| Abyss of the void. |
[Apr. 10th, 2012|02:50 am] |
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It's like counting the number of tiles on the ceiling, or the stars in the sky. You do anything you can to pass the time. It's laying awake at night wishing you could change the world when you can't even make a change for yourself. You do everything you can, but it's never enough. It's the moments in between sleep that pull you apart at the seams. It leaves you comparing your expectations to reality like the way you'd compare a summer breeze to a winter breeze; pleasant and unwanted, warm and cold. You're doing what you can but it's never enough. |
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| I'm not the easiest person to love. |
[Apr. 1st, 2012|03:02 am] |
Staying up late, talking about the closeness of folded letters and sealed envelopes, thinking about powerful form of human contact as we close our eyes and breathe deep while our fingers fly and you tell me how good it feels to be free with someone and I am constantly reminded of how important bare skin and the curves of humanity and drifting into another world can be when you want something and it is finally tangible. But I will go to sleep and it'll all be history.
I’d always thought that my awkwardness was a thin veil disguising the real me. The me that was funny and could write songs that touched people. The me that would one day find some beautiful, intelligent boy who’d recognize me as his soulmate. But I was beginning to suspect that underneath the awkwardness there was just more awkwardness and not much else. And that would explain why I stood in a room full of people and felt like the loneliest girl in the world. Sometimes I really want to talk. Sometimes I forget I’m not that sweet girl that needs attention. Sometimes I want a hug because the world may be falling apart. And the next morning I wake up and just think about myself as a fool. One day I can smile hard and in the next cry harder. I can beg someone to be with me and two seconds after I can beg for them to leave me alone. That’s what I do, what I hate the most about me. I hate missing a voice, an arm, a song. I hate missing a call or even the way things were before. But what I hate the most is to feel. Because when you feel, you can’t control, you can’t step back. |
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| To love something that death can touch. |
[Mar. 25th, 2012|08:33 pm] |
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We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and, in spite of True Romance magazines, we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely, at least not all the time but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness. |
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| A good read. |
[Mar. 14th, 2012|09:00 pm] |
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I think we ought to only read the kind of books that wound and stab us. If the book we are reading doesn’t wake us up with a blow on the head, what are we reading it for? So that it will make us happy, as you write? Good Lord, we would be happy precisely if we had no books, and the kind of books that make us happy are the kind we could write ourselves if we had to. But we need the books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us. That is my belief. |
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| On the ends of strings that somebody else pulls. |
[Mar. 13th, 2012|01:02 am] |
We are not meant to stay wounded. We are supposed to move through our tragedies and challenges and to help each other move through the many painful episodes of our lives. By remaining stuck in the power of our wounds, we block our own transformation. We overlook the greater gifts inherent in our wounds — the strength to overcome them and the lessons that we are meant to receive through them. Wounds are the means through which we enter the hearts of other people. They are meant to teach us to become compassionate and wise.
And we are all going, I thought, and it applies to turtles and turtlenecks, Alaska the girl and Alaska the place, because nothing can last, not even the earth itself. The Buddha said that suffering was caused by desire, we’d learned, and that the cessation of desire meant the cessation of suffering. When you stopped wishing things wouldn’t fall apart, you’d stop suffering when they did.
Just like when they say, for most of life, nothing wonderful happens. If you don’t enjoy getting up and working and finishing your work and sitting down to a meal with family or friends, then the chances are that you’re not going to be very happy. If someone bases his happiness or unhappiness on major events like a great new job, huge amounts of money, a flawlessly happy marriage or a trip to Paris, that person isn’t going to be happy much of the time. If, on the other hand, happiness depends on a good breakfast, flowers in the yard, a drink or a nap, then we are more likely to live with quite a bit of happiness. |
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| God only knows what are we fighting for. |
[Feb. 17th, 2012|09:16 pm] |
 An text from an new-old friend read: "You shouldn't be with someone because you have everything in common with that person, you should be with someone because you two are able to tolerate each others differences. Having everything in common is for best friends. Opening each others minds to new worlds is love." Idk how much I can agree with it. Saying that is saying when you fall in love, it should be awful. Awful, uncertain, scary, wonderful, confusing, all at once. That's how you know it's real. You have to care deeply. Passionately. And that hurts. |
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| I am thawing. |
[Jan. 31st, 2012|10:02 pm] |
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Sometimes it's easy to feel like you’re the only one in the world who’s struggling, who’s frustrated, or unsatisfied at barely getting by. But, that feeling is a lie and if you just hold on; just find the courage to face it all for another day, someone or something will find the way and make it all okay. There is never a sudden revelation, a complete and tidy explanation for why it happened, or why it ends, or why or who you are. You want one and I want one, but there isn’t one. It comes in bits and pieces, and you stitch them together wherever they fit, and when you are done you hold yourself up, and still there are holes and you are a rag doll, invented, imperfect. And yet you are all that you have, so you must be enough. There is no other way. |
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| Back to basics. |
[Jan. 24th, 2012|03:40 am] |
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You can talk with someone for years, everyday, and still, it won’t mean as much as what you can have when you sit in front of someone, not saying a word, yet you feel that person with your heart, you feel like you have known the person for forever…. Connections are made with the heart, not the tongue. |
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| Velvet. |
[Jan. 2nd, 2012|12:05 am] |
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Life is glorious, but life is also wretched. It is both. Appreciating the glorious part of life inspires us, encourages us, cheers us up, gives us a bigger perspective, energizes us. We feel connected. But if that’s all that’s happening, we get arrogant and start to look down on others, and there is a sense of making ourselves a big deal and being really serious about it, wanting it to be like that forever. The glorious part of life becomes tinged by craving and addiction. On the other hand, wretchedness—life’s painful aspect—softens us up considerably. Knowing pain is a very important ingredient of being there for another person. When you are feeling a lot of grief, you can look right into somebody’s eyes because you feel you haven’t got anything to lose—you’re just there. The wretchedness humbles us and softens us, but if we were only wretched, we would all just go down the tubes. We’d be so depressed, discouraged, and hopeless that we wouldn’t have enough energy to eat an apple. Glorious-ness and wretchedness need each other. One inspires us, the other softens us. They go together. |
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| Like a orphan to a faded dream. |
[Dec. 29th, 2011|09:40 pm] |
The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.
For days I wrap myself in your stolen words, in your hidden moments, captured and wrestled into my world. I want to respectfully stand on the side of your home, with an arm and my head sticking in through a window, glimpsing and feeling blindly, roughly at all of the beautiful jewels you’ve accumulated and created over time. I want to knock softly on your window in the morning to see if you’re awake. I want to hold your hand in sleep. I want to give you spaces for you to think and grow, all the while staying within arms reach. I want you. I can’t shake the sorrow I hold for all of my failings and weaknesses. For all of my broken and perforated skin; such a shame. I know equal mixtures of sorrow and confidence are healthy, even if they rise and fall like oil on water. I know I’m growing constantly and would probably grow out of this but these are promissory notes clenched in my fist. I will burgeon in time; I will slash myself through with tenderness. And if beneath it all this throb continues, I’ll find you in the elevation. Will you take me as I will be and never again as I was and am? |
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