So, I haven't written in a while.
If there's no recent posts here, it's usually because life is not terrible at the time.
But this post isn't going to be sad, I promise.
It's about a self-realization that I think will aid in my pursuit of happiness.


For some reason, the Universe just works weird for me pretty often.
My life often feels like floating existence before a plethora of strange events happen all at once.
Like the exact day I decide I have an interest in someone new, 
someone old from months past thinks they can walk into my life again. 
This has happened twice.
I've had to get over guys who don't want me, only for them to decide I'm worth their time months too late.
This happens too often.


I don't know why things like this affect my emotions so much.
I let feeling wanted make me happier than most things.
And feeling unwanted always feels the worst.


But suddenly, I feel changed. 
I thought I was weird before. 
I've never actively tried to have a boyfriend.
I was always after one thing.
And sex has never been something I've done out of love.
It's never been a sober action.
It's never happened with the same person more than once.
And it's always left me more depressed than fulfilled.


I've been working with this boy.
We flirt when we're on breaks.
I don't know if he thought I was cute.
After all, I was always in zombie makeup.
But he made me happy at work.
And yesterday, he got real close,
and we hugged.
And it was so satisfying.
I went home delighted.
It made me wonder how I got all this fulfilment,
without more than simply hugging him. 
No regretful follow-up. No deep-seeded longing.
And it's okay that I might never see or talk to him again.


Sex is so confusing to me.  I think to me more than most people.
It should be instinctual but it leaves me lost and empty.
I try to hinder and hide all my animal instincts.
It makes me feel smart.
Maybe I'm just not meant to have sex.
Before, that thought would have scared me.
But now, it feels right. 
I think I'm meant to be an artist.
I want to direct all my energy and thoughts and power
into creating.
Inject it into poems, paintings, music, everything.
I don't have a lot of time left in this life.
I can't waste it trying to satisfy someone else.
Trying to link my life with another.
Waiting and chasing and making goals of people.


I really am okay with the thought of being alone forever.
Because to most people, being alone means to have  nobody.
But to have nobody is not terrible.
To have nothing would be worse.
I have art.
So in the end, I'm never really alone.
I have me. I have the part of me that creates.
I have the part that has friends and socializes.
The part of me that stays inside when I'm scared.
I am too many people to think I need someone else to be happy.

The monsters that used to sleep under my bed,
are now the terrors that live in my head.
The claws were so sharp, I thought I had bled.
But they left no scars. This blood isn't red.

As a child they kept me awake.
And I never learned how to sleep.
I rot behind bars I put up
by secrets that I've learned to keep.

I wish the sirens would stop going by my house. 
I wish the rain would turn to snow instead.
It's so loud where I live.
It's so loud in my head.


I am so fucking unhappy. 
And it's getting worse before better.
So today I've decided to change.
To be proactive.
Because my options are limited.


I could end it all. Oh, I could have fun with it.
I can affect as many people as I like. 
I could buy a bike and ride it into the ocean and not be found for days.
I could jump down onto the tracks and ruin the whole city's day.
I could lean against my bedroom door and open my veins and let blood pool for my roommate to find.
I could die a lot of ways. But I can't really die. I want to feel everything. I want to be found.
I want to hear the tears and screams and terror. 
The consequences of dying are more than death itself.


I won't get my fortune. My physique.
I won't get my ten bedroom house. My seashell pool. 
My nursery, my Disney paintings, my tattoos, my perfect child.
I know what it takes for me to be happy.
But it's all so far away.
Euphoria is a distant planet in a solar system beyond this galaxy.
And I'm stuck in a fucking black hole.


There has to be something better than staying in my bedroom.
My eight by ten foot cage for my cerebellum prison.
I am infinitely barred from relating to the world surrounding.
Crying destroys me. Crying creates.
Tears feel at home with the raindrops on the window.


These things to make me happy, I can see them in my future. 
Maybe when I'm 21. Twenty-four. Thirty-two.
So what can I do now?
I'm not immortal and no year, no day is promised.
I could die any time I leave the house.
I could be hit any time I cross the road.
I could die at any step, stand or inhale.
How can I be happy if there's nothing for me now?


So now I'm trying to change.
All that satisfies me now is art.
I just need more art in my life.
Music, books, paintings, all this.
I have nothing else.

I live each day like it's my last.

And every day that isn't

feels like

failure.

I'm becoming agoraphobic. And it's terrifying.

Strange things are happening in my head.

On the bus yesterday, everything just stopped.

Usually on bus rides longer than 30 minutes, I get nauseated.

So I shut my eyes and listened to my breath. 

And I realized that yet again, I'm clenching my jaw.

I do this almost constantly in public.

I don't know entirely why.

Possibly because I like the way my cheekbones look when I do it.

And the way my neck looks longer. 

But I mostly do it because I hate the way people look with their mouths open,

 for everyone to gawk at their teeth. So I clench my jaw tight. 

And on the bus, I opened my eyes, and I looked at everyone around me.

Everyone with their drooping lips and exposed enamel.

And breathing. 

And I thought in this little tin can of maybe 50 travelling and solemn sardines, 

we are all breathing the same air.

In and out of pairs of lungs, one by one.

Over teeth and tongues and out.

Then again into more open lips.

And contemplating this, I realized I was holding my breath.

Because I was disgusted. I praised the open window and wished the outside

air was making its way to my chest.

But then again, over the plethora of years that have passed on this planet,

I can't imagine how there could be any virgin oxygen in our little bubble.

All the animals and dead, dying and living creatures that breathe

have certainly sullied every molecule of such a finite atmosphere. 

And now I want to stay inside for good.

“Don’t say you don’t have enough time. You have exactly the same number of hours per day that were given to Louis Pasteur, Michaelangelo, Da Vinci, and Albert Einstein.”

Lulled and sunken.
The whites of my eyes have grown grey.
Lifeless; sullen.
The pinks of my cheeks fade away.


Razor blade carved.
My jawline has edges hewn sharp.
Skin; stretched and scarred.
My stone face; clenched, frozen and hard.


I forgot how to feel alive.
I haven't felt in a long time.
And I've been dead long before I died.


I don't see what you see.
So please stop looking at me.
I can't see the forest for all these trees.

My thoughts are really out of order so I can't really write properly. So this is just a complete regurgitation of things I've been digesting lately.

• “If you love two people at the same time, choose the second one. Because if you truly loved the first one, you wouldn’t love another one.”
• People are annoying. Everyone thinks they have the best blog, or theirs matters more because they were the first ever to have one or they have perfect grammar or four of their best friends told them they're good at writing. No. No one cares about your fucking blog, or how happy you are, or that you have a perfect boyfriend or that you go to college and party every night. I don't care what you did today. I don't care when you moved out. Guess what. Everyone does it. You're not unique. If you want people to read and follow and reblog and whatever else you so desire, be fucking interesting at least. No one cares about your morning coffee. We care how many times you cut yourself. We want to know the story behind the time the guy you loved hit you. I want to know who starves themselves only to have a gap between their thighs. I hate blogs. I don't give a fuck how many people ever read this. This is for me. That's what a fucking blog is for. It's just a diary. It's not supposed to replace crying on the phone to your best friend or expressing your love to someone. 
• I resent my mother for the things she said to me growing up. I resent my father for the things he says to me now. But a lot of the time, I miss them both more than anyone. I miss the people who destroy me.
• Sometimes I wish someone loved me. But almost always, I'm just glad I don't have my heart in anyone else's hands. I don't owe anyone any part of me. No one expects this many texts in a day from me, or for me to say "I love you" at the perfect moment when all the planets align. I don't have to ask anyone when I want to leave the country. 
• No one knows everything about me. I've given all these pieces to different people, but no one has the whole puzzle. And knowing that, it feels like no one really knows me at all.
• All the things I'm excited for seem so far away. I'm terrified of what might get in the way. My path to true happiness is a clear one, but it's so long that it leaves room for obstacles.

You say you didn't mean the things you screamed.
And you don't mean a single thing to me.

You think I'm only joking
When I talk so mean.
Joke's on you, my dear.
I say the things I mean.

If you hear what you want
who's the one to blame?
My tricky turns of phrase?
Your hopeful, foolish brain?

My ears listen strangely,
Yours hear all the same.

We're lying to each other.

Life Despite God.

"God, but life is loneliness, despite all the opiates, despite the shrill tinsel gaiety of "parties" with

 no purpose, despite the false grinning faces we all wear. And when at last you find someone to 

whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter - they are so 

rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you

 so long. Yes, there is joy, fulfillment and companionship - but the loneliness of the soul in its 

appalling self-consciousness is horrible and overpowering." 

Hard and Heavy.

This is my cup of spirit, 

drop by drop by venom drop

you poured it on the ground.

They were only words,

but tears and tears and tears I cry,

you've never heard the sounds.

Father, can't you see that I

am crippled now? I'm terrified.

The mirror's not so nice anymore.

The scale's higher than before.

The yellow tape goes much too far.

I wish you could see my scars.

I wish you could hear my thoughts.

I bet it would be too much.

Maybe for five minutes today,

You'd never speak those words you say.

"Just 'cause I'm useless doesn't mean I'm nothing."

Life. Sucks.
So learn music theory.
Write love poems to people you've never met.
Cry over dumb things. Who gets to decide what is worth crying over?
Is there a points system to evaluate what is and what is not worth tears?
Fuck no.
Talk to someone you used to love late at night.
Let the love rush back.
Then let it float away, like tidal wave.
Stop doing things that slow down your brain.
If music will make you happy, listen to music.
Listen to it always.
If being heavy makes you sad, fucking starve until you're not.
What life is worth living?
When should I decide to die?
Does acting completely without reason free me from the chains of pursuing happiness?
Or am I bound to the walls built by a fruitless and destitute life?
This life is like vertigo.
Always spinning, I can't gain my ground.
I do for the sole purpose of doing.
Do not ask me why I did that.
There is no reasoning. There are no expectations.
And I feel nothing.
I test and experiment with the limits of the people around me.
No considerations. No consequences. No pain. And no gain.

I'll never lose this game again.

I know exactly how to play.

This is me. It's always been, I just never put it into words.
I'm so tired right now but I've only been up for twelve hours. There's pains in my head that haven't stopped since I got out of bed. I don't even know what's happening right now.

I'm going back to the way I was before. I'm going to stop looking for bad boys. And I'm going to stop looking for the perfect one. I'm looking for no one now. No one and nothing can make or will make me happy. Because whatever makes me happy will eventually become absent and with absence comes misery.

I want to feel nothing. You can't lose what you don't have. I'm glad I feel this way. This could be a terrible way to live, but I could be doing it just right.