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.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
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."
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