Thursday, May 9, 2013

equal distances

My life path is going seemingly seamless. I wrote out a five year plan today at work and it looked like a list that a naive, overly optimistic fifteen year old would write. But it's just the likely path that I will be taking with little extra effort needed than a mediocre attempt at daily productivity. Yet it is so much more miserable than all of the times I should have been worried about where my next rent payment would come from.

Friday, December 28, 2012

Overanalyzing pt. 3956

One of the most fascinating and telling qualities of someone is how often and how intensely they make eye contact when having a conversation. There are so many benefits to truly looking at someone straight into their eyes when you're speaking to them. Yet it seems to scare the shit out of so many people.

I try not to overanalyze people by how they react to eye contact, but it happens without my consent. There is a distinct different between being someone who doesn't make a lot of eye contact, themselves, and someone who is uncomfortable when the other person has their eyes on you.

It can often give you away when your words protect you. Your words are saying "I am confident, I know who I am and what I'm saying, and I am choosing every word skillfully and careful." Yet as I watch you explain your family and what they mean to you, I notice your eyes hit the ground and focus on that one spot by your foot; while you were too busy learning every crevice of your hard wood floor, I had the wonderful opportunity to notice your mouth tense up when you say her name.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012


Dealing with this is a lot harder than I thought it would be. I've been praying for strength, with is strange, because I haven't been praying lately. Then again, I feel like it's only fitting.

Friday, August 10, 2012

Made of Paper

She sounds like a dream on paper. Hiding her face behind her soft curls, tangled so her fingers get caught when she brushes it away from her eyes. Her sleeves are long and falling past her hands, dripping like rain water down the car windows. But her curls do more than catch her fingers, and her sleeves hide more than her pale blue nail polish: they are her armor, shielding herself away from any feelings of emptiness. Nothing breaks through her brunette barrier - nothing gets in and nothing gets out.

She sounds like a dream on paper. Every morning she paints cat eyes carefully onto each eyelid, to make her smiles look more genuine. The extra oomph is just what she needs to sway a crowd in her favor. She is a magnet in the room, and everyone is drawn in but her; only she stops and wonders what all the fuss is about - an empty girl with too much make up is all she sees. Her laughter would lighten up the darkest of hearts, even though they're all fake. She draws in so that she knows her facade is working; she is more believable than she ever thought possible.

She sounds like a dream on paper. When you're spilling tears onto her lap, she will rub your back, using her nails just enough to let you know she cares. Whispering into your ear gently, her words engulf you and swim through your head as if they're contagious. It only takes minutes to forget that there could ever be a problem if she's around. Tugging on your heart strings is not a strong enough phrase for the sheer feeling that comes out when you can feel her breathe on your neck.

She's made of paper. Flawlessly smooth to the touch, yet hollow on the inside. There's nothing inside to hurt and there's nothing to give away. 

Thursday, August 9, 2012

One Week In

I wish my urges to write didn't only occur when I was sad, angry or fucked up (mentally, not with alcohol.) But, let's be real, they only occur when I'm sad. angry or fucked up.

I've given myself one week to process. A death of someone close, a suicide scare of another close friend of mine who (thank goodness) is fine at the moment, and a whole lot of City Year bullshit has put me in a really fucked up place right now. But the week is now coming to a close, and I feel just as close to the edge.

There is a tendency for me to use the phrase 'dark place' too much in a joking manner - i.e. joking about going to dark places during monologues - but it really isn't a joke at all. Right now I feel like I'm moving closer and closer to do not return place. As much as I try to make light of it, I can't deny how scared I am, as well. I know what that's like when I go there, and it truly does feel like a one way ticket. It begins with that teetering feeling: one foot is on the ledge and one foot is already dangling off of it, and you're just yelling at yourself over and over to just take a fucking step back but your body won't respond. No matter how much you try to say "this isn't real, this isn't real, it's just an emotion, a fleeting feeling that you control," there's really no control at all. And that's what I'm really afraid of, I suppose.

Losing control.

Earlier this year, I let myself lose control. One moment I was there and the next I was weak, I was needy and I just couldn't do it alone. But last time, another person was responsible for that loss...and that almost helped, in a way. Because every time I wanted to cry, I let the tears burn me as they fell and turn into anger instead. There's no one to blame this time. There is no one to point fingers at if I slip below the surface and drown myself this time.

Positivity is being thrown my way, but every time I hear another "it will get better" I just want to gently explain that they need to grow the fuck up and realize that's not reality for some people. The only thing I can do is remind myself that I didn't drown last time. This time last year, I thought I wouldn't ever be able to feel truly happy again. But I did. It took a long time, it took almost a year, actually, but I did make it. Ironically, everything came crashing down as soon as I built it back up, but this time for totally different reasons. But it'll be okay, right? "It will get better," as they have said so often these last passing hours.