'Cause I'm a Brat

careless con and a crazy liar

2012-02-05T02:08:00.003-06:00

it's not that I'm some emotion-less automaton, some unfeeling monster -- not that it should be reasonable to think that not giving two fucks makes someone inherently wrong or bad -- but I've realized today, I don't love (in any sense of the word) two people who, by all rights, I should.

I wouldn't want to hurt them, not without cause, I'd feel bad for making them hurt. but when those sparkling, intense (or even mild) moments of sincerity come, they only pass me by. I feel awkward and wrong, even over impersonal media like text and online chat, lying about something as trivial as an 'I miss you.'

because I don't. not really, not the way you meant it, I don't.

I know I'm not above emotional investment, they both still mean something to me. but not much, not anymore. I recognize the part of myself that hates being on the line, saying things that leave me too naked, too unprotected. it's utterly sick that these two people, they're people that I've told so much and yet at the end of the day, if some sincere little gem of genuine emotion of sentiment is expressed, I can't reciprocate. (only using them, then, don't want to be invested, knee deep in emotional gunk) -- but then, the right person, the right people, I'm confident my hesitation and fear would somehow be soothed rather than agitated. either that or my reluctance will forever sabotage every relationship I'm destined to have.

but.

reciprocating feels wrong, mechanical; I hate it, no really, I hate it with everything I am. it's an unsettling feeling in my stomach, rolling intangible waves of discomfort and all topped off with the bit of guilt niggling at the back of my head when I half halfheartedly nod and smile. I don't care as much as I should, sometimes my skin crawls with the feeling of unease and dislike but then I don't make any clean cuts, either.

it's horrible to admit, but I think it's only a matter of my weakness and fear all snowballing into one giant avalanche. I might keep one around (the other, that relationship is decaying all on its own -- because of me? very possibly, but it won't last much longer, I know, and if it does? I'll have enough balls and enough contempt and constant irritation to make sure it ends myself) for my own selfish motives, for someone to talk to, someone accessible -- even though I don't care as much as they do, even though I pretend as little as possible that the feeling is mutual. because without the heavy weight of commitment and loyalty and sincerity, I do enjoy their company more often than not, it's fun. I'm completely fine until the 'serious' talk comes out. even the talk that's passed off as light while it means to be important, any of it, any form of it, and I don't know how to respond, I just cannot reiterate how wrong it feels.

I suppose if I was talking about a sexual relationship, I'd only want light and casual, while what I have now is the unwanted pursuit of a relationship relationship. and because I am talking about friends -- well, this makes me seem ever so fucked up. friends are supposed to be easier, after all.

so I think, by now, with all this time spent thinking in my head, it's safe to make the assumption that the reason it feels so wrong is because I don't feel the right way. not with these two people, anyway.

but I think I may even be shallow enough that I'm not making these clean cuts because, other than the extremely non-confrontational personality I happen to possess, it's simply too much effort to go and make a new friend and hone them up to this standard of ridiculous comfort. even though that comfort is on a purely basic level (the comfort you might draw from physical intimacy, even though you know it means nothing more, the comfort of physical release, even though that's all it is), or if it's on a deeper level, it's almost completely one-sided. my encouragements and affectionate gestures are becoming increasingly hollow, especially when I'm expected to lay out exactly how much I love or why I love and I realize this only too clearly. I don't have much problem being a, well, decent person. I have no problem being a cheer leader, lending an ear to listen to nearly anything, but as soon as the questions come out, rarely even worded as questions, as to my own feelings, I am undone.

in the case of one, I don't want to try to repair. in the case of the other, it's painfully awkward every time bare honesty spouts from their mouth and I can only nod and say 'that's good' or 'I don't know' or nothing at all.

wrong, wrong, wrong.

though more than being worried about these deteriorating relationships and the fact that they don't mean what they should to me, I only find myself sad that I don't have a relationship that I do care about. I don't want to be so clinical and terrified and angry at people, I want something special, something magical to put all memory of these weird, yucky feelings far behind me. because as much as this is my fault, I like to think that I haven't found the right people yet, the right person.

I haven't been blessed with the best friend to end all best friends, the seemingly flawless meshing of two people, the deep, near sacred bond that I know exists. but I'm young and this is my time, my time for nearly anything I want to do. I'm surrounded by hundred of people everyday and I'm certain I could find one out there, one who is rough hewn out of the rock face, equally as rough as I am, and our jagged edges will fit almost perfectly.

and maybe it'll be right, finally.

and so she said

2010-10-27T00:28:00.003-06:00

what could be better?

oh dear me, what could be better than seeing him across the way, and knowing, really knowing that the glint in his eyes wasn't the sunlight reflected at just the right angle? how rewarding was it to know that the strength in his grip was a whispered promise of 'I won't let go' and not simply the primal need to feel?

how wonderful to see pictures in every stroke, every brush of his fingers as they trailed along goosepimpled skin and barely touched; but that's the trick, isn't it? because he is touching you, and he's touching you, ghosting shivers with light butterfly kisses, mere nothings, but with the gravity of every weight you've ever felt.

as constricting as the walls are, you laugh and sputter wildly, climbing up with no footholds, just to reach the ceiling and get to him.

and how absolutely lovely he is when he asks softly, with an elegant-handed gesture, if this was okay. there's no room for fragility or hesitation or the perception that you are breakable now, because there is a heat spreading from your stomach to slither and strangle your neck, reddening your cheeks and ears in a pounding intensity.

though you know it's not nearly warm enough without him.

the distant skies, swirling in muted colors of dark grey and blue, seem to speak to you, as if to say ' it could rain today, but it won't, because there's two' (colors)

two, you had been told, was always the magic number.

his toes uncurl and flex slowly, and how astonishing that he is patient, that he is unhurried, content with nothing more than to speak, always without saying anything, lulling melodies of: you, only you. only you.

pale green twirled with even paler blue, lined in stark contrast with the prettiest variation of charcoal black you've ever seen. irises that don't mesmerize or trick, but always stay still and tell the most endearing stories.

and you kow, you really know that there is nothing but his lazy toes and his rising chest, the amused, quiet tilt of his lips, their color faded like a bruised apple.

you'd always loved apples. and bruises equally, because you'd always been so clumsy (defeatable). he was the same, and he wore his bruises (defeats) openly and proudly, especially if you couldn't hide yours.

though you always got the sense that his bruises weren't always accidents, and the gesture was even more palpable, that you had someone who would intentionally stub his toe and bump his leg and bang his arm, all to protect you, or sometimes, to make you feel better.

becaus he was better, better in a lot of ways, but then again, so were you.

in the long moments of time, in the achingly slow progress forward, how marvelous was it to know that the anticipation you felt was returned? (you could tell by the way his toe flexing becomes erratic). how utterly remarkable was it to see the way the heat radiated off of him, too? vibrant color dusting pale cheeks.

mostly, it was the burning, steady reciprocation in those eyes of his, telling you everything you'd ever needed to hear, some things you didn't want to hear, along with those you did.

so what a perfectly destructive hurricane you found yourself in, standing in the center where the winds didn't touch you and it was calm and quiet, with the energy buzzing powerfully but distantly. his eyes were the only thing, the only thing that you could focus on.

pale green and even paler blue, glinting, sparking, igniting, and still so controlled and sound.

--

and so she said, "Now."

she pulled him into the violent storm and he held on tight as the wind swept them easily away, and she laughed breathlessly.

oh, what could be better?

cRazy

2010-01-14T22:17:00.005-06:00

But of course, you already knew that. That I'm crazy, you see. Crazy as crazy can be.

My little life conundrums can't be narrowed down to any one thing, nor can I condense it into any sort of list. My spectrum of problems, issues, passing angers, joys, fancies; they're ever changing. Ever evolving, so that I can hardly keep up.

Silly things, most of them. I end up laughing at most of them in the end, no matter what.

And then I wonder, what does it mean to be crazy? I don't foam at the mouth, and I don't scream at strangers. Do the strangers in my head count, because there are a lot of them. Does the bubbling, overflowing toxicity in my veins count, because the anger likes to boil and brew. Do the moments when I wish that I could float away into the air, evaporate into nothing count? Or how about wishing that I could fly away from every single earthly attachment and responsibility?

Then I think, what does it matter? Crazy might all be perspective, and such a small insanity is no doubt normal. Crazy is normal, and if I'm crazy, it doesn't matter, and it‘s only another part of me that can‘t be altered. But what ever happened to reality; the reality that you live outside your mind? and exactly when are you going to start pushing and shoving, like you always do in the privacy of your head?', the deep end being oh so deep.

But when is anything not intimate and true in the privacy of your mind? That’s easy. When will I be able to let it all go, let it float away, stolen on the wind so that the breeze is named relief. Stop hiding behind the crazy and see that the real world has no patience for frivolity. When will I embrace all those unappealing, but inevitably important things?

I will. I don't know when, hell, I haven't the slightest idea as to how, but I will. My own way, in my own time. Nothing comes easy to me, and I agitate the 'condition' with every ounce of my being.

Sometimes I think I'm so self-absorbed that I'll never get to be that person. Because lately I just can't stand people. Really, I've never been able to stand them, but I can't stand on my own either. It's this delicate, easily broken balance that makes me hate my innards, more than any sole pimple, bad hair day, or twenty-extra pounds ever could.

I want to be able to fuck the world over, shake the foundations of my bit of earth, and do it with the complete knowledge that I have the stuff to back it up. I want to be that person. I want to be remembered, I want to be indifferent and composed and not care, and stop second guessing. I want to be confident in my silence, I want a smirk and a disposition that can't be shook. I want to waltz, and strut, and swagger with the fumbling grace that is me. I want and I want.

It's a healthy reaction to life though, isn't it? Of course it is. Wanting is pure expression of humanity, and it's weakness and strength all balled into one.

I think what I really want is a grand explosion, so colorful, heated and fiery. I want an exceedingly coarse, unrefined, and ugly explosion. I want the chains to be melted. I want the words to fly with no restraint, no forced cheer. I want the truth, and I want to spit and spew it. I don't know that I could care for the bite I'd get in return. I want the blast to push me farther than I could ever dream of going.

Now it's all I can do, fantasizing, obsessing, over this one, monumental boom. I don't think it'll ever happen. I would get burnt all over my body in the process and my skin would never be the same again. It's logical to want to avoid such a blast, and yet, I can't stop visioning the utter destructive force of what it could be. The utter loveliness.

I get tired much too easily, and for all my bravado, I’m pathetically sensitive and not immune to the exhaustion. I'm tired of social contracts between people who aren‘t strangers, even though I understand it perfectly, this balance of someone to rule and someone to serve. In simple terms, this whole life is a hierarchy (not that it's any revelation). For feeling like a lowly servant at times, the one thing I don't want is pity or cheap words of encouragement, god forbid how anyone thinks that could help. I need to earn all my sparkling confidence, me, myself, I. No one else can do that for me, and it can’t be instilled artificially.

It all comes back, as things always do, to breaking the zigzags and letting them disappear, letting all the small worries and even the big ones be swallowed in howling laughter.

So I end this here, with my bitter, resentful attitude, with those vague touches of that disgusting sense of optimism. I know what I can‘t stand, and what I can‘t face, but contempt for everything around me is by far the easiest way, the most cowardly way, to live. Nothing’s fair, and everything’s relative, but that's okay. It has to be in order to be able to function.

I spend a disproportionate amount of time trying not to sound pathetic or needy, but all arguments are for nothing. All I’m trying to do is cover all the cracks, so no one can get in on my defenses. Humbling or annoying? Shameful comes to mind. Though there are small slivers, small voices in my crazy little head that tell me to harness my excess pride (the result of shame, didn‘t you know), ride the waves as they come, and have some damn lady balls.

One day, for sure, I will get my piece of land, no matter how small, and I will fucking own it.

So until then, I'll keep yearning for that uplifting explosion. Boom, bang, bam. Just like that.

Uninterrupted

2009-12-16T20:46:00.006-06:00

I'm really selfish.

self-centered and vindictive and often enough, very petty. but hell, that's nothing new, is it? no matter how goody-goody you are, you're just like me. we look out for our own, and our circle grows sometimes, but no matter what, we're always at the center of that circle.

sometimes I really just wish I could talk forever, muse, ramble, say things that have been on my mind. but you know what? I'm always interrupted. it's such a nice thought, though, isn't it? to never be interrupted, ridiculed, made fun of, or brushed off.

what I find so funny, so never-ending, is the fact that everyone wants this. oh yes, you can say you don't, but we all want to be heard. whether it's about some book you've just finished reading or something that's weighing on your soul, the desire to tell someone is always there.

we all want it, so if I'm trying to spew my soul, and someone interrupts me, it all comes full circle, so that to someone else, I am the person who interrupts. it seems so pathetic, so sad. I feel it all the time when those things called 'conversations' come around. I can tell, all I want, all the other person wants, is to talk and talk and not be interrupted, save for maybe some blind compliance and agreeable words.

(when do we really want to know what the other honestly thinks? when do we ever want the truth versus comfort? we want mildness.)

a conversation needs two people, and yet, it's for the benefit of one. always. if you need to tell someone something, there's your purpose, if you need an answer, you get it, and it's all for you.

I wonder how we all function when we're all so selfish.

it's so weird for me to think like this (not hard, but bordering on insignificant).

I'm taking everything apart from my point of view, and flawed though it is, I keep doing it. here's another thing I've come to conclude: if you sit quietly and listen attentively, it doesn't mean the other person will reciprocate that particular luxury. and maybe that was the only reason you listened in the first place, so you could have your turn. it's social contract, is what it is. but life isn't fair, and there's no balance system that's guaranteed.

this is proof, proof, proof. I'm so selfish, but nothing takes away the need for acknowledgment.

oh, and even when you manage to get someone to listen to you (even force them), well, sometimes it feels as though you should have never bothered, because you can see how uninteresting you are to them, how badly the other wants to interrupt. and there's no point in trying to say something if the other is listening but not really listening. it's easy to see, in their expression, in their lame responses. and hell, I do it too. it's some vicious circle, and it just keeps proving to me how selfish we all are. I start to think, is everything born out of this selfishness?

it's utterly pathetic. we need certain things, and we need to be right. and some of us can't accept that we don't get everything we need, or that we're not always right.

so some of us, like myself, come and bitch about it in a place where, (thankfully or unfortunately) no one will see the bitching. I really do look too deep into things, and eventually, this topic will have left my mind, and I’ll have gotten over my qualms. it is, after all, a small thing to get worked up over. but I can't help but notice, and to be affected. (sensitive, pansy-ass little me, hah)

still, talking is so limiting. you can never get everything out, sometimes you're interrupted, and sometimes you feel like shit for trying to convey something important, that no one understands. and there's my reoccurring theme, isn't that great? I have themes.

but no matter what anyone says, venting like this is pure heaven. writing like this is freedom, because I can say what I want, and above all, I can't be interrupted.

Really

2009-09-13T12:09:00.000-06:00

sometimes it's just so amazing to feel the steady rise of your chest.

attention and anything associated with it is usually horrible. I've never been that concerned with communication in any form unless I really want to communicate. (like most things, like the bare basics of human nature, you don’t care for something unless you want it) I won't friend every living person on this earth on facebook so that I can say I did. I have no interest in talking to people I don't know, or don't know well.

I'm not good at communicating, I guess. and the odd chance I feel like being heard, no one stops talking to let me speak. no one listens to me. so I don't talk. to raise my voice is hard for me, and the loudness of it scares me, and I can't control who listens. there is always, always the risk of making a fool of myself, all the more reason for me to stay silent. but I've always been content with silence and that will never change.

people can't look at me and figure that out, though. I'm not anti-social to such a high level. I adore the silence and quiet, I like not struggling with words and not having to worry about being able to say the right things, but I'm not the girl who sits in the corner with the hair in her face and the hood always up. it's just hard to really talk with people. I'll always be able to make somewhat pathetic small talk. but that's it.

it's funny how ridiculous my own words make me feel. when I feel ridiculous, I assume everyone else is thinking the exact thing -- if not worse -- about me.

I'm the noticing type, I suppose. I think too much and I observe to a fault. Especially when it comes to myself, and everyone knows too much attention paid to one thing is just horrible. That's why I hate attention. But then sometimes I need it, of course, that goes without saying. I'm still human, I haven't evolved into a mutant species of freak. I'm still of the regular breed of freak, thank you very much.

in any case, when I'm all wrapped up in myself, it is just the greatest thing to know I'm alive. to feel my body breathing, and I just think "it's all fine, really."

Understand

2009-07-10T02:29:00.003-06:00

I've been thinking, though that's never a good thing, and I'm scrambling for the right words in my head and the right ideas, but I can't seem to grasp them.

Lately, all I've been doing is striving for things. Small, insignificant things though they may be, they're still important to me. Little things like pushing words upon deaf ears, trying to make understanding pass through. About small things, yes, but things that matter. I feel like nothing I say, and nothing I do will bring about understanding, and isn't it funny that throughout life, all we ever really want is some ounce of acknowledgment?

One would think that some explanation, or expression would come easy. It's not hard, no, all it requires is communication. But what could be more frustrating than not knowing how to convey something, not knowing quite how to explain those precious nothings.

Oh, but what's most tormenting is knowing that no amount of words or anger or wild gesture can change a perceived perception. Knowing that nothing can change how someone important regards you. Really, it's sad.

To be understood, even about one small little quirk, would be the most amazing thing, but it's such a fantasy. No one likes to take the time to think about how you are, or why you are. Accusations are thrown at you, and there's absolutely nothing you can do to correct them and nothing to make your accuser understand.

I'm scrambling for the right words, and yet, I know my ideas are jumbled and confused. But, I'll just keep ambling on, and I'll learn to laugh at the ignorance of those who don't understand.

Up and away

2009-03-07T00:17:00.003-06:00

sometimes I wish I could fly away. you know, that dreamed about dream everyone seems to dream.

But really, it's obvious why everyone dreams of getting away, right? It's appealing in every aspect, fantastical even. It's great, even if you get away and things turn out horribly wrong. You still flew away.

ah, the unreality of anything is what gets me. I've heard from a lot of sources, phrased differently, that there is no reality, simply perspective. but then how do you get the unreal? is that all merely a personal perspective too? if everything is simply a perspective, then, well, nothing's real, at least, it can't be proved.

anyways, my indulgence lies in what isn't touchable, what I get to play with in my mind, what I have almost complete control over. the fantasy, the imagination, and the pure freedom of all that isn't quite real.

so then that leaves me, always always wishing I could join my secret world full of goodness. just wishing I could slip out of this life, just for a little while. a refuge.

always always, I wish to fly up and away. sad thing is, it's harder than it sounds.

Who's to say I'm not ONE of them?

2009-01-18T03:07:00.003-06:00

early, too early, in the morning things move lazily through a mind. and it's a realization of life that proceeds the knowledge that some people are not as others.

It's sometimes really amazing how easy it is to think a certain way.

If I wanted to think I was in love, then I could. Even if it was only a spilt second flash of a disjointed thought. If I wanted to think that someday I could be something, do something great, then I could...even if it was only a spilt second flash of a disjointed thought.

But then the good never lasts long. Those thoughts. It's when you start thinking that nothing matters that it becomes true. It's when things start to slow and fray around the edges and lose their color that it's impossible not to see the destruction. It's when you think those horrible thoughts about yourself that you start to believe them. They start to come true.

And why does it always have to be the ugly things that stick? Is it so bad to hold onto those escaping dreams of happiness? Or maybe it's not that, it's not simply some question of whether we want to or not. It's not a question of what we want to see and what we do see.

It's just a matter of difficulty. Because clinging to the good was always challenging.

But the bad just seems easier.

early, too early, in the morning things move lazily through a mind. and it's a realization of life that proceeds the knowledge that some people are not as others.

some people enjoy ease and misery rather than discomfort and fleeting, lingering joy.