Monday, February 28, 2011

Sometimes there is no answer to the question "why?"

Sometimes there is no meaning or reason or greater purpose.

Sometimes bad things just happen.

Sometimes there is no positive.

Sometimes there is no closure.

Sometimes the only option is to endure.

Sometimes we must simply carry on.
I threw the rest of my cigarettes away yesterday evening.

I kept the cigars, but the cigarettes are gone.

There are no benefits.

I find it interesting, really.

I did everything in my power to keep myself from developing a chemical attraction to the things, and yet the second that that package left my hand last night, I had to fight back the urge to pick them back out of the trash.

I had to know for myself why people engage in this act, and I hate my curiosity for it.

But they are gone now.

Their stench was not worth their comfort.

Sunday, February 27, 2011

This burning, twisting, mind-wrenching agony.

This tension in the back of my neck.

The chalk slides so smoothly against the surface of the blackboard.

Numbers and equations leap from my hand as I scratch away feverishly at the slate with my small cylinder of compacted minerals.

I thrust away desperately at the board with the fragile medium, working as fast as I can to attempt to capitalize on the last remaining hours of focus that I have left.

I can feel the amphetamine leaving my system.

A cacophony of distracting motions, sounds, and textures begin to creep into my senses.

I must hurry.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

"Well, I'm having trouble breathing and there are people waiting for me inside. Goodbye."

As far as the last words spoken to a lover are concerned, these are absolutely terrible.

But they are still incomprehensibly better than "talk to you later."
[Note: Written on 2/23/2011]

I am paying today for my good day yesterday.

This is how it tends to work, after all.

I do have good days.

They are rare, but I do have them.

But it is typical that the days following are much worse than usual to compensate.

Today's price is memory of her.

Since I awoke this morning, she has not left my thoughts for a second.

Most of my days are filled with reminders of her, but they are rarely so consistent and unrelenting.

Even the backs of my eyelids present me with her likeness.

There is no escape.

There is only this desperate endurance.

My heart pounds in my chest.

I struggle to breathe.

I have things to do.

There is only one option.

Allow it to take over.

Allow it the consumption of my mind.

Give it the time that it requires.

Find my center.

Carry on.

I have things to do.
Everything.

Nothing.

What is the difference?

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

You are not special.

The acceptance of this will set you free.
I woke up disoriented again this morning.

I'm not sure what the story is behind this morning confusion, but for the time being it seems to be wearing off quickly enough.

I woke up late this morning, and was rushing to avoid being late to class when I became ill in the shower and had to sit down to avoid vomiting.

By the time that I felt stable enough to finish bathing, I knew that I was already late.

Upon standing, I became nauseous and dizzy and decided to skip my first two classes and get some more rest.

I woke up again at around 11:00 am, dismayed by the hairstyle resulting from allowing the long fibers to dry against my pillow, but feeling absolutely wonderful otherwise.

I'm not sure why, but I felt happy this morning.

No particular reason.

Just happy.

Somehow ready to get on with the day.

Monday, February 21, 2011

I need somebody to hold me.

Somebody to hold me and run her fingers through my hair and tell me that this will be worth it.

That I will believe in people long enough to make a difference.

You don't have to love me.

I just need to be touched.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Stove-Top Popcorn in Ten Easy Steps

I have to say that I'm pretty proud of this one. Especially as a hastily smashed together lazy Sunday activity.

Enjoy.




TTFN.
I like being alone.

I hate being alone.

I like being okay on my own.

I am not okay on my own.

I am independent.

I am "my own man."

I am alone.

Friday, February 18, 2011

I feel incredibly light today.

I have gotten approximately nine hours of sleep in the past three days.

My stress levels are higher than ever.

But today, I feel good.

I'm not sure what is so special about today, but even I am not one to, at the risk of sounding trite and cliche, look a gift horse in the mouth.

Being able to go barefoot again is invigorating.

I love being barefoot.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

I had a Kinematics test first thing this morning.

I did not sleep last night because I stayed up and studied until the sun came back up.

It was an open book test, and I spent the entire night familiarizing myself with the material and preparing my notes and textbook for ease of use during the examination.

I stayed up the entire night staring at that book.

I left this morning without my textbook.

I did not even notice until our instructor began handing out the test.

The weight of the realization was sickening.

My grade is going to reflect my carelessness.

I don't understand how I could have let this happen.

Sometimes I wonder why I bother.

I commit my entire life to this, and it is still not enough.

I don't know what else to do.

I do not have anything left to give.

Sometimes I wonder.

Sometimes I...

Wednesday, February 16, 2011

I am beginning to understand.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

I don't care anymore.

All that I ever want to write about is her.

I'm not very good at this...

Monday, February 14, 2011

I wish that I could experience life through the eyes of an artist.

I so frequently wish that I could look around at the world around me and see form rather than function.

I feel like half of all experience is lost to my mind.

I love art, in all of its manifestations.

But I can not make it.

I can not see it on my own.

Putting my emotions into visuals seems so simple in my head.

But when it comes time to actually do it...

I need an artist in my life.

I need someone here with me to show me this seemingly inaccessible portion of existence.

Someone to teach me how to better experience the color of being.

She was the closest that I have ever come to sight.

She was the closest that I have ever come to completeness.

My times with her were some of the most eye-opening and holistic moments of my existence thus far.

My senses were awakened; their range extended beyond what I had ever believed possible.

She was exceptional.

She was everything that I am not.

She was the rest of me.

But she is happier now.

I will remember her always.

Her:

The first beauty that I have ever known.
[Note: Written on 2/12/2011]


Today at lunch, I had a visceral reaction to having to wait for my food. I was incredibly hungry, but when I saw the chef place our completed orders onto the counter, I literally had to fight back the urge to get up and grab the plates myself. Had our waitress not come back out a few moments later, I don't know that I would have been able to keep myself from doing so.

It has been a long, long time since I have experienced an emotion of such tremendous impatience.

It was a physical sensation; my skin itched from the desire to begin my meal.

I do not know why this emotion struck me so strongly or why, perhaps, this particular reuben with fries was so pertinent to my existence at the moment.

But I do know that I did not like the compulsion one bit.

Aim

Pain.

Pain.

Pain.

I pull the bowstring back with my fingertips.

It sits awkwardly into the crook of my knuckles.

My hand is not angled properly.

The tension sears into my nerves.

The sting is not the worst that I have ever experienced, but it is profound.

I pull harder.

It feels good.

Sunday, February 13, 2011

Old Speckled Hen is the best beer.

Just saying.

Friday, February 11, 2011

Why are we so quick to set human endeavor apart from nature?

What makes a beaver's dam a natural wonder while a concrete dam is considered an aberration?

We often refer to it as "our" ecosystem and yet every mechanical and chemical advancement that "we" make is viewed as contrary to the environment.

To be sure, there is a stronger balance to be sought, but humanity and its needs are a part of nature, too.
I paid a visit to my old apartment complex yesterday to see a friend of mine.

I haven't been back to that building since I moved out nine months ago.

It was a bitter experience, being back there.

I have so many important memories in that place.

So many moments that I will never forget.

So many sensations.

The quality of the light.

The smell of the hallways.

The texture of the air within the structure.

The echo of my shoes against the tile.

The gentle affection of her touch.
The visions are coming back again.

Or...I'm losing control again.

I'm not really sure.

I'm having trouble eating again, too.

I'm rarely hungry anymore.

I've lost some weight; a fact that I really need to work harder to counteract.

Wednesday, February 9, 2011

Blink away the exhaustion.

Watch the disappointment waft away with the smoke.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Blend

Wait.

Be still.

Listen.

Close your eyes.

Let it come to you.

Trust in your awareness.

Absorb your surroundings.

Let go of your presumptions.

Let go of your needs.

Be patient.

Meld into each situation.

Flow.

Like water.

Loosen your grip on your perceptions of reality.

Let go of yourself and the answer will be inherent.

We are all a part of this.

We are not special.

Ginko

"Before I awoke, I saw a vision; a memory that was not my own."
I am convinced that we have created the concept of somebody being "the one" or somebody being one's "soulmate" to help us cope with the fact that, eventually, we all must settle.
Worse and worse and worse and worse and worse.

I wish more than anything that I could draw some of these things in my head.

I wish that I had the tools at my disposal to reproduce these visualizations.

To be able to share them with others...
The feelings for her are not diminishing.

But...then again...I'm not trying.

She was the sexiest being that I have ever encountered.

She was the only person with whom I did not have to struggle to communicate.

My struggle with words still remained.

There is always the struggle with words.

Ever since I realized what it means to truly speak, there has always been this infernal struggle with words.

This lapse of time between my thoughts and their respective phonetic constructions.

This lapse; this waste of time.

This time time TIME TIME!

But she was different.

She seemed to understand from the start my difficulties with language.

Although I am sure that I did anyway, I never felt the need to apologize; the need to explain myself.

She never had to tell me to take my time.

She never had to tell me that it was okay.

She never grew impatient or restless or took my silence the wrong way.

She was simply there, always interested in whatever it was that I was preparing to pass through my lips.

Aside from my occasional vagueness or unclear syntax, she never expressed doubt about the things that I said.

She understood my calculatory approach, and although she did not share in my overly-careful mindset, she never interfered with the process.

She recognized without provocation the importance that I place on structuring my speech.

She seemed intrigued by the intermediate step.

She was not "put off" by my hesitations.

She exhibited no awkwardness during my lapses into incompetence.

She was just there, patiently waiting.

Patiently waiting with her magnificent eyes.
[Note: Written on January 30, 2011]

The absence of the amphetamines in my system is more apparent than ever tonight.

I am at a house party.

I hear every sound.

I hear every door opening and closing; every clink of every glass; every vibration of the speakers filling the room with music; every snippet of conversation.

Every word of every conversation occurring in the crowded, noisy room.

I won't remember any of it.

But I hear it all so clearly.

I feel every sound-induced vibration rippling through my page and into the tip of my pen.

I have once again indulged myself with the alcohol.

I can feel its terrible invitation; its irresistible pull.

I know that I should have stopped at two, yet I have allowed myself to continue.

This is not me.

Why do I allow this to happen?

Why must I wonder about this?

Nobody else in this room hesitates before every tip of their glass.

Why have I always been the one burdened with the label of "different?"
It is so surreal to reflect upon the misconceptions and lies that I was once fed about the non-religious life.

I have never been more willing to help; never been so actuated to do good in the world.

There is no motivation more powerful that the promise of oblivion.

Eternal bliss and happiness holds no comparison.

We should not do good because of the promise of reward.

We should do good because it is good.

Moisture

[Note: Written on January 31, 2010]

I wake up not completely aware of where I am.

I know that I am in my room, but for some reason part of my mind refuses to acknowledge its surroundings.

The light flooding in through my window this morning was unusually white; a cleaner illumination than the typical morning glow to which I have become accustomed.

After taking a few moments to regain my bearings, I manage to roll over and check the time on my screaming alarm clock.

7:32.

I silence the shouting tone with the snooze button and feel a little bit silly about the large pillow nestled comfortably between my arms.

It feels childish...needing to fill this space.

Oh well.

I don't care.

It makes the bed less empty.

I know that I should get up.

I need to take my medicine.

I need to drive to campus and finish a homework assignment.

But I don't.

I repeatedly press the snooze until 9:30, wide awake and staring at the clock the entire time.

Finally, I decide to get up.

I fight back the typical morning arousal and hoist myself from my bed.

It is dangerously late, but I take the pill anyway.

It hits me like a brick during my shower.

I have been off of the stuff for several days, and the reintroduction is powerful enough to force me to sit down for a moment.

Eventually, it passes, and I finish bathing myself.

I put on yesterday's barely worn clothes and decide not to bother with embellishing my hair.

Today is not worth the effort.

I brush my teeth, skip my morning shave, and walk out the door after gathering my things.

The air outside is cold and clean.

The fresh smell of the remnants of recent rainfall fills my nostrils.

I stand for a moment with my key suspended in front of the deadbolt and focus on the fragrances.

The metal of the banister next to me...the concrete under my feet...the soil and wet leaves of the small bush garden nearby...

They are all so distinct and beautiful; each one triggering vivid memories from my past.

I try to focus in on the smell of the air itself, but I am met with much difficulty.

The noise of the other aromas weighs too heavily in the unsensed humidity of the cool air.

Heaving a sigh of deep satisfaction, I lock the door and walk, invigorated, across the parking lot to my vehicle.
We are but amalgamations.

Amalgamations of the transgressions of those who have come before us.

But we can change that.

We should change that.
I am drinking, for the first time in a long time, an organic GT's Kombucha.

I feel so revitalized.

I am forever indebted to her for introducing me to this wonderful substance.

Every time that I raise the bottle to my lips, I pay the price of her memory.

But...the payment is worthy.

For kombucha, I fear, is an exquisite beverage.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Untitled

Sunday, February 6, 2011

Clove

My mind registers every ounce of resistive force imposed into my ankle as I depress the clutch pedal and slowly roll over the speed bump marking the entrance of my apartment complex.

The aroma of my recently extinguished kretek clings in the chilled air inside the vehicle.

As I round the corner of a nearby unit and pass over another speed bump, I decide to leave the windows down and drive once more around the complex to allow the smell to dissipate further.

I pass over one more bump and step on the accelerator more firmly than before.

The acceleration, although faint, feels good in my chest.

The small bridge to the visitor parking lot approaches on the left.

I survey the lot from the corner of my eye as I prepare to swing the vehicle onto the asphalt connector.

No signs of movement.

Good.

A clean run.

Gripping the wheel tightly, I quickly turn it to the left and shift down to second gear.

As I prepare to release the clutch and stomp open the throttle, I catch a glimpse of something that brings the whole process to a figurative screeching halt.

On the handrail of the bridge was perched an owl.

This encounter marks the second time in my entire life that I have seen an owl outside of a zoo.

My adrenaline-fueled concentration was immediately broken, and my feet released both of the pedals without hesitation.

I had already passed the owl by the time my body reacted, and I slowly guided my vehicle off of the bridge and into the parking lot, turning my head just in time to see the owl leap off of the banister and take flight into the air.

I assumed at this point that I had missed my chance at a closer look and prepared to resume my trip through the lot, but as I did so, the bird swept its awkward frame up vertically into the air and alighted upon a nearby streetlight.

I pulled diagonally into an open region of parking spaces and firmly set my foot on the brake.

Light classical music poured out of the speakers around me as I stared up at the creature.

It sat on the lamp post, upright and perfectly still aside from the constant movements of its head.

It was clearly surveying its surroundings; looking for something…likely its dinner.

I settled into my seat at an angle that allowed me a clear view of the owl, intent on watching the large bird until something interesting happened.

Surely, the bird knew that I was there.

I had passed within inches of it on the bridge and was now sitting below staring up at it through an open window.

Several times, the owl turned its head and stared straight down at me with its large, ominous eyes for several long seconds at a time, but then would simply look away, unfazed by my presence.

I understood; I wouldn’t be afraid of me, either.

I sat there for several more minutes, hoping to witness the beautiful animal’s wingspan once more before retiring to my room for the evening.

But the owl simply continued to look around, waiting patiently for an opportunity to enact whatever operation it had been planning atop that streetlight.

I waited and waited until the sudden illumination of my gasoline warning light inspired me to give up.

Heaving a sigh of unsatisfied desire, I shifted the transmission into reverse, rending my gaze from my feathered acquaintance.

As I pulled away from the owl and around to my usual parking space in front of my building, I realized that, at least for a moment, I was calm.

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Had to get out.

Can't stay in that room.

Can't sit in that silence.

Can't keep reliving these memories.

Had to get out.

Had to drive.

Only place I feel comfortable.

Only place I feel right.

Needed to drive.

Needed to feel the pedals under my feet.

Needed to feel the engine under my hands.

Needed to move.

Had to get out.

Friday, February 4, 2011

Wisp

I dreamt last night that I was an inanimate object.

I have had hallucinations like this before, but as far as I can remember, I’ve never had a full dream of the same nature until last night.

The dream was strange; surreal in its horrifying simplicity. As with most dreams, I do not remember how it started. I simply remember coming to awareness in a room full of children. From my vantage point – sideways, on the ground – I could see them running around the room, tagging each other and jumping, shouting, and giggling in all of the typical mannerisms of pure childhood innocence.

I tried to move, but could not. Nothing was mobile, not even the muscles behind my eyes. All that I could do was stare straight ahead of myself and watch the children’s feet pass playfully in front of me in the fore-ground. My view of the background was mostly obscured by the bland carpet against which my “head” seemed to be resting, but from what little view that I did have, I could catch occasional glimpses of children moving about in the distance.

Suddenly, my vision began to spin, blurring the room into little more than a smooth array of shifting colors. I could not feel or sense the motion, but from what little snippets of information I was able to gather through my unidirectional vision, I could tell that I was being hurled haphazardly across the room.

I tried as hard as I could to take in adequate information about the room around me in order to perhaps gain some insight as to my surroundings.

It was a futile effort.

Still hurdling through the air, I gave up and resigned myself to wait for resolution.

But resolution never came.

After what seemed like a physically impossible duration of time to be suspended in the air, my existence snapped with an almost physical force out of whatever object it had been occupying and instantaneously shifted into another.

This new object was of stronger prominence in the room. Although the paralysis of my inanimate vision remained, this time I viewed the room from what I gauged to be approximately four feet above the ground. I was apparently standing against a wall, as well, as I could see much of the room from this new angle.

There was nothing particularly striking about the chamber; it was simply the sort of thing that one might expect to find at a typical preschool, daycare, or kindergarten.

The children, however, were a different story.

I had not noticed it from my view on the carpet, but it was, from my new perspective, beginning to strike me as very odd that the children did not have faces.

That is certainly not to imply that their skulls were blank; far from it. Starting at where the hairline would have been had they had hair and stretching down to the bottom of the chin, the areas their faces would have typically occupied were covered in thick, misty fields of shifting, swirling particles. Their faces were continuously changing, at times thick and rippling like a liquid and at other times wispy and fragile, like gentle bundles of loose sand caught in a desert breeze.

Their expressions were constantly changing, shifting and reacting to events in the room around us, but seemingly without reason or specific meaning, at least not to my limited human-object understanding.

Aside from my lack of ability to control any aspect of my being, I was quickly realizing that something was not quite right with my environment.

Nothing seemed to fit.

The more that I examined my surroundings; the closer that I looked at the objects visible within my fixated, stationary gaze, the more out of place it all seemed.

I’m not sure what was so wrong with the room.

There was just an overall surrealism to the chamber, as though things had been placed too carefully on the shelves and walls.

As I scrutinized the room’s other non-mobile inhabitants, trying to distinguish specifically what was bothering me about the place, one of the phantom-like humaniform creatures approached me.

All of the creatures wore non-descript, drab, pastel-shaded gowns, indicating no signs of gender. I watched, still staring straight ahead, as the young creature approached my perspective window and rapped twice with the backs of her knuckles straight onto what I had assumed up to this point was functioning as my face. However, before her hand contacted with my falsely perceived flesh, it was met with an abrupt and heavy resistance before bouncing away with an unsettlingly low-pitched yet resonating tone.

Again, as part of the same continuous movement, the seemingly frail hand struck once more upon the invisible barrier separating her from myself.

Could she see me?

I tried to speak, but should have known it was pointless.

I had no mouth.

I had no sense but my predetermined line of sight and the muffled sounds outside of whatever unknown entity to which my consciousness seemed to be tethered.

One more knock.

Then she spoke.

It was clear upon her sudden vocalization that, if gender even existed amongst these beings, she had to have been female.

I had never before encountered such a beautifully resonate and feminine sound in all of my existence.

“Hello?” she queried, half out of simple curiosity and half as though sincerely expecting a response.

Her voice shimmered before me...felt as soft cloth upon the fingertips...tasted of the sweetest exotic fruits...

For a moment, the bitter synesthesia of the waveform was overwhelming.

Surely, she knew that I was there.

What was I?

Where was I?

Was I at all?

I had to try to communicate. I stared out for another moment at the shifting colors of the being’s face.

They were fluid and serene, resembling very closely the trails left behind by sheets of water shearing across large, flat panes of glass. Shades of blue and dull silver and bright vermilion pulsated slowly across and around her face in no recognizable pattern or frequency.

The sensation that followed is impossible to quantify with language.

Even in conscious retrospect, I can not make any fraction of sense out of the feeling.

To put it simply, imagine attempting to conjure an entire respiratory system from nothing for the sole task of producing some sort of tone to make one’s seemingly ethereal presence known.

Although no lungs or vocal chords ever manifested, the invisible encasement around me began to vibrate.

And with that vibration came a distinct crystal resonance.

And with that resonance came a tone.

A pitch; a sound that made her start back in surprise.

Her face changed from the blue-silver, watery mask to a gold and brown sandy texture. Particles began to float, in large groups, away from her face, suspending themselves at specific lateral distances from the shifting masses of the mask.

Her shock dissipated, and as she once more approached my prison, features began to emerge from the particles, as though being pushed through from behind by some unseen force. A woman’s face finally replaced the sandy mask, and the remaining particles snapped back and around her head into a shape vaguely resembling human hair.

“Hello?” she inquired again.

She rapped against the glass once more and leaned in for a closer look.

Something was wrong with her face; as though it was too carefully arranged like the items in the room.

“Hello?” she asked one last time with a sense of urgency, knocking forcefully this time with the front of her fist.

I awoke immediately and with a violent jolt the instant her fist hit the barrier and sat instinctively up onto my elbows, staring into the dark in front of me.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

I awoke this morning to the horrible sensation of my teeth smashing together.

It was, to relate it to a fairly universal childhood experience, equivalent to the feeling of biting down  on an exceptionally hard piece of candy and having it suddenly give way, causing the jaw to snap shut and the teeth to crash into each other.

I must have woken up with a terrible start this morning.

I still can't get that feeling of impact and grinding out of hy head.

But I'm just glad that my toungue was not in the way.

I probably would have bitten straight through it.
I got laughed at today for believing in evolution.

I was laughed at; right to my face.

That hasn't happened in quite some time.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Sketch

The smell of graphite fills my nostrils as I drag my compass repeatedly across the page.

Small particles of the soft lead crumble off of the small, two millimeter diameter shaft clamped into the metal arm of the device and scatter across the paper, leaving thin marks behind as faint delimeters of their rolling trajectories.

A quick flick of my clipboard knocks the miniscule lead clumps from the page.

My ruler and protractor come down upon the page, acting in tandem with my pencil to generate points and dotted lines upon the crowded canvas of the once sterile and empty white void of the sheet.

Step by step, my hands use the simple tools at their disposal to turn what was once a simple, nearly planar rectangular field into diagrams, models, and representations of simple mechanisms.

There is very little math; in fact, there is little more than a simple inequality.

This is the closest that I have ever come to creating art.

A simple requirement is given: one basic constraint that gives way to a combination of deep-seeded understanding of the physical limitations of motion and a trust in my hands to effortlessly construct from nothing a device to complete the required task.

I pause to check my work.

My manual extremeties are covered in smudged ink and large, patchy splotches of smeared lead.

The desk area in front of me is littered with eraser shavings and discarded drafts of previous attempts.

I trace over the recently confirmed portions of my diagram with heavy black ink and continue on to the next step.

I do not over-calculate.

I do not constantly wonder about the end result; if I am correct.

I do not struggle.

I simply do, and allow myself to do.

Yes...I believe that I am going to enjoy Kinematics.