breathtaking

I'm beginning to think that this anxiety I have plagued myself with is actually something worse then I am admitting to, or allowing myself to admit to. Despite my confidence or psuedo-confidence that I cast over my life, there is always that little light in the back of my head pulling a rope tied to a gray cloud down closer and closer to my emotions, my life, my being.

That is the worst feeling having a damp being. It sounds digusting but I don't mean it in that way, I mean in the drained, drowned, damp emotions and soggy memories. The good times that were supposed to be exciting brought down because of one little chip snap and pop of the last straw. Things are building up inside of me, and it's beginning to anchor me to the lowest depths of this ocean.

This thick, murky ocean of..well, wow, life.

But it seems to me that the more I think about it, the more my little light in my head has trouble pulling. It is hard for me to accept that I'd be okay. I'm not okay? I'm okay.

I think there's something to say about all of this but I am just so tired, too tired of my head right now. I'll write more tomorrow.

I could

If I could
I"d build a roof over your head,
So you'd be safe for every rainy day,
And what else could I do
But give both my hands to you,
And blow up balloons
On your birthdays,
And buy you toothpaste till you're sixty four,
And need you and feed you,
But what else can I do,
But shake your family's hands,
And tell them what an amazing son they have,
Telling you every day
That inside your skull
And beyond those ribs,
Lays the soul I want to see
everyday
Sent wirelessly from my BlackBerry device on the Bell network.
Envoyé sans fil par mon terminal mobile BlackBerry sur le réseau de Bell.

Smile like you meant to,

Does everything have to always be close up? Does everybody have to stretch before beginning things? Fingers toes calves back, etcm? Is there a limit to stretching and pushing and pulling yourself? Is there mystery in our abilities to go as far as we can? Is there something in the middle, of extreme pushing but little challenge?

I think that limits are limiting, and they take away our independence and original thought and allow us to do what others think we can. Think of it. As a mentality, strength and ability are only as far as you think other people will notice.

Do you ever notice that you put yourself in the position of the objective other? As the judge in your life? Conscience, conscious or not, you are limiting your own abilities and boundaries. What is it with human nature or 'being'-nature that causes a disruption and chaos with disorder? Why am I a constant within my universe of organisation? Why is my value never x, but am always seeking the answer? Why do I continue to write questions?

--

Permeate good with with depth and expectations,
Perception and experience are background paintbrushes for fear and anonimity,

--

It's like waking from a vivid dream, a kind of dream that hearts beat in intense unison, and you wonder why things happen neurologically, why do thoughts occur why do subconsciousnesses exist, why do grudges and loves and abnormalities linger? Why am I still asking questions?

So that I can spend my life finding the answer, and hate myself for it. Philosophy is bullshit. It's a paradox. The meaning of life is that searching is irrelevant, happiness and identity has been there to whole time. But in order to figure this out, we search the world, magnifying every inch and square in cross-examination, until we realise we've wasted it all.

With curiosity.

Bam
Sent wirelessly from my BlackBerry device on the Bell network.
Envoyé sans fil par mon terminal mobile BlackBerry sur le réseau de Bell.

This smells like fresh laundry and I love the feeling of soft and comfortable sheets again dry skin, soft to touch and yet the winter tries to waken our spirits by the cold prickliness in our noses, but those sheets are white linen five hundred thread count goddesses hugging your knee's together, not buckling but not strangling neither, and just wait until the snow flakes fall beyond and everything else is white but nothing is quite as sturdy as this

This is a test
Sent wirelessly from my BlackBerry device on the Bell network.
Envoyé sans fil par mon terminal mobile BlackBerry sur le réseau de Bell.

losing faith in humanity, gotham city style

I don't know what it is about wakefulness lately, but it is truly uninvigorating. I mean, I want to be excited to be awake, to have some sort of purpose. Lately, it's been going to bed again. Exhaustion plays a part in this, but so does the fact that anything that happens everyday is boring.

That sounds so disappointing. I don't mean that in a rude way, like the people I spend time with are boring or anything, it's just that no adventures happen, nothing exciting happens. Just the same everyday things. Ordinary. What is an ordinary day if the only excitement that happens is your fingers falling asleep?

I have nothing to write about because I've had no time for me in the past three weeks. I have no time for me until next weekend this week, so there won't be any soul-earching wikipedia rampages searching through humanist and buddhist and meditative mindsets for me. Only short poems in a poetry notebook that I have. I need a new notebook. My favourite notebooks in the bookstore were gone after Christmas, and I was half-expecting one for Christmas anyway but I should have just bought one. I need one that isn't shit, that has character, and will be filled.

I write in notebooks with pens. Which is counter-intuitive since I can't read over my work then, but in a way that makes it easier for me to write. Even as I write this, I have the computer far away from me and small type so that I can't erase what I've said because I can't read what I'm typing. These are my thoughts falling down through my nerves to my fingers, and past my consciousness after hitting the keys, hitting the impermeable constant that is the internet.

I want to start reading the East End plays, I think that the Factory theatre intrigues me just because it the rivalling the Terragon, and for some reason I have a strange love for Terragon, probably because it is named after a spice.

Crazilly enough, I wish that I could readn things that I actually enjoy all day everyday, and could just actually read with my eyes. There is more frustration in my life than the limitations of my disability, but for the love of jessu why is it so hard for me to read an actual book? I feel like I've lost intimacy altogether.

Intimacy is on the level of reading in my mind, to hold something and to connect with it in such a way that you respond emotionally.

I don't want to write about this anymore, how uninspiring. I'm an empty muse for article blog writing that are internally composed lately, so, I guess this is sort of a bust. Maybe I should take up some sort of thematic bullshit. I've always hated those blogs that start with "So I was looking through adverts today.." or some other bland shit that you see the beginning one hundred forty characters on twitter.

I'm beginning to think I'm sort of a non-believer in anything anymore. People ar e turning out to be a fifty-fifty-flip of kindness nowadays, but I guess that was never a change. Maybe I'm just sick of two-faced people who certainly do not make their own luck.

And please, for the love of pete, somebody get that batman reference.

lost and confused in the hundred acre woods

It's in the amniotic fluid of everyday breath and air,
tjat stale inhale, that coughing exhale,
that feeling that someone's already drank from this glass,
the lipstick marks red,
this inhale previously occupied somebody's,
well, somebody's exhale,
and to be frank, it's a little morbid to think that along these lines,
or those,
somebody got lost alnog the way,

so really, you're breathing dead man's air, and it wreeks of misbehaviour



It's the final shake down I guess, but sometimes I think that I'm not on a time bomb ticking clock, and a week from this moment will not be my actual birthday, and I will not turn into one of those self centered come-on-its-my-birthday girls. I'm a slow cooker of disaster on my birthday, and I wish I was joking.

I want to think about this, really, because I remember that when I was little my birthday usually enjoyed big bird and cute dresses and dancing, on my part, and really nothing's changed. Swap big Bird for HP and throw a little wobble into the dancing and really I'm the same old me. My hair's a nit lighter, but not for long.

It's a part of departure, I guess. I have this thing called separation anxiety, meaning when something leaves me or something changes I have a hard time adjusting. This is self diagnosed, but I feel that all neurosis is initially self diagnosed, so why not. I want to say that I am saying good riddens to me teens, but I am sort of unsettled about walking in on my adult self.

I don't know if I'll like her.

If I met me right now, I would want to be my friend. I mean, I think that I wouldn't be such a bad friend. Yeah, I complain too much and think too bad about myself and don't text or talk to enough people enough, but the people I do focus on are cared about and loved and nurtured, let alone all around fantastic people. If I met myself, I'd be happy with the situation.

But adult.. Adult. A D U L T. Wh is that so daunting? Why can't I wrap my head around this? Why can't something so simple and passerby like the world's birth beyond be like me? I am only a fleck on the skin of a zebra grazing and running, cantering, trotting through the wilderness. You all won't know, but I just used about twelve words from different classes that I had today and I am quite proud.

I already pay bills, and book appointments, the only thing I really can't do for myself is drive. I don't drive because, well, more different anxiety, but these anxieties go only as far as my capabilities wil, and I am no longer safe to drive a vehicle.

Could it be that I just want to make a fuss about all of this? In all reality, I know I'm not turning an old age, and nobody's majing a huge deal about it anyway. In my head, twenty is massive. Yeah, I can't drink or drive or rent cars or anything that the ages surrounding twenty can, but it is two decades of life. It is an era. It is the cusp of the rest of my life.

Actually, everyday, every morning day, is the cusp of the rest of your life.

But in all reality I wish my family in particular would make a bigger deal about this. I know that everything is fucked and bs right now, but really, come on. I need something here. I'd like to be acknowledged, I'd like to be told that 'wow Jess, you're turning twenty, way to have made it, that's incredible, my oldest daughter is twenty" Nada. Ah well, maybe that'll come a week from now, but I don't know if I'm expecting anything.

I don't expect much anymore, none of us do.

Hypnotic, the ease and wind buzzing sopurrs around ym house are, it's this numbing feeling that I realised right now I wrote about last summer in my writing rage, my six hour delve into my psychosis and my new literature baby. My intravenus of insane writing crap that I love, but it is all describing this feeling of being trapped.




Purple. I think, well, purple like her feet, they were the feet that I turned..purple. The walls, the walls that were eggshell white ten second ago turned, jabbed a purple blazing fire into my eyelids burning, blazing, why was it not anymore the inner shell of the hot coffee mug of hell I was living in, it was purple, like her feet. Her feet were purple I remember cause I saw when they pulled me away, I wished anything but purple today and yet here I was crouching, losing my mind but not crouching because I couldn't move, and I am on the middle of the last tape deck song in my head, the last inch the last gravitating memory of groundedness, keeping me in this dimension, or, this, this inside. This interior. I can't yell, I tried, to ask why it was purple like her feet but her feet were purpke but weren't like this, sort of, they were more.. Bruised. This was more of an alarm, a warning but not because I know it once they trapped me here once the doors were locked but what doors? They must've air lifted my ass down to this fucker, down into the eggshall purple mug that was cooking me, heating up my insides radioactively. Her feet. The tape deck ended, the white noise and her feet. Her feet. HER FEET. and then it happened, well it didn't really happen but I screamed out loud and louder, and louder and until that purple shook the air infront of my eyes it shook I took it louder. But my eyes were locked shut, and they wouldn't let me get past this purple, the eggshell white mug turned purple, and only above me was teasing me, not purple, but deep dark red, no sky, no sky for me tonight no sky for me any night because the purple was drowning me under the blood red sky. The blood red ceiling that reminded me of her nose and eyes, and her feet were bruised too, her feet were purple.



I love writing.

call me a misprint

I was reading today, for about five hours straight, and I kept having this feeling that I've had since I was little. When I was a baby I wouldn't sleep, ever, so my parents found that if they played music I would fall asleep easier, but if the tape ended I would wake up and immediately start screaming. As I grew, I tended to need more of this music in order to continue sleeping, but I have these visions from when I was young and I would see the Cat in the Hat's tall hat's shadow against my door, or see Bert and Ernie's shadow on my closet, or see the Easter Bunny's shape in the clouds... I would feel this unbelievably low feeling, low as the physical, literal sensation of something happening low in my chest.

And when I got older, and we moved to the city, it started happening.

I've never written about this, and even when I talk about it I make no sense, but I think it's insanity breaks so I feel like it's an important part of me. This feeling is the kind of feeling where I question the universe itself, when I believed in God I used to pull myself out of my body, up to heaven above the clouds, and pretend I was God and his friends playing with a large dollhouse, because I seriously believed that was how life and fate, destiny and events played out.

I asked the question if I just stayed in bed and didn't go to school in the mroning, nothing would happen, I could just do nothing because I was an insignificant spot on the earth, no matter what I did nothing would be different, because people don't make changes, fate did. Then I stopped believing in fate altogether, and that's when the separation began to go further, to the point where I liked doing it, because it made me feel departure from reality.

I guess that was the beginning of my wish dreams, but it was more than that. These feelings and thoughts would only come at night while I was in bed, and I would think if I wasn't here, if man and woman were never formulated, I'm getting senses of it now, it is deeper than zoning out...Let me try...

If there is nothing and I say nothing than nothing happens, my life is just a life and a breath I take is a breath to me but that is in my head, my head is separate from yours and you can't see my thoughts...Once I die I am nothing.

That was the beginning of my fear of running out of time, because I realised that once I die, I will never be able to see or do whatever I want ever again. That is just the end, my body being buried and everything is gone, no more talking, no more thoughts. The thought of having no thought, no facial expression, no hunger no hair to worry about no worries no..nothing, is terrifying. I'm not afraid of dying, I'm afraid of not being here anymore.

And I started thinking these things, in more complex, meditative states that happen only at night but here I am in the dimly lit bedroom at university,reading about natural selection and the survival of those adaptations and variations of the species that will survive to the environmets and habitations surrounding them... I don't understand why, but I won't be able to shake this feeling this time.

If I didn't get up in the morning, people would worry, but my spot, my friend of God's sitting up in the clouds would drop me and pick up another doll, because we are justliving on a snowflake. Earth is somebody else's whoville, if that makes any sense.

And even if it doesn't it does to me, which is what reality is, isn't it? Truth is socialised, truth and honestyy are figments of imagination in the true honest scheme of things. The fact that trust is an issue at all, that you can't see what I am thinking at any moment scares you, because I hide things inside of my head just like everybody else does, these feelings, these deep chest light headed feelings about death and nothingness.


I think about not waking up and never would, because that implemented fear of not being able to have the option of doing anything ever again scares me, terrifies me against ever not taking the opportuniites given to me... but still, I now even right now...can't stop thinking about the inbetween that we live in, the insecurity unstability chaotic realities that every person lives in...

I can't believe I just wrote this.

she's a little runaway

I'm tired of this, I want to move away to a place that isn't full of fucking self-centred losers who feel sorry for themselves all day. I showed up to your fucking pity party of a life you lead and guess what? You were too shoved up your own ass to attend. I'm tired of people treating people like shit, treating knowledgeable, worth it people deserving loving people with big hearts bigger than their fucking bodies and leaving them in the fucking dust. I'm tired of good people going out on a limb for everybody, making excuses for ignorance and hatred and still being forgotten. I hate this place where love doesn't exist and god doesn't exist and safety and passion and beauty is all just complete BULLSHIT. give me a place where people aren't synical about every fucking, miniscule thing. Give me light in a dark room, in a foggy graveyard where the lost lover is buried but their other half is fucking some random in the pub bathroom around the corner. And that, people fucking. fucking fucking fucking. Is it possible to love anyone without love anymore? of course not, because love is obsolete. Love is obsolete in a world where NOBODY THINKS THEY'RE WORTH THE FUCKING LOVE THAT EVERYONE. HAS. TO. GIVE.

blood? blood is in you to give? what kind of scientific bullshit is that? Prentitious greedy mother fucking assholes who don't believe in the stability of darwin or shakespeare because they are common. Get off your fucking high HIGH horse, and come down witht he rest of the god damned population who carry TEN THOUSAND POUNDS on their shoulders every morning, and get upset at the barista because your chocolate milk is too "grande," and get angry at your husband because he looked over your shoulder at your text message conversation. Get mad at everyone, why don't you, the world needs a fucking good change.

In such an abstract world as this, where is the room for anything worth it? eh? Just, fuck it.

Fuck off fuck you fuck everything, if everyone else can be so GOD DAMNED UPSET ABOUT THEIR LIVES WHY CAN'T PEOPLE WHO HAVE IT HARD BE ANGRY? WHY CAN'T I BE PISSED OFF BECAUSE EVERYTHING THAT I DO IN MY LIFE IS INADEQUETE? WHY DID I CHOOSE SUCH A MOTHER FUCKING STUPID REDUNDANT LIFE PATH? BECAUSE SOMETIMES IN LIFE IT'S BEAUTIFUL TO DO THE FUCKING THINGS YOU LOVE. AND THAT ISN'T A LITERAL TRANSLATION, I AM NOT NOT NOT NOT NOT DOING THE SHIT I LOVE RIGHT NOW, BUT BECAUSE I AM TRYING DOESN'T MEAN THAT I NEED ANOTHER FUCKING TO DO LIST LONG OF BULLSHIT WORRIES TO THINK ABOUT.

So take your pretentious, self-pitying, depressed, upset, ungrateful, cunt-y fucking opinions out the fucking door, start from zero, and realise the bullshit that's been spilling from your life for as long as you can remember, and reload.

in hiding

confidently I fell asleep with wet hair sticking to the pillow,
deep-sea dreams that contain nothing but opaque open nightmares
about sea monsters flogging down the eastern train,
and evil mermaidens tangling long lines of golden brown hair
in the propellers of a passing motorboat, a passing dream in the dream,
incept upon and through the tangled up thoughts and memories of today
and yesterday, too, I guess,
and sleeping slowly I toss around a bed of feather and straw,
the pigs didn't know that building a wall of stark emotion could keep
a wolf from crusade, from encountering them, from intruding on their lives.

what is coming in? letting something in is like a protruberance,
a what? an incision upon the worst type, the worst kind
the worst kind.



--

underneath the pillow i find sharp golden things and i
refuse, I refuse to clasp it in my hands,
or brush it through my hair,
or hold it inside of my pocket because underneath the pillow
I can't see it, or in my hands I guess,
or anywhere, the golden light that shines through everywhere
the unknown longing everywhere is veiled by something darker,
worse by half, and everybody sees that veil over gold sometimes,
most times, occaisionally anyway, and nobody accepts the gold for what it is
and was,
in their own hands,
but pass it off to others trying to hot-potato the gold,
nobody wants it.



--

I'm hidden under my own veil, my own lost island of atlantis,
beyond the sea, beyond the round earth on which beings pass silently,
beyond the golden light of the sun, the moon, the galazies that are just out of reach,
beyond and over the rainbows, the universe and the further beyond,
I am hidden, hiding under my own veil, my own discreet habituation that I have created
so that I am alone in a paradised gateway to inside,
and if anyone entered truly I would be gone, my existence as I know it would not be,
I would not be.



--


I decided to write a bit of poetry for a bit, I probably will post a couple more times today. I've found that with this blog I have a tendency to write more than once a day, which may be due to oncoming inspiration and muse, or some detachment anxiety from the blog of yore. Whatever it is I intend to let it muster and grow underneath this "veil" of which my writing is kept, and I guess I should write a bit more about my mindset lately.

How about happiness? Does anyone really feel this anymore? Is anyone ethical? During my studies of humanism that I've been looking into a lot of the theorists talk about ethical and moral values, and I question my own morality and ethical beliefs. Am I ethical? Do I care to be? On my large plate that is infront of me do I have the time? Is humanism right for me if there is no time?

Why do I have to identify with a labelled belief system, anyway?

I forceibly address the fact that I would love to just reject the fact that I must choose something anyway, and begin my own journey of thought and theory in order to justify my own head to myself, but I remain compelled to explore humanism further. Honestly, I don't care. I don't care about internal anything, I just care about happiness and peace. Something about the theory of peace is compelling in itself, the fact that maybe there could be equality and love, just actual trrue love.

Wow, true love, sounds like total bullshit. Maybe instead of conducting a study on humanism I should try looking into true love, and the fact that at twenty years old I have the capacity to love a lot of people, and what love is. why is love subjective and beautiful? Can love be a form of hatred? Why do lines have to be so strict and clear, why can't something be a little uncanny in nature? Is that true love?

I want to write this one post forever, I want to reveal the love that I feel for this blog already, the love that I feel for the words that I set down in every sentence, every spoken word, every gesture and hug, every smile. Smiles are theraputic, I want to research happiness therapy, maybe that is a true form.

aches and pains of the day and age

As it seems, my taste in music contrasts with about everybody in my immediate world. Well, most people.

The weird thing about it is that I don't have a lot of the music I like on my ipod. I wish that...Actually, that would be a lovely birthday present, fixing my ipod and itunes. Keeping the music I have now and just adding everything that I actually like, instead of tidbits and other genres. I want more than a tidbit, I deserve more than a tidbit.

I feel like I should be saying timbit. If you're going to have a doughnut and you are older than seven years old, you should be having an entire doughnut, not a timbit.

My taste of music covers infinite surfaces, crevases, it collides and overlaps, but in the most current of cases, I just listen to whatever is on my ipod. I'm such a corporation, material-based listener. Does anyone know if my ipod can play the radio? Because that would be absolute magic, and ideal for me. I'd rather a variety than stick with one or two artists for the rest of my life.

I'm like this with everything else, too.

But music is so much of what I use to define me, that it seems more engrained in my sistem, the startup wizard of my life was set to the early nineties REM albums and David Bowie, of course. My parents' wedding song was Tonight by Elton John, another strong influence in my current life, I'm realising. If you haven't heard it, go off and take a moment. Tonight is worth it.

Incidentally, I don't share my music with just anyone. If anything, I'd rather just keep things to myself, again, like everything else true and beautiful in my life, I'm a little possessive. It is unbearable to me if anyone has the same favourites as me, my favourite Hendrix song can not possibly be loved by anyone other than me and Hendrix, and that is final.

I don't really like that about myself, I'm a jealous music freak about that, but I can't really help it. I like it when I listen to a song and know what it's about or even if I don't, it takes me somewhere that isn't where I am at that moment.

A trip.

I took that music course, and I realise right this moment my entire life I haven't been chasing the adventure itself, I've been chasing the trip. Through fantasy novels, seventies classic rock, character-based film and photography I have been craving something else, other. I am looking for the other, something, that is unattainable in nature and yet the going, just the journey in itself is the thrill ride. I don't necessarilly need the end result, the adventure, the hindsight, I need the wind blowing through my hair as I pass through on my way, I need fact and proof that what is happening matters and is different from a reality.

My reality revolves around sensitivity to stimuli that I give myself such as litaerature, movies, the music I love, the images I percieve and the thoughts that I allow myself to have. I'd rather live in a different, created reality than my own sometimes, because at the stage in my life that I am in it does not allow me to live the life I want.

I need to change my hopes for this reality into something that I do like. Like being happy. I am happy, and that is the ultimate goal for me, so really I have just got to coast. I'm coasting to the bar of my life. Coasting, however, is not something that I would classify as a journey, the going, therefore not fulfilling my goal in mind. The goal that is achieving complete satisfaction with life, and not craving a fantasy.

So onward I go into making my world a journey, that is life itself, but in order to create an adventure a journey is necessary, and when you're surrounded by incredible amounts of stress and expectations from this society that would rather you fail than fly by, it is up to me to create a balance of the fantasy journeys that I crave and the bullshit reality that is sort of forced upon us.

Why can't we all just live in Strawberry Fields Forever?

organise

I wish I had a small room, I really really do. I can't wait for my sister to move my things to her room, to make the switch, because I just really want to have a cosy space... That is it.

It is, that it is.

I need a place that is cosy, maybe I should try in my room in the other house, to make things cosy so that I feel more at home, so that I can bring a tea in and cosy up, make a space in which I can write properly. I always feel that at a cafe at a small table with a latte and people around going about their own business I would just really like to have that at home as well.

Here, in this house, the space surrounding my bed is cosy. My favourite place that is cosy? Two places, or a bit more I guess. My boyfriend's couch, my best friend's rooms, my room at the beach, uptown's starbucks couch, bookstores, comfy chairs in the bullring, my roommate's floor, my sister's bed.

I could try really hard to make my large bed also cosy, also comfortable, but I am always stressed there. I am going to try, though, the second I get back. I can do this, I really can.

I know I can, I must must must must must change something, I know I have to, it's an obligation. I need some change, I need things to be fresh and new and just not the same. I need things to be away, not cluttered unless it's my desk. I want to throw out clothes and unwanted things. I don't deserve that material bullshit, I deserve simplicity. I crave simplicity.

And adventure. I crave a simple adventure. Any takers?




Didn't think so, but I will continue to plead and puppy-eye over here until my room changes, the vibe changes, and I'm back to cosy-ing up in my room to a podcast and a warm tetley. I want a latte, and a cup full of marciano cherries, please.

Turkey

Europe
Canada
Turkey India Australia
South Africa
Japan
Everywhere Else.

I'd like to look around at places, and see things I guess, but I was told one that the nicest people in the world are in Turkey, and I remember rugs and marketplaces from some sort of computer game that I used to play when I was little, I think it was Madeleine travels the world, or something. I would like to visit Turkey, and spend days in the marketplaces meeting people. Do people in Turkey speak Turkish? If so, I'd like to learn. I'd buy a new bandana and where it there, I'd bring Stevie, if he'd come with me. We'd eat buffet and drink wine and laugh a lot, because I feel like no one gives Stevie enough credit. I guess he's Steve now, nobody over the age of eighteen identifies as "Stevie," sorry, Steve.

But really, I know he'd rather Australia but everyone goes there. You look at the places where everyone wants to go and New Zealand and Australia are always there, and they're on my bucket list as well but they aren't top of list. I'd rather go to Turkey, and experience nice people.

I crave people with feelings and empathy and smiles. God, remember smiles?

I've decided to make a new list, actually, one that is no longer places I'd like to visit, but places I'd like to live. Experience. "Visit" seems like such a mundane, ordinary word. I want to live places, feel them. I want to experience areas and moments that people brush over. I'm thinking about living in places for short periods but long enough to...well, experience I guess. What stupid wording, here it goes:

New York City
England - what is it now, eight months? seven?
India (this may change, I hear they don't have wonderful health care, mental note to look up health care and blind accomodations for these places)
Malaysia

These seem random and odd, but they aren't really to me. Regardless if I talk about them often outloud or not, I have thought about living in these places. I would like to, atleast for a brief period, to just experience it all. Pay bills in different money, learn languages have difficulties. I don't want to be stuck in one place forever.

And it is going to be difficult. Because of my disability flying is bullshit, and hard, and strenuous and tiring and it makes me feel like I shouldn't be allowed anywhere. I'm just a hassle, what with needing soeone to help me on the damn plane and filling out my forms and telling me where the right things are, teaching me, but I am willing to learn... I refuse to let that stop me.

I need someplace to put this all down, someplace that is neat tidy and I can keep everything in that one place. I'm going to try in the next few days to well aquiant areas of my possessions to be allocated as the keeper of my thoughts. I recently fell in love with a bag that I actually already have that is big enough for everything but my stupid computer as it would be too heavy, so maybe that would work. I really hope so, I need someplace to carry around notebooks and poetry notebooks and my playbooks and poetry books, I read those because they're easier for me to read, by the way, that's why I'm so into poetry nowadays. I can't read novels easilly.

I should look into a portable cctv, except if I thought a computer was heavy to carry around...

Oh well, I'm going to get places, I refuse to stay in one place forever.

I took one evening in Costa Rica and brought a vogue out onto the balcony, looked out at the jungle beyond the railing, sat, and breathed for a few moments. Thinking about what was going on around me, it is hard to realise that we are small pinpoints revolving around, well, the earth's core. There is not one being that we revolve around, and I was five hours away from home, moments from the equator, in diminishing heat, and just involved in the moment. I love feeling that there is so much more out there, and that was one of those moments.

I am not the centre, nor even a part, of the core of the universe.

That does not scare me in the slightest, and for many reasons. I am the centre of my own being, and the centre of my life is, indulgingly, me. I devote time into recognising the facts, flaws, and beauty of my life, but also the life around me. there should be difference in realising these things, and there is poise in taking moments to view the world around you as huge.

It is not a small world, after all.

It is a large one. Covered in oceans and jungles and deserts and rainy cities, war-torn countries, many wonders and oppressions that makes one wonder why there is so much greed in the world? I am greedy. I wish that I had lots of money so that I could travel and spread happiness, I wish that I could pay off my family's debts and buy them a new house, a new car, a puppy. I wish I did not have to go to university.

there, I said it. That one little seemingly insignificant fact seems to be my core right now. University is drivbing me out of the world and into insignificance. I took a week long trip to Costa Rica with my family and realised that worrying about the grade weighted on my paper that is worth fifteen percent of my mark is nothing, absolutely bat shit nothing, in comparison to everything in the world. Why does anything like this even exist? People in Costa Rica go up to tweflth grade, and they don't need to go to university to have their main export be microchips. Yes, not sugar cane nandorfy, MICROCHIPS.

They're that intelligent at such a young age, or have the determination to continue their education. I need that drive, something to get me through. I passed an empty lot uptown today and thought, "man, I could open something up in there."

These eyes aren't stopping me.

There is something that I need, something strong, like a vase full of flowers with a note card that says "Don't forget that the world isn't all shit." Unfortunately, there aren't many hallmark cards with such a greeting. I guess I'll have to make my own, start giving them away as gifts, and hope for the best.

What was that again? Hope? Yeah, it's been a part of me for a long while now. Spres auod vires. Hope and strength. I have confidence in sunshine, in rain, in the day break and the moon falling, the breath that comes around on a soft winter's afternoon on a side street, waiting. I have confidence in the fact that there is so much more out there then right here. There is more than right infront of me, regardless if I can see it or not.

There is less fog beyond this darkness, that is just so bright.

Initial

The square brackets are left untouched and I still can feel my mind counting how many days I should have left, but alas there is none left for me to write or rant or admire, just this. I guess it should just be ramblings,

or,

it could be something more. I will have to think about it some more, a lot more, but I've figured this out enough. I am going to play around, get some dynamic in, and maybe something to eat. I should think of a theme, but all I can think of is to ramble on about the places and things I'd like to see.

How about I pick something more exciting?

Like my descent into humanism, meditation, invigoration, and my exploration of what I want to do and be for the rest of my life. I am on a journey, an adventure, and my life is on the cusp of finding a true self. I turn twenty in almost twenty days, and the irony of my accepting my age and my indulgance in everything younger than I am contributes to finding my true being. I want to recognise me in the mirror again, and for the next little while I am going to try to see through the fogginess and the lights.

But I think I will wait a bit until I show it to anyone. That's something odd about me, I like to tell everyone lots of things about my life, my adventures, and yet I keep a whole lit dispersed over many friends. The handful that know everything usually never go away, and the shopping bag friends all know a little of everything. I think that within this text I want to look fully at myself, and look over those things that are occaisionally and whole-heartedly at those times overlooked. I want to see.

I will trudge onwards, the best part about this text is that there is no obligation other than my devotion to becoming a self and writing, and my passion for bettering happiness and the general happiness of others around me. I want to write here, ramble on, and not have to bracket myself in with numbers or box off myself for being overcast or blunt or fidgety in my wording. I am experimental in nature as well as my writing, and therefore my new beginnings will follow suit.

I do not intend to get any feedback, love, devotion, following, or anything remotely resembliung any of these things. Just peace of mind and a becoming.

To become, not to just be.

It is always a journey,

JW