(no subject)

If you can fall asleep, comfortable with how you’ve treated those around you, and with how you’ve turned moments into memories, then you’re doing about as good as you can in life. Everyone is disliked by someone to some extent. Even the most famous and iconic figures in history, even the ones that hang on walls, or who are immortally smiling on our currency, had those who despised them. I sit here reflecting, and although there have been times when I’ve chosen the wrong thing, fucked someone over, left someone hurt, I still think that I have tried with all of my gull and might to do the best for myself and everyone around me. So lets leave that at the door. My actions are mine, and I intend to live the rest of my moments in that manor.

(no subject)

Things are changing. This place has somehow started seeping into my blood, and transforming how I act, think, and make decisions. There are many things I plan on changing in my life. I really can’t stand how a majority of the people in this town act, and how I feel when watching them treat each other with absolutely no respect. As of this point I don’t dislike anyone. As of this point I’m letting go of every negative thing I’ve had done to me. Revenge is silly. It’s weakening.

I need a change of pace, of scenery, even if that means changing what’s around me and pulling new mountains out of the asphalt. This game is a circumnavigation, ending at the beginning and perpetuating more of the same old. Over and over again, and what’s worse is when kids can sit and explain what’s wrong here, when they can clearly see their own follies and some how ignore them as soon as it provides an ounce of attention. Many of these kids aren’t worth an ounce of fucking anxiety. As soon as you offer me an ounce of respect, we can get along, until then you are a stranger. And as a stranger I will offer you whatever I can offer, but don’t think that for a second you have an effect on my outlook. Take what I offer, wipe your ass with it, and throw it back at me, you won’t effect me anymore.

This is my last post, I am sick of pretending like scene drama is interesting, and worth the two seconds it takes to read it. Two second of idleness is more productive.

(no subject)

I dream about you every night, and every morning I wake up out of breath.
I was walking outside, it was mid-morning, humid, yet there was a blanket of fog stretching into the distance. There was an oak tree, alone in the field of grass. From a strong limb like two braids of hair hung the ropes of a wooden swing, hand made and hand-hung. Except they weren't quite hanging, you were sitting on the swing suspended in the climax of sway, stagnant with your hair reaching above you. I was lucidly dreaming, and I walked under you and attempted to climb the tree to touch the ropes and see if they would move. I managed to loosen the knot in the rope, and eventually it came lose, as did you from your suspended state, and you hurtled to the ground. Before you crashed I was awake and drenching the bed in sweat.
At this point I always wonder to myself, if its possible to fall back asleep and return to my dream at the same point wake-ness fished me out. I'll close my eyes, and attempt to keep thoughts out of my head, but they come rushing in like feigned smiles in a tightly packed mall the eve of a holiday. They rush in and push me out of line, out of the store, out of the entire mall and into the parking lot. This is where I am sitting, in my car with a wet-vac tube stretching from my exhaust to my window, where it's sealed tightly with tape. My eyes blink, then get heavy like two steel anchors, and I get tired while huffing car byproduct. Next exit dream state, and you. But as I'm falling asleep, at a point when I can no longer keep my eyes open, I see you for a second out in the parking lot, skipping towards me with a crescent smile and rosy cheeks. You're wearing a summer dress with pastel floral patterns and lace and you’re singing a song that I can barely hear. I want to wake up, to open the door and run to you but I blink hard, my eyes roll back and open. I'm in my bed again, the sheets tightly wrapped and translucent around my body, panting and shaking.
You used to be something tangible, something I could reach out and run my hand across. Something I could hold in the dark when my bones were shaking and my stomach was contracting to the beat of bad dreams. Now you've turned into a gas, like a rising fog in the faint shape of your old shell, and you seep into my nose at night. You navigate into my brain and move like a ballerina, deeply entwining yourself in my dreams, knitting blankets that suffocate me in my sleep. I wake up and look around, letting the light comfort me, letting the familiarity of my bland room hold me in its arms. But I always smell you when I wake up. Your skin, I remember it having this smell the way your house has this comforting smell that you only notice after a distant time away from it, when you walk in and it fills your nose and you know you're home. Every morning distance wakes me up, rubs its warm nose on my neck and makes my hair raise.
I feel sticky, like the way the sea-water at the beach coats your skin in salt and leaves sand clinging to hidden parts of your body. You lived by the beach. I remember walking down the beach in January, in the cold wind, holding hands and my teeth chattering around uncontrollably. I slide over to the side of the bed, let my feet flatten on the cold floor. The motions of morning begin. I turn on the shower, let the bathroom fill with steam while I brush my teeth. For a second I see you next to me brushing your teeth too, smiling and covering your mouth so I can’t see the white foam that teeth and toothpaste and friction creates. But you're not really there. I know that. I am not losing my mind, I know that you're being imagined in my room and that you're really far away from here, dancing in fields with a weathered dress or something. My skin is sticky, and I know it's from sweat, and not seawater.
It goes down the drain bead by bead, or maybe some of it even evaporates into steam and floats around my bathroom, lays against the cold mirror and condenses, rolling down onto my counter top. Maybe some of it follows lines of elaborate piping to the sea, where it gets evaporated and sucked up by a massive cloud, collecting with other beads until the cloud breaks like weak cloth, and falls onto your skin somewhere where you're walking or dancing. I'd like to think were mystically connected like that some how. Maybe the beads of sweat get lost on their way down the drain, and are never seen again. I don't know much about beads of water and how they live.
Now I'm clean and bare, and cold. I feel more distant from you than I have all morning. I have no faint dream sitting fresh on my lips, I can barely even remember my dream now, it just makes a tremor down my spine, into my hips where I shake for a split second. The dream is a shell of snakeskin, in the grass around the gardenia bush outside, decomposing and turning into soil. I'm not soaked in a sweat that I can logically tie to seawater, and to you, and to walking around on the beach with you. I'm just naked and shaking in my bathroom. I finally remember to grab a towel, to dry myself off and resume actions instead of standing there still except for a constant shiver. I pretend the towel is you, except it's coarse and I realize how silly I am.
I finally go numb and out of the hypersensitive state I was dreamed into. My shirt manages to fall around my neck, and my arms find their way into the sleeves. My underwear manage to climb my legs, and wrap around my hips. My legs go into my jeans, they seem to zip themselves, they are buttoned. I don't remember getting dressed but here I am, my clothes are on and must have acted on their own. I realize I don't really have any place to get dressed for, I have no obligation or event to attend. I walk over to the window, I look out at people moving around, walking to work, getting in their cars. There is something distant in the way they move. Movement that leaves me expecting to hear the whine of a gnarled door or the crackle of an old record.
I tell myself this was why I got dressed, to stand in the window and watch other people live their life. People flowing like ants, busy with their shopping bags and important dinners with clients, or maybe their mistress. They drive away from town, over an hour away to avoid running into the next door neighbor. When they walk in the door, they scout the crowd, double check for security. There is a lonely hotel room somewhere, cold and waiting for them to bring movement to the elder widower of a room. The window might as well be the television. I turn the channel to car crashes and street fights. I am imaging things again. There is a string and I pull it, the curtain falls and I walk to the door.


Suddenly I’m driving, as if released from the gripping branch of a grapefruit tree. Plump and yellow, full of juice, dropped down into the soil to decompose. But the soil formed into a hunk of gas-burning metal, a pumping machine, strapped to wheels and pushed along the pavement. The grapefruit tree molts its leaves and fruit, multiplies into countless new tress, sprouting purple flowers. Your old neighborhood rises from the ground, breaking dirt mounds like the pale hand of a corpse in a cheap thriller. It grabs my ankle and holds me steady while it punches me good and hard in the gut. The effects are horrible, the lighting careless, but somehow I am outside of your house, the buildings and the ground moved around me while I stayed still and not the other way around.
Were walking around on the feeble tree house outside of your house, with its hanging planks and creaking steps. It plays out like an overhead projector, faint and flattened out on the surfaces that still stand. I’m climbing higher in the fort, where the wood has fallen apart leaving a gaping hole in the floor. I am testing my weight on each plank that’s left, and as I let down my weight it shrieks out, tortured and straining to hold me in place. You’re trying to follow me, and I look back with a smirk, going out of your reach, where I know you’ll never attempt to follow. You call out at me.
“You’re going to fall, you keep pushing it and you’re going to fall.”
There are loud cracks, and a crash. The projector winds up, the film spins out of control, comes off of its track. The scene disappears. The tree house is alone again, without even ghosts there to keep it company.

(no subject)

Last night I had a dream, it was this intense party and it was all lucid.
When I woke up I thought to myself, I must be a badass, I even party in my sleep.

(no subject)

I see you in my sleep, after the backs of my eyelids fade away and colors start to coagulate into images. You're wearing all white, your eyes escape to a place where corpses tango and share tea. You always whisper something, though it falls inches before it reaches my ears. Speak louder young one, or curiosity may drag me to where you prowl.
Perhaps that's your intent.

(no subject)

Loneliness is my curse - our species curse - it's the gun that shoots the bullets that make us dance on a saloon floor and humiliate ourselves in front of strangers.