Tick Tock

I've always wished that I could control time. The idea of understanding and manipulating the flow of time is a mental ecstasy. It has always been one of my fondest fantasies since my childhood. A childhood of rarely speaking had left me dreaming - I still am dreaming. I often sit and ponder what that would be like, having no concept of chronological progression. I would wear a white robe and have white shoes. My hair, long, limp and snow-white. Bearing a long silver clock hand, I'd traverse the wispy wakes of the fourth dimension and seek the knowledge of ages, always cautious not to disrupt what was and what could be.

Immersed in this life of ticking clocks and swaying pendulums, I'd be called Chronas, The Snowy Wizard of Ages: Serving under Grandfather Clock. My understanding of history would stretch beyond the bounds of libraries and antiquarians. Helping those in need, I'd be a master of information, relaying the perfect secrets and tearing them from the minds of the undeserving. Of course, I would be merciful to an extent; my green florescent eyes, with their piercing and unerring gaze, would dominate my victims, petrifying their legs and locking their face to mine.

I can dream....

Howling at the moon won't make it better

Thoughts from a mouth:

• They could play better things on the radio.
• I thought this coat was faux suede... but it isn't.
• I find sad people incredibly attractive.
  
• I wish I didn't.
  
• I really love the way old clock hands look.
• If you are adolescent, and live in the U.S., you do not speak English properly... to any extent. I will actually put power behind this generalization.
  
• Time is NOT a palpable substance or construct, yet it kills you indefinitely.
• Biologists make good poets.
• Pantyhose make good coffee filters.
  
• I make good.
• Múm tells me "Summer make good."
  
• The Crimea told me that "howling at the moon wont make it better."
• Rufus told me that he's "so tired of America."
  

The strings of conscience

I'm anxious. My mind is connected by threads, not lists or papers or post-its. I'm constantly pulling on these threads. They are red and frayed at the edges. When they become tangled, I cut them. This is reckless, I know. My memory suffers and with this, all is forgotten. As I sigh I realize... This is going to be difficult...

Seppuku soshite Harakiri

Today will be a long day. But pleasant, I hope. I'd like to go outside and enjoy the sun but recently I have been feeling lethargic, and oddly enough in the summer season. It is strange. Also, I would want to get out today of all days and see the grass and strawberries, listen to the cicadas and crickets, feel the breeze and taste the earth carried on it. Tomorrow I - No, I'd rather not say anything about it. Being free from responsibility is blissful, but being free from responsibility also leaves you not a whole person.

The days in August, in Bella Augusta, are often fleeting and whimsical. This August has proved wayward to that consistency. She has dragged on, reluctantly trudging her feet through time. With this, she has given me a greater sense of tranquility and relaxation, but has also withered my eggplants. This morbid balance seems to always emerge in ways not needed. "An eye for an eye," some tend to say, but those who hide behind that adage often hide behind an endless cycle of violence.

So with things I won't name starting tomorrow, I suppose its another step in my life. Actually, I don't know why I said that because I really don't appreciate it when people say things like, "Ugh... life." or "God, my life has been so ____." because one's life is so grand and broad and will encompass one's entire lifespan. So, why put things that way? It's almost forsaking one's own existence.

I killed a Fairy

Recently I've felt as if I am heading for the dragon's mouth or the bottom of the cliff or the end of my rope. Yet in this ominous premonition, I can't stop myself from sliding into the nameless, bottomless, seamless fissure in the earth. Not as if it was my fate; like Hades was dragging my putrid soul to the depths of the underworld. Oh no. I feel all but in control of letting haphazard and small, innocuous actions ensue. Yet I can feel it all piling up on me, beginning to push back, and eventually crush me. I don't want this!

It all seems appealing in my happiest and carefree mindset, but I am not always kicking stones and grazing fences with sticks. My adolescence is not a smooth transition from childhood to adulthood. I can understand a rough one, but I am confusing what is and what isn't. Happiness is momentary, and then later the most dark and distant memory. Yesterday and Tomorrow feel like years and years in both directions, yet I wait for them like they are hay-minutes.

I hate how people use the world happy so freely...

The Ghost of Depression

There is a wispy ghost named depression. He comes and goes from month to month in search of my happiness. He is childish and wise at the same time. He has no friends except me and lacks the social etiquette to make any of his own. If it weren't for my understanding, he would be all alone. He knows so much and has such potential, but alas, throws it all away for the chance to make an impression. He hides in mirrors and indulgences. He likes chocolate and sweet coffee. He speaks little but conveys all with his large eyes that only appear when the moon is full and the stars cry with the gravity of his glances. He carries nothing with him except his collection of masks which he wears when meeting new people. It is quite rediculous, but he insists. We used to despise one another but have grown close in recent years. It is difficult to see any similarity between the two of us, but I can always see a resemblance.
What Depression doesn't know is that he hurts me. I think he's one of those ghosts that aren't aware of the damage they do. He does a lot. He numbs me and steals my empathy until I finally become indolent. I stare at him when he's not looking and when he's eating. He thinks I don't notice, but I do; I see his flaws and the flaws that he imposes on me. Our relationship has become so stagnant and monotonous. I hope we can forgive each other for our vices.

A sweet summer night (well, a premature one)

Its a calm evening for once.
I just lit some incense in my room.
How romantic, sandalwood.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I can see dark wood and I hear French music when I close my eyes.
Si Tu N'etais Pas La.
Crackly sound and a woman with a flower in her hair.
Violins? No. Violas and a Piano.
Now the incense is smoke, and I'm in Tunisia.
A small cafe? a bar?
A woman and a man are sitting at a round table.
He stares while her eyes flutter and she looks away.
Her breasts lay over her arm as she sighs,
But her eyelashes are pulling him closer into lovestruck oblivion.
What will become of this romance?

You were right...

I hold my breath at the viewing of my previous moods, selves, notions, and consistencies. It's a funny little thing! Ha! For the life of me, I couldn't really remember when I started my journal and why I had begun writing in it - or more importantly, how I continued! It has always been hard for me to do things like keep a journal, but I suppose it was just easier keeping an electronic one, namely LJ or Blogspot. So, with these previous notions and motivations escaping me, I went back into my journal, looking through, into last April. How ironic, that on the day I can no longer remember why I started writing in the journal, be the anniversary of its creation! The first of April! And how ironic my life has been in the past few weeks. So many things have made me say so! And how ironic that things should be ironic and noticeable that way!
It's so sad! So very sad! To the depths of my heart and my soul! That ominous sadness that is so sad that it is beautiful; perhaps because it filled with so much emotion and depth. Such sadness!! I can no longer believe that it is sadness! Life can be so simple! So pure and clean!! And then so stoic and dead!! Why!? How!? I think I can understand now why, a year ago, to this day, I started a journal! Even if I lied to myself and to others through it, I would be able to tell, and I would know the true feelings I was experiencing. That is the reason! That is why my heart screamed out for writing and typing! That is why I loved and hated and despised and wanted and felt and admired and believed that I would one day have that! THAT! THAT! That complete and utter happiness! That wonderful, blissful, clean and simple happiness that has inspired names, dreams, songs, stories and poetry!
You were right Jess, you were right all along... It didn't need to be evident sometimes. I just needed to be it and feel it! You are wise beyond your years!

You talk way too fucking much

I thought that by keeping myself stationary and by letting the poisonous insects of my social hell-hole sting and bite me, I was defending my pride, my honor, and my sympathy. How fleeting and dramatic! It was nothing, meaningless! I was only sustaining a foolish consistency. I am no longer ashamed of my ability to hate and to despise. I had already distinguished myself as a despiser, but i suppose that I really didn't believe myself: I was being untruthful and halfhearted! I wanted to believe that it was in-the-moment, and that it was only pretense; a game; a childish habit, but I am no longer sure. Is it succumbing to human nature and meaningless drama? This, I am not sure, but I do know that I have been stuck in my self hatred. I have been wallowing in the manure of the superfluous: my own words.

Those who have a goal say, "This is a dream, a dream of my own, and I am beautiful for it." And they are whole hearted, but my words are the words of one who listens to himself speak and preach, and that is my tragic flaw! I admire what I say, and so, I taint my words with the poison of the envious. Each sentence becomes a bullet of my own firing and I begin to believe all too much what I say - the ignorant and the supercilious.
So what must I do? I assure you, I must listen when I speak, but I must speak! Must I? I fear that my thoughts may obscure my sanity more than my words would. No, my thoughts are pure and instinctive and I cannot deny the sense they present. They deserve much more attention than my words do. They will make me hate myself, my words. I will live in absurdity and I will be become sullen and melancholy.
Speak or Silence...?
Should I speak? Shall I no longer?

Camus

So,
As of today, my stress levels have significantly dropped - plummeted really. I feel great! I feel fresh as a bagel! I'm not exactly sure why, but I think that its a good thing and that I have to reason to question things like that anyway! If I am content, I see no reason to ruin it, I (unlike some) see my happiness as a sense of purity. And one might say to that: "The purity you see is but an illusion, a fallacy, and a farce and if not a farce, then an all too real absurdity."
And I say to this: "You are mistaken in my perspective, a fallacy or a realism, it is neither. They are as I feel them and I have learned to not deny my senses. It may be creative, artistic, and scenic to have one's heads in the clouds, but if one never glances downward, one will trip over the malicious rocks and stones of realism and absurdity and therefore brings one into the opposite extreme of self pity."
So, without the impending luminescence of existential thought, one must compensate. Of course, when I try to compensate, I only disappoint myself with the largest rock of all. What I like to call The Stone of Malice. It is a large, black, smooth, translucent stone that reflects and embellishes one's bitter and misanthropic tendencies.
Ugh! sometimes I get so sick of my own tendencies that are supercilious and arrogant, which then leads to bitterness, then depression, and then realization, and then finally absurdity. Which philosopher was the one who mentioned absurdity? Was is Camus? He was interesting, and his writing made me dizzy. But never the less, he wrote about absurdity and its ultimate relationship with suicide...

The ice has bitten back on the air,
~Sir December

There! Their! They're!

Ahoy!
Me regaurds to those trapped in this unexpected sea of snow that has fallen around our feet. One must hurry! The current is swift! And the surface is rising! Please, hurry! It is only a matter of time before my berserk spirit swallows this tiny little town in ice and snow!

Am I so dear? Do I run rare?

I am sitting in my room. I am listening to music. This music is blissful to me. It is so beautiful, so very beautiful. Her harp, her voice, they are such a peculiar combination, so real and so fantastic at the same time. It is incredible how one of such gentle, delicate and innocuous nature can bring such a bitter, lonely and stoic despiser as myself to the point of tears. Sometimes I think that I am trapped in some kind of illusion that she produces; no one else sees and hears what I see and hear from her maternal and nurturing gaze as she concentrates on those oscillating wires. It makes me feel like I am being tempted and entranced my some cruel and longing siren. Of course, I can never feel this way for more than one or two seconds, it is just so strange to me that only a few others feel the same way. I forget occasionally, that she is like me. A person. Once in a while, my mind gets the best of me, I imagine that she is a fairy/faerie/phaerie, a nymph, or any other creature of the Forrest and Wood. I forget that she lives in California, that she is human, that she sings with her harp on stage, and that she tours and travels and drives. It is an idea that is still hard for me to remember sometimes. Oh Joanna, if you could only see the beauty you are! Maybe you do...

Peach, Plum Pear,
~Sir December

Distraction & Yogurt

I try to be secretive, and I try to make life interesting, I do, I try. Do I fail? Do I succeed? Is there a form of success in my endeavors? Does it matter? I have a face that shows what I am thinking, despite what my mouth says. It is sickening at times. Those who are ignorant - who are "happy," say the things that strike me like a blow to the face. They insult, ignore, ridicule, mock, and rape me of my values and my principles until I can taste the bile at the back of my throat. So is the fight meaningful? Does it have a purpose? Do I wait? Do I read? The light, the heavy? Nietzsche? Camus?

The taste of Cherry Blossoms obscures the malice on the air,
~Sir December