out of reach

I smile and wave and talk shit until I feel sick to my stomach and I wish I could start over again somewhere nowhere near here. I want new skin.

Always wanting what's just out of reach--that's me. Ungrateful, longing, desperation mingled with loathing for a naturally obsequious nature that I can't fucking change. I can't let you down even if I hate you. I can't. It's too many variables, it's math and I don't understand it so I can't do anything about it.

God I want this to end so bad I can taste it metallic like blood.

 Immortality or oblivion on either side of a coin. Always out of reach.

Found a new obsession, I guess you could call it a muse but in reality he's not real either. Not for me at least. Only the wanting is. Only the guilt and fear that settles deep under my skin. I want to cry and scream and start over again. I know that I can't. That I won't.

Almost face to face with what my soul longs for and again it's out of reach. Still I cling to this hope, this misguided grasping because I'm so selfish I can't make myself look away. All my self control slipping away.


want want want

Is he dark enough to see your light?

I've got half a bottle of tequila swirling around my bloodstream.

I don't feel anything though. Anything but tired.

I thought I was in for a fun night tonight, but again I guess I thought wrong. I am always thinking wrong it seems. I wish I had the right thoughts, the right words, the right anything.

Damien Rice has a song that asks "Is he dark enough to see your light?"

For some reason I can't get that out of my head.

I wonder it. I wonder if I have any sort of light bright enough to see. Or if it's blown out. Or if it's ever existed. I wonder if there has ever been anyone that could see it.

I wonder if it's my own fault if no one ever has.

(un)expected

I was talking with an old friend the other night. We were talking about art and expectation. He claims that all artists create for an audience. Even if they aren't consciously aware of it, nothing is solely for themselves. It's always to be seen.

It made me think for a moment because I could not disagree, yet I could not agree totally either. For me, when I write something or when I make something I don't do it for the audience. I do it for the potential of an audience. Everything exciting is in the potential. Often what is actualized is disappointing. That moment right before a first kiss--that's golden.

So it's had me thinking about expectations. Mostly how expectations ruin all sorts of situations. Either they are too high, and are not met or are too low. If they are too high they bring with them disappointment. If they are too low they bestow resentment. Not to mention the weight of them.  Aren't we all heavy enough already?

 I recently met with a financial advisor to help me manage the money my father left for me in his estate. I had no expectations. I had no desire to be there. The fluorescent lights and dropped grid ceiling clashed in an unseemly juxtaposition with the oil rubbed leather and mahogany furniture. It was disconcerting.  I had nothing but a folder with my tax returns and the sum of my father's life boiled down to a bank account number. It was fucking depressing.

I guess I did expect that.


Speaking of depressing, I've been reading Wuthering Heights again, and Im not ashamed to admit its only because of Twilight (which I also reread not long ago, what of it?). I like it. I do. There's not one good character in the whole book really, everyone is horrible, and selfish, or cowardly and more like real people than just about any other story I've read recently.

"...he shall never know how I love him; and that, not because he's handsome...but because he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same..."--Emily Bronte

I really liked that quote there though, about how they're the same. Her love for him isnt based on how he looks, its not shallow. It's in her blood, its part of who she is.

It's such bullshit.

I love it.

I love you.

Goodnight.

Solid as a stone.

Can't sleep.

Imagine that.

This blog welcomes me back like an old friend. I need one of those tonight.

I could go into the petty details of my life, but that doesn't really matter does it? Situations may change but the outcome stays the same.

Tonight, I can't seem to keep myself together. I've spent the better part of the last year a walking semblance of myself. I am but millions of tiny pieces all shattered and held together by some frail force of will I've managed to scrape together. At any moment I could break. It happens so suddenly, like with the changing of the wind. But I will continue to smile, and laugh at the right times. I will change the subject if it becomes to painful. I do it tactfully, so you might not even notice.

Most people don't notice. Russell Brand has a video where he talks about that--how we can all live our lives fairly anonymously. How as long as you act your part, no one ever really notices you. It's a thought that I find as comforting as I do disheartening.

I published "Somewhere in the Middle"on Amazon recently. It's a project that I've been working on when the mood arises for years. I haven't told anyone about publishing it. It's almost embarrassing in a way. It really shouldn't be, especially since some of the content can already be read here. It's an amalgam of thoughts and experiences and I think that's why I feel embarrassed by it. I want it to be better than it is.

I want to be better than I am.

Solid as a stone.

As-tu déjà aimé pour la beauté du geste?

I feel like this picture pictures me tonight. Tired. Tired but hopeful. Mostly tired.

Since I'm writing in here, you know I haven't been sleeping well again, it seems like the only time I ever have anything to say after midnight. Or maybe I just feel things more keenly after then, it seems like thats true.

Tonight I'm feeling the pressure of wanting too many things that I am not certain of. My heart feels very fickle, and a little bit sick. Mostly, I suppose, I just want one thing, but there seems to be a hundred different directions with a hundred empty endings I could run to trying to find it. Tonight is a rare feeling lately.

I've been very happy recently. Maybe the happiest I've ever been in my life. Really. And my life is pretty boring. Six days a week I get up late, I find nothing in the fridge that looks good for breakfast, nothing in the pantry, I settle for V8, I check the fridge again in vain, I go running for about an hour, I find nothing appetizing for lunch, I take a shower, I settle on something to eat that ends up making me feel a little sick, I do my makeup, I go to work, I come home, I study korean and recently chinese (I work at a Japanese Steakhouse where all the asians are Chinese, and one of them, one of the nicest people I know, bought me a mandarin workbook.), I talk on the phone to people who are incredibly far away from me, I feel really lonely for about 30 seconds, until I tell myself that all my hard work now will pay off in the future, and then I brush my teeth, put on RiffTrax and go to bed. Rinse and repeat. On the 7th day, I wish I had someone to call to do something with, but it's Monday and I have very few friends here, none that aren't married with real jobs really. So I do nothing.

Despite the dark twist I've spun upon that, I really am happy. Are you happy? Lets be happy. Tired, but happy. Mostly happy.