normal after the trauma you experience; Christ son, that fall killed you! Your heart was stopped for over an hour, it's a miracle you're even here to faint at all!" My psychologist exclaimed. Great two days in and everyone already knew my life's story.
As my papers ordered I was assigned to a room with no windows on the first floor. They claimed this precaution was to keep my vertigo at bay. My suspicions told me they thought I was suicidal and at risk of jumping. Either way I was grateful.
Stella's summons still grew stronger, in spite of the doctor's claims that I was getting better. She began to contact me through dreams. She showed me pictures of ocean spray and high rolling clouds. Though pleasant they still gave me an eerie feeling of being watched. My sleep grew restless as I struggled not to cry out as she showed me the bluffs at the edge of the island.
The reoccurring dream haunted me for over a week.
"Gregory Slom" the shadow presence of Stella called. She then turned into mist shrouding the cliff. I understood she wanted me to follow her, and it was painfully obvious she wouldn't leave me alone until I did.
Many of the other patients either kept to themselves or kept away from me. Word had gotten out that I had died several years before, and those who knew kept a fair distance. Perhaps their medication addled brains concluded that death was contagious; I'm not too certain on that subject myself.
The dreams had changed into strange and exotic sights. Beautiful gardens, bountiful orchards, clean streams, a snake, my name and then the cliff all rotated through my subconscious. Everything- as strange and random as it seemed- was completely familiar and well known to me. I decided it was time to find Stella.
Leaving the institute at night was easier said then done, so I waited until after my session to depart.
It was raining, as per usual, and the clouds hung low over the verdant fields. I zipped up my jacket and bowed my head in order to shield my eyes from the persistent downpour.
"Gregory Slom." Stella's voice urged.
"I'm coming."
"Gregory Slom." She called again.
"I told you already, I'M COMING!" I shouted impatiently into the gloom. After having your name called in your head non stop for four years, you begin to lose patience and get snippy. It's human nature, another few minutes couldn't possibly make a difference.
I approached the edge of the cliff and recoiled. There before me lay my entire dream sequence from a bird's eye view. The mist swirled about the bluffs as the ocean crashed forcefully against the jagged boulders. I shuddered at my next thought. I was going to have to go down there. I despised the idea with every fiver of my being, and several fibers of my clothing. This was to be unpleasant at best.
The slope was treacherous and slick with rain and wild ocean spray. I' not even sure what compelled me to go down there. I think I may have been desperate. Desperate for peace of mind, there's a new one.
Clinging to the slippery face of the cliff I peered through the fog, attempting to distinguish shadow from stone. To my left there came the sound of metal on rock. Shocked to actually discover life on this inhospitable frontier I quickly climbed towards the source of the motion. I had found Stella.
She was nothing more than a skeleton really, with a few scraps of clothing hanging from her narrow frame. She stood on a six inch ledge and her arms were shackled above her head to keep her from falling into the ocean.
I don't know why I approached her. She was terrifying and repulsive, yet I could not keep from creeping towards her along the ledge. My mind screamed for me to stop, to leave, to even jump if that's what it would take to get away from her. Still I drew nearer. It was as if she had a grip on my very soul, and continued to pull it forwards dragging my defeated body along with it.
Six meters away- no movement. Four, two -- no movement. Closer she pulled me. One meter - her head snapped up. She looked up at me, two fading green eyes set deep within her hollowed sockets.
"Gregory Slom." Her mouth remained motionless as the words echoed through my ringing ears.
It came in a flash of understanding. The stream, the snake, and the orchards all seemed so familiar because I was there. I had been there before. I was Adam, and Stella, well, Stella was Eve. It was an amazing sensation, reliving a life in an instant. I looked into her dying eyes and I suddenly knew; this was a continuation of our punishment for the creation of original sin.
We were each to be shackled to the bluff, trading off once every five hundred years. It was impossible to die until the other had come to claim their position upon the smooth face of the bluff.
This realization came seconds too late, before I could protest I was shackled to the bluff and Stella was released. The last I saw of her was the dim glow of her green eyes thanking me as she plummeted to the jagged salt corroded rocks below.
Sometimes, as I hang here, I wonder if things would have been different had I died during my climbing accident. Perhaps I never did wake from my coma, perhaps this is my own personal hell, playing off my fear of heights. I have nothing left but my thoughts and pleas- always calling.
Her name is Stella, and I call to her.
I started hearing her four years ago after my accident. She never spoke her name, but somehow I was certain she was called Stella; so that's who I thought of her as.
I had been climbing without a harness; one of the greatest thrills imaginable. I died that day. I trained for over a year, and I died. I had almost reached the top of the cliff when I slipped on some loose shale.
Suddenly there was no solid life supporting ground beneath my feet. I was falling. I don't remember hitting the ground, but I do recall the sound of shattering bones upon impact. Then I died.
My name is Gregory Slom, Greg for short. I am twenty-four years old, and a medical miracle. I am also terrified of heights.
The first memory I have of after my accident is the sound of her soothing voice. It reached deep into my coma and pulled me like a rip tide to the surface, towards my conscious life.
I awoke with her heeding calls still ringing in my ears. I don't suppose the doctors expected me to wake, and I'm sure they were truly surprised when I opened my eyes and groaned. I was in the ICU at the time, lying face down on an operating table with a scalpel in my spine. I then felt the icy kiss of a hypodermic syringe, and darkness returned with Stella's voice riding hauntingly atop the waves of sleep.
I don't think I could have made it through the healing process without her. I felt I owed it to her, as though she'd been there all my life, calling my name in her lilting voice. I had to relearn how to walk, and after many weeks in physiotherapy with her gentle coaxing in my ear, I was nearly back to my healthy self.
She never spoke anything other than my name, but it was comforting to know she was there - that she cared. Around this time I began to doubt my sanity, as any sane person would do. As it turned out, Dr. Harper doubted my mental stability as well. After a period of observation I was diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder, and send to a mental institute just off the coast of Ireland.
The island was... green. As the ferry approached the shore I was able to discern a series of jagged bluffs on either side of the landing. Terror raced through my entire body as a bolt of lightning through a glass of water. My already weak knees crumbled under my weight as I relived the past four years of my life at a glance.
"It all happened so fast." I stammered, "I haven't been near a cliff for the past four years, and I just- I didn't expect it to have that effect on me." I finished meekly.
"That's perfectly normal after the trauma you experience; Christ son, that fall killed you! Your heart was stopped for over an hour, it's a miracle you're even here to faint at all!" My psychologist exclaimed. Great two days in and everyone already knew my life's story.
As my papers ordered I was assigned to a room with no windows on the first floor. They claimed this precaution was to keep my vertigo at bay. My suspicions told me they thought I was suicidal and at risk of jumping. Either way I was grateful.
Stella's summons still grew stronger, in spite of the doctor's claims that I was getting better. She began to contact me through dreams. She showed me pictures of ocean spray and high rolling clouds. Though pleasant they still gave me an eerie feeling of being watched. My sleep grew restless as I struggled not to cry out as she showed me the bluffs at the edge of the island.
The reoccurring dream haunted me for over a week.
"Gregory Slom" the shadow presence of Stella called. She then turned into mist shrouding the cliff. I understood she wanted me to follow her, and it was painfully obvious she wouldn't leave me alone until I did.
Many of the other patients either kept to themselves or kept away from me. Word had gotten out that I had died several years before, and those who knew kept a fair distance. Perhaps their medication addled brains concluded that death was contagious; I'm not too certain on that subject myself.
The dreams had changed into strange and exotic sights. Beautiful gardens, bountiful orchards, clean streams, a snake, my name and then the cliff all rotated through my subconscious. Everything- as strange and random as it seemed- was completely familiar and well known to me. I decided it was time to find Stella.
Leaving the institute at night was easier said then done, so I waited until after my session to depart.
It was raining, as per usual, and the clouds hung low over the verdant fields. I zipped up my jacket and bowed my head in order to shield my eyes from the persistent downpour.
"Gregory Slom." Stella's voice urged.
"I'm coming."
"Gregory Slom." She called again.
"I told you already, I'M COMING!" I shouted impatiently into the gloom. After having your name called in your head non stop for four years, you begin to lose patience and get snippy. It's human nature, another few minutes couldn't possibly make a difference.
I approached the edge of the cliff and recoiled. There before me lay my entire dream sequence from a bird's eye view. The mist swirled about the bluffs as the ocean crashed forcefully against the jagged boulders. I shuddered at my next thought. I was going to have to go down there. I despised the idea with every fiver of my being, and several fibers of my clothing. This was to be unpleasant at best.
The slope was treacherous and slick with rain and wild ocean spray. I' not even sure what compelled me to go down there. I think I may have been desperate. Desperate for peace of mind, there's a new one.
Clinging to the slippery face of the cliff I peered through the fog, attempting to distinguish shadow from stone. To my left there came the sound of metal on rock. Shocked to actually discover life on this inhospitable frontier I quickly climbed towards the source of the motion. I had found Stella.
She was nothing more than a skeleton really, with a few scraps of clothing hanging from her narrow frame. She stood on a six inch ledge and her arms were shackled above her head to keep her from falling into the ocean.
I don't know why I approached her. She was terrifying and repulsive, yet I could not keep from creeping towards her along the ledge. My mind screamed for me to stop, to leave, to even jump if that's what it would take to get away from her. Still I drew nearer. It was as if she had a grip on my very soul, and continued to pull it forwards dragging my defeated body along with it.
Six meters away- no movement. Four, two -- no movement. Closer she pulled me. One meter - her head snapped up. She looked up at me, two fading green eyes set deep within her hollowed sockets.
"Gregory Slom." Her mouth remained motionless as the words echoed through my ringing ears.
It came in a flash of understanding. The stream, the snake, and the orchards all seemed so familiar because I was there. I had been there before. I was Adam, and Stella, well, Stella was Eve. It was an amazing sensation, reliving a life in an instant. I looked into her dying eyes and I suddenly knew; this was a continuation of our punishment for the creation of original sin.
We were each to be shackled to the bluff, trading off once every five hundred years. It was impossible to die until the other had come to claim their position upon the smooth face of the bluff.
This realization came seconds too late, before I could protest I was shackled to the bluff and Stella was released. The last I saw of her was the dim glow of her green eyes thanking me as she plummeted to the jagged salt corroded rocks below.
Sometimes, as I hang here, I wonder if things would have been different had I died during my climbing accident. Perhaps I never did wake from my coma, perhaps this is my own personal hell, playing off my fear of heights. I have nothing left but my thoughts and pleas- always calling.
Her name is Stella, and I call to her.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Jeffery Castor
"Interrogate the prisoner by any means necessary," the man with the monocle growled through his teeth.
The prisoner, bound and shackled, was dragged limply by a man in a dark hood across the bare stone floor. The air was humid and the walls leaked in the flickering light of the torches that lined either side of the corridor. The hooded man lifted his charge off the cold stone and threw him forcefully against the chamber wall.
"What is your name?" He snarled.
"Jeffery Castor." The prisoner grunted, attempting to cover his weakness by leaning against the wall, only to fall to a heap on the floor.
"Pathetic," the guard laughed, "where were you last night?"
"Working alone by the old dam, I'm a miller." He explained.
"Fallacy!" he roared, "Where were you last night?!"
Jeffery regarded his captor with curiosity. He was a large man with dark matted hair coming just to his belt line. His jaw was square with a deep shadow of stubble upon his snow white skin; he appeared as though he hadn't seen the light of day for a very long time.
"Answer!" He shrieked, backhanding his prisoner and throwing him again to the damp wall.
"I told you already!" Jeffery screamed cowering against the wall, "Please! You must believe me! I'm a miller! My wife and daughter were brutally murdered last night and all you can do is beat me and tell me I'm lying. You're wasting time! Why don't you just catch the bastard who killed them instead of beating around the bush with me? Let me go! Leave me alone!"
"Prisoner is with holding information!" The guard called.
The door they had entered through opened and two similarly clad men carried in a chair, some ropes and a large array of pins and daggers.
"What are you going to do to me?" Jeffery stammered.
"I am referred to as 'The Impaler' for a reason." The guard smiled, hoisting Jeffery off the floor and into the chair.
Before he knew it Jeffery had been stripped and bound to the chair with his legs on either side leaving him horribly exposed.
"What time did you get in last night?"
"Nine - thirty, I was late and missed dinner."
"Missed the killing, missed the agony, the gore and blood did you? Then explain why your pans are soaked with sin?"
"I returned home last night, and the house was completely dark. I fell into a pool of my daughter's blood as I tried to remove the knife from her spine." Jeffery replied thickly through tears staining his grime encrusted face.
The Impaler scoffed as screams echoed through the dungeon. He admired his handiwork, two pins symmetrically placed in either side of the interior of Mr. Castor's pelvis.
"That's not the story I wish to hear. Tell me how you savagely raped your wife and brutalized your daughter."
"There's nothing to tell!" He raved hysterically. "I found the bodies, the next thing I know, I wake up here with you dragging me across the tomb." He writhed in pain as two daggers were shoved one at a time between his ribs, blood pouring down his sides and pooling heatedly in his groin.
"You beat her, why not just kill her? I know you'd have wanted to. Just admit it, you massacred your family."
"Never! I--" His protests were cut short by two pins being roughly shoved through his tear ducts.
"Say it! Tell me how you raped and tortured our wife, ripped out her earrings and stabbed her repeatedly until she finally ceased to breathe. Tell me how you turned half crazed upon your daughter and drowned her in her mother's blood before ending her life in he same fashion as her mother's."
"Enough! I can't take anymore of this! Stop! Okay I did it, I killed them, I - I - I murdered them last night. It was me! Just - just kill me too, I deserve to die!" Tears of blood cascaded down his cheeks already wet with tears.
"Oh, I'll kill you, there's no option there, but I want to hear it, every detail." The Impaler leered from under his hood.
"I - I came home early from work and... And I, I walked through the backdoor, with a knife in my hand, prepared to kill my wife, I then... tied her to the chair and raped her as she screamed and pleaded for mercy. For another act of measured cruelty I ripped her earlobes and then stabbed her fourteen times, until she finally died." Jeffery whimpered in pain.
"That's not the whole story," The captor sneered, "tell me about your young blond daughter." he added driving daggers into into each of his prisoner's kneecaps. " The law demands a full confession."
"Yes! Yes! Just please, please stop, I can't lose much more blood and stay conscious."
"Then talk faster."
"I pulled my daughter towards her mother and held her head to the floor, face down so as to allow her to breathe in her mother's blood and drown. I then left the knife in the base of her spine."
Jeffery looked to his captor once again. The Impaler had blood stains around his eyes which were ice blue, cold and calculating; easy to read. His smile could have made banshee cringe in revulsion.
"You missed the part where your golden haired daughter burst through the door screaming for her mother, only to find you there drenched in a crimson apron." The hooded man spat.
"Mummy's dead and you're next." Jeffrey hissed.
"My words exactly. Not a bad retelling for someone who wasn't even there. You even managed to get the number of knife wounds in your wife's back correct. You must be the real deal." Jefferey's captor grinned manically and leaned in closer to his prey. "I guess they didn't die in vain your family, they were bait to get to you."
"What do you mean, you filthy diseased husk of a man?" Jeffrey screeched.
"I know you're little secret now. No one other than I knows all the details of your family's murder, not even you. You read my mind to find out what happened, there's no other way you'd know. We've been searching for your kind for a while now, a bit of an extermination if you catch my drift."
"So you lured me out into the open by killing my family?! How many other innocent people have you done this to?"
"Reading minds is not innocent!" The Impaler shouted, "It is a breach of National Security. You people can hack into computer systems by simply plucking a password out of some one's head. It is not enough to simply incarcerate telepaths, we must burn them all and dispose of the remains in order to stop the spreading epidemic of psychic terrorism."
He then turned his attention to the cellar door and called out, "We've got another mind reader in here!" The two men who previously brought in the implements of Jeffrey's demise materialized at his sides.
"You left out one detail though," The Impaler whispered slyly, "you left out how your wife moaned in pleasure as I raped her again and again while she was bound to the chair."
Jeffrey's hands clenched in anger, and his face flushed hot in the dim flickering light of the torches. "Haven't you tortured me enough?" He spat, " She shrieked and cried in revulsion before she went unconscious." He sobbed uncontrollably, straining against his bonds.
"Proof!" Crowed the prison guard. "He is a mind reader! Burn him, and then throw him to the lake to join his wife and daughter." He ordered.
A year later the Impaler's wife gave birth to a baby boy. The midwife insisted upon an aquatic birthing for the wife was in hideous amounts of pain and agony.
The birthing was long and laboured, and as a result the child was mildly disfigured. He had two small scars on his pelvis, two jagged scars on both his ribs and knees, and he was also born blind. The Impaler decided to name him Frey.
The boy never said a word until seven days after his seventh birthday.
"Father?" He rasped, regarding the prison guard with his glazed dead eyes. "Who was Jeffrey Castor?"
"W - Why do you ask?" The Impaler stuttered, caught off guard by his son's sudden speech.
For the first time in his life Frey looked his father in the eyes as a smiled crawled across his face. "You just think about him a lot." He replied innocently.
The prisoner, bound and shackled, was dragged limply by a man in a dark hood across the bare stone floor. The air was humid and the walls leaked in the flickering light of the torches that lined either side of the corridor. The hooded man lifted his charge off the cold stone and threw him forcefully against the chamber wall.
"What is your name?" He snarled.
"Jeffery Castor." The prisoner grunted, attempting to cover his weakness by leaning against the wall, only to fall to a heap on the floor.
"Pathetic," the guard laughed, "where were you last night?"
"Working alone by the old dam, I'm a miller." He explained.
"Fallacy!" he roared, "Where were you last night?!"
Jeffery regarded his captor with curiosity. He was a large man with dark matted hair coming just to his belt line. His jaw was square with a deep shadow of stubble upon his snow white skin; he appeared as though he hadn't seen the light of day for a very long time.
"Answer!" He shrieked, backhanding his prisoner and throwing him again to the damp wall.
"I told you already!" Jeffery screamed cowering against the wall, "Please! You must believe me! I'm a miller! My wife and daughter were brutally murdered last night and all you can do is beat me and tell me I'm lying. You're wasting time! Why don't you just catch the bastard who killed them instead of beating around the bush with me? Let me go! Leave me alone!"
"Prisoner is with holding information!" The guard called.
The door they had entered through opened and two similarly clad men carried in a chair, some ropes and a large array of pins and daggers.
"What are you going to do to me?" Jeffery stammered.
"I am referred to as 'The Impaler' for a reason." The guard smiled, hoisting Jeffery off the floor and into the chair.
Before he knew it Jeffery had been stripped and bound to the chair with his legs on either side leaving him horribly exposed.
"What time did you get in last night?"
"Nine - thirty, I was late and missed dinner."
"Missed the killing, missed the agony, the gore and blood did you? Then explain why your pans are soaked with sin?"
"I returned home last night, and the house was completely dark. I fell into a pool of my daughter's blood as I tried to remove the knife from her spine." Jeffery replied thickly through tears staining his grime encrusted face.
The Impaler scoffed as screams echoed through the dungeon. He admired his handiwork, two pins symmetrically placed in either side of the interior of Mr. Castor's pelvis.
"That's not the story I wish to hear. Tell me how you savagely raped your wife and brutalized your daughter."
"There's nothing to tell!" He raved hysterically. "I found the bodies, the next thing I know, I wake up here with you dragging me across the tomb." He writhed in pain as two daggers were shoved one at a time between his ribs, blood pouring down his sides and pooling heatedly in his groin.
"You beat her, why not just kill her? I know you'd have wanted to. Just admit it, you massacred your family."
"Never! I--" His protests were cut short by two pins being roughly shoved through his tear ducts.
"Say it! Tell me how you raped and tortured our wife, ripped out her earrings and stabbed her repeatedly until she finally ceased to breathe. Tell me how you turned half crazed upon your daughter and drowned her in her mother's blood before ending her life in he same fashion as her mother's."
"Enough! I can't take anymore of this! Stop! Okay I did it, I killed them, I - I - I murdered them last night. It was me! Just - just kill me too, I deserve to die!" Tears of blood cascaded down his cheeks already wet with tears.
"Oh, I'll kill you, there's no option there, but I want to hear it, every detail." The Impaler leered from under his hood.
"I - I came home early from work and... And I, I walked through the backdoor, with a knife in my hand, prepared to kill my wife, I then... tied her to the chair and raped her as she screamed and pleaded for mercy. For another act of measured cruelty I ripped her earlobes and then stabbed her fourteen times, until she finally died." Jeffery whimpered in pain.
"That's not the whole story," The captor sneered, "tell me about your young blond daughter." he added driving daggers into into each of his prisoner's kneecaps. " The law demands a full confession."
"Yes! Yes! Just please, please stop, I can't lose much more blood and stay conscious."
"Then talk faster."
"I pulled my daughter towards her mother and held her head to the floor, face down so as to allow her to breathe in her mother's blood and drown. I then left the knife in the base of her spine."
Jeffery looked to his captor once again. The Impaler had blood stains around his eyes which were ice blue, cold and calculating; easy to read. His smile could have made banshee cringe in revulsion.
"You missed the part where your golden haired daughter burst through the door screaming for her mother, only to find you there drenched in a crimson apron." The hooded man spat.
"Mummy's dead and you're next." Jeffrey hissed.
"My words exactly. Not a bad retelling for someone who wasn't even there. You even managed to get the number of knife wounds in your wife's back correct. You must be the real deal." Jefferey's captor grinned manically and leaned in closer to his prey. "I guess they didn't die in vain your family, they were bait to get to you."
"What do you mean, you filthy diseased husk of a man?" Jeffrey screeched.
"I know you're little secret now. No one other than I knows all the details of your family's murder, not even you. You read my mind to find out what happened, there's no other way you'd know. We've been searching for your kind for a while now, a bit of an extermination if you catch my drift."
"So you lured me out into the open by killing my family?! How many other innocent people have you done this to?"
"Reading minds is not innocent!" The Impaler shouted, "It is a breach of National Security. You people can hack into computer systems by simply plucking a password out of some one's head. It is not enough to simply incarcerate telepaths, we must burn them all and dispose of the remains in order to stop the spreading epidemic of psychic terrorism."
He then turned his attention to the cellar door and called out, "We've got another mind reader in here!" The two men who previously brought in the implements of Jeffrey's demise materialized at his sides.
"You left out one detail though," The Impaler whispered slyly, "you left out how your wife moaned in pleasure as I raped her again and again while she was bound to the chair."
Jeffrey's hands clenched in anger, and his face flushed hot in the dim flickering light of the torches. "Haven't you tortured me enough?" He spat, " She shrieked and cried in revulsion before she went unconscious." He sobbed uncontrollably, straining against his bonds.
"Proof!" Crowed the prison guard. "He is a mind reader! Burn him, and then throw him to the lake to join his wife and daughter." He ordered.
A year later the Impaler's wife gave birth to a baby boy. The midwife insisted upon an aquatic birthing for the wife was in hideous amounts of pain and agony.
The birthing was long and laboured, and as a result the child was mildly disfigured. He had two small scars on his pelvis, two jagged scars on both his ribs and knees, and he was also born blind. The Impaler decided to name him Frey.
The boy never said a word until seven days after his seventh birthday.
"Father?" He rasped, regarding the prison guard with his glazed dead eyes. "Who was Jeffrey Castor?"
"W - Why do you ask?" The Impaler stuttered, caught off guard by his son's sudden speech.
For the first time in his life Frey looked his father in the eyes as a smiled crawled across his face. "You just think about him a lot." He replied innocently.
Monday, August 4, 2008
B.C. The Fort St. James Experience.
Oh no! There goes Tokyo, go go Godzilla! Heeee eee eeee eeeee!!!
Mood: Estatic/tired.
Music: The Circle Game - Joni Mitchell
Physical condition: Almost but not quite sunburnt.
Current thoughts: I am hungry. Really really hungry. I want berries, berries are good, I wish I could speak german. Not like it'd serve any purpose. Egads, I should make this quick.
So I'm in BC and I'm enjoying myself. The car ride was tenuous, and I can't sleep well in cars... No scratch that, I can't sleep at all. There's a lot of weird stuff going on out here. The bottom of the lake seems to be alive, kinda creepy in a sense.
Also pictures fall off the shelves "unexplicably". Suuuuure, Imma believe that.
I went to a museum today, and I nearly threw up. Of course Fort St.James is a furtrade town. Euch. I can't do it. But now I'm really really hungry.
So some more songs got written for the musical. Sooo excellent. I enjoyed it muchly.
Katie and I actually get along really well. I'm almost borderline surprised, we always just went with casual friends, but a little bonding does wonders (plus she pushed me on the giant wooden swing as if I were a 3 year old). It's been really sweet so far. Tonight we leave her grandmother's though and head to the beach, and there we shall camp. I don't think her brother is coming with us though. Kinda a good thing. I'm sure he'll be happier here.
So I miss everyone on tour, and I miss everyone in town, but there's no denying it, I'm having a blast. I think we're going for lunch soon, and then fishing. I like fishing mostly because it's over the water and just really really nice. I like being on the lake.
Well I suppose I should end post here, and get back to my vacation type idea.
I shall write more if I get the chance, or if the off notion hits me at the same time and speed as a computer.
Farewell.
Mood: Estatic/tired.
Music: The Circle Game - Joni Mitchell
Physical condition: Almost but not quite sunburnt.
Current thoughts: I am hungry. Really really hungry. I want berries, berries are good, I wish I could speak german. Not like it'd serve any purpose. Egads, I should make this quick.
So I'm in BC and I'm enjoying myself. The car ride was tenuous, and I can't sleep well in cars... No scratch that, I can't sleep at all. There's a lot of weird stuff going on out here. The bottom of the lake seems to be alive, kinda creepy in a sense.
Also pictures fall off the shelves "unexplicably". Suuuuure, Imma believe that.
I went to a museum today, and I nearly threw up. Of course Fort St.James is a furtrade town. Euch. I can't do it. But now I'm really really hungry.
So some more songs got written for the musical. Sooo excellent. I enjoyed it muchly.
Katie and I actually get along really well. I'm almost borderline surprised, we always just went with casual friends, but a little bonding does wonders (plus she pushed me on the giant wooden swing as if I were a 3 year old). It's been really sweet so far. Tonight we leave her grandmother's though and head to the beach, and there we shall camp. I don't think her brother is coming with us though. Kinda a good thing. I'm sure he'll be happier here.
So I miss everyone on tour, and I miss everyone in town, but there's no denying it, I'm having a blast. I think we're going for lunch soon, and then fishing. I like fishing mostly because it's over the water and just really really nice. I like being on the lake.
Well I suppose I should end post here, and get back to my vacation type idea.
I shall write more if I get the chance, or if the off notion hits me at the same time and speed as a computer.
Farewell.
Friday, July 18, 2008
God! That's Good!
Oh no! Not me! I never lost control. You're face to face with the man who sold the world.
Time started: 3:01 pm.
Time of awakening: 12:07pm
Weather: Stormy, it's becoming a usual.
Music: The Night Pat Murphy Died - Great Big Sea
Mood: Cheery, but because of the music I kinda feel like getting mass Irish drunk and dancing on the tables.
Current Thoughts: The guy in the song 5000 miles sounds soooo whipped.
So it's midway through July, and what have I done with my summer? You could say not a lot, but I honestly feel like I'm getting somewhere, perhaps not physically, but my mental condition has improved so much and I feel a lot better than I did when school first ended. Purify the mind and the body will follow. That's the hopes here. My body isn't as healthy as it could be, but once again, better than it was.
Everything small seems to be more interesting, everything sacred, less confusing. The world is slowly turning and I am no longer standing still. I am no longer a sitting duck trapped within my own walls, which I myself built. The fabric is tearing, the tears are drying and the worst of the moment is behind me in a whirl of dark colours which I will one day turn around and cherish. Maybe not today. Maybe not yet. But one day. Everything will be better, and you know, it's all ups and downs. Where's the fun without that?
So off my own inner turbulence. I really feel like dancing. But I can't Irish dance. I'd want to though if I could. I also kinda feel like writing. That's probably what I'm doing here. Trying to satisfy my urge to write. I'm not in the mood for a novel writing binge, I just want to write. OMG I HAVEN'T WRITTEN POETRY IN SO LONG. I should do that. That's what I shall do. I'll do it right now.
Implications of Propriety
An anarchist somewhere is ready to awake,
To open his eyes and welcome the day.
Thankful for the oppertunities he will take,
Already thinking of things he will say.
A seven year old girl gets struck down in the streets,
By an automobile whose breaks were cut.
The paramedics cover her with plastic sheets.
The boy with pliers watches with his eyes shut.
An elderly man breaks down and sobs in dispair,
Thinking of his seven year old sister.
His mother had told him to be greatly aware,
And be sure not to help the strange mister.
This grevious tail of many woes and hardships,
Is a warning to those who tend to think,
That the lives which have seemingly simplistic scripts,
Don't cause terror further down the chainlink.
Ok I'm pleased, although VERY annoyed with my father. I'm listening to fiddles still. I should probably go now... Before I start getting repetitious and such.
Bye!
Time started: 3:01 pm.
Time of awakening: 12:07pm
Weather: Stormy, it's becoming a usual.
Music: The Night Pat Murphy Died - Great Big Sea
Mood: Cheery, but because of the music I kinda feel like getting mass Irish drunk and dancing on the tables.
Current Thoughts: The guy in the song 5000 miles sounds soooo whipped.
So it's midway through July, and what have I done with my summer? You could say not a lot, but I honestly feel like I'm getting somewhere, perhaps not physically, but my mental condition has improved so much and I feel a lot better than I did when school first ended. Purify the mind and the body will follow. That's the hopes here. My body isn't as healthy as it could be, but once again, better than it was.
Everything small seems to be more interesting, everything sacred, less confusing. The world is slowly turning and I am no longer standing still. I am no longer a sitting duck trapped within my own walls, which I myself built. The fabric is tearing, the tears are drying and the worst of the moment is behind me in a whirl of dark colours which I will one day turn around and cherish. Maybe not today. Maybe not yet. But one day. Everything will be better, and you know, it's all ups and downs. Where's the fun without that?
So off my own inner turbulence. I really feel like dancing. But I can't Irish dance. I'd want to though if I could. I also kinda feel like writing. That's probably what I'm doing here. Trying to satisfy my urge to write. I'm not in the mood for a novel writing binge, I just want to write. OMG I HAVEN'T WRITTEN POETRY IN SO LONG. I should do that. That's what I shall do. I'll do it right now.
Implications of Propriety
An anarchist somewhere is ready to awake,
To open his eyes and welcome the day.
Thankful for the oppertunities he will take,
Already thinking of things he will say.
A seven year old girl gets struck down in the streets,
By an automobile whose breaks were cut.
The paramedics cover her with plastic sheets.
The boy with pliers watches with his eyes shut.
An elderly man breaks down and sobs in dispair,
Thinking of his seven year old sister.
His mother had told him to be greatly aware,
And be sure not to help the strange mister.
This grevious tail of many woes and hardships,
Is a warning to those who tend to think,
That the lives which have seemingly simplistic scripts,
Don't cause terror further down the chainlink.
Ok I'm pleased, although VERY annoyed with my father. I'm listening to fiddles still. I should probably go now... Before I start getting repetitious and such.
Bye!
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