My New Place

I've officially got my own apartment now. ^_^

Stand Still

Stand Still

I'm not asking you to tell me
what life is for
or even to be by my side today
and the next
and the next.

I just want to know if
what I'm feeling is pain;
or something deeper;
or nothing at all.

Can you tell me how to get
from A to B to C
and still be able to breathe
in the end?

When I've learned, you can step away
turn your back, run.
But for now, just stand still.
Please stand still.

My Writing

I used to play guitar (as you can see). A real guitar, too, not just a tennis racket. I wrote before that, then started playing and taking lessons from a friend of a friend. After a while, I became bored and stopped getting better (my hands are small, so my reach was pathetic and painful), so I stopped. After that, I started writing again.

That was about a year ago. At the time, I figured that I stopped playing guitar because there were so many kids my age and younger around me who could play pretty much any song, and who had been performing for live audiences for years (a couple even had CDs made). So, is the only reason I write because there isn't anyone around me who is ten times better? Maybe if I was friends with Michael Collins or something, I would feel like crap about my own writing, and I would stop. Or would I want to work harder to get closer to his level? It unsettles me to know that it would probably be the former. What will happen when I start college, and I begin working in the journalism program? If there are writers there who are better and more experienced than I am, then will I stop writing? How am I ever going to have a career if I keep becoming intimidated like that?

And yet, this pleases me, because I've found something to work on about myself. Maybe this will help: I promise to never completely stop writing for any reason. We'll have to see what the future brings.

My Epiphany of Life

At last, I have ascended. Hah! Even in the final moments among the many Below, they frowned upon me, they scorned my presence, they deemed me, ME, a traitor to the Below because I craved ascension. And now I’ve gained it, and they hate me for it! O, how their blood boils in its veins, how their mighty anger must blind their vision and play tricks on their minds! I, the traitor, have been invited to the place above you all! The ruthless tactics of a traitor have showed themselves useful this day. They never saw it coming. The sly word in to an Above, the tender misplacement of an important document, they never saw me plotting and planning behind it all! Not me!

But what’s this? Even as I gaze down at the tender, dull Below from my perch in the Above, I can hear a call, a call resounding throughout the Above causing my new equals to move, to work, work harder than my forgotten friends Below, harder even than I worked to ascend to this level! What makes them move thusly, as though the devil was behind them chasing them out of the depths of hell? Must I move this way?Yes, I feel it in my bones; I feel the call to which I must answer. How may I serve the call?

Yes, I see. It is the above of the above. It is the towering end of my journeys! The Top swallows us up; it uses our strength to its end. How may I serve you?! How may I become you? I understand now. The Below, it is nothing. To perch in the Above and glare at the below is suicide! The Top must be my goal. I will be a traitor to the Above. But I will be the Top in the end.

My Insomnia

I'm afraid of disappointing people. With some of my friends -- Andrea, Michelle (when we were friends), etc -- this isn't a problem because they express their discontent immediately when I do something wrong. It makes me fearless around them; hanging out with Andrea is the most comfortable thing in the world. On the other hand, people like me -- Leah, Derek, Jessica, etc -- terrify me, because they hide it when their upset (usually for my sake). So when I borrow money from Leah for lunch or something, I spent the entire rest of the day wondering if she was really willing to give it to me, or was I just so pushy about it that she had no choice? Or when I go home early when it's slow in the deli and leave Jessica to close, I stay up in bed wondering if when she told me I could go, if she was actually hoping I'd stay and keep her company. Sometimes, I tune in to my own feelings when I do something like that (telling a person they can leave when I really want the company), and I know that it really isn't a big deal. But it feels so huge to me.

The biggest problem with this is that I am a very confident person; my friends even used to call me arrogant and egotistical. I wanted to stop being so sensitive, because I realized how much I overreacted to small things. Now, I have one side of myself telling me to leave the deli as soon as possible, and another side punching me in the stomach as hard as it can, and telling me not to leave Jessica alone just because I'm bored. The former wins, but the latter catches up later. Like now, when I can't sleep because I'm wondering if the reason she was so compliant was that she wanted me to decide to stay.

Gah, I hope the arrogance wins out, because late at night, when the Mountain Dew wears off and I'm really tired, the fear comes back to punch me in the stomach some more, as hard as it can over and over until I have to get up out of bed and rant about it.

My Decision

About four months ago, I officially broke up with my best friend. She had been taken in by the fear of life because of graduation, plus almost getting pregnant, and it was too much for her. She pulled her friends in tightly, wouldn't let us breathe. She stopped listening to what I said; she used to say I was a good friend for telling her the truth, but she no longer wanted to hear the truth. She held equal expectations of everyone, even if we couldn't live up to those expectations. She was never alone, always had to have someone beside her. She began telling people that honesty was her greatest attribute, but she used it without empathy. So one day, during my birthday party that she forgot to attend, she invited me and my friends over to talk. She attacked you in front of me and Leah, and I attacked back for you. I told her everything I needed to, and she still refused to hear. I begged her, crying, to listen to me and not blame me for what was about to happen, but she wouldn't listen. So I told her I wouldn't be her friend.

I don't hate you, but I hate hypocrites. You talked about Michelle, how horrible she was, how stupid she was for not listening to me, for not seeing what was right in front of her face. You agreed with me that it was ridiculous to be so upset about every small thing that happened just because there were no big things to be upset about. And then, you started poking and prodding at me, saying rude things. "I'm just happy to finally see you fail." It rang so true that I cried on the drive home. You started telling me outright that you blamed me for the bad things that happened to you, you told me that you thought I was dishonest, manipulative, and unfeeling simply because I didn't have feelings for you. You said this all as if it were nothing, and God forbid you notice how it upset me and try to talk to me about it. No, because it's all about you. You never had any intention of being my friend. You just want to get laid. Every friend you have is a girl because they're potential girlfriends. You're just "lonely," and no one understands.

You began taking small things I said, and calling them betrayals. I betrayed many times because of something I said or didn't say, no matter what the reasons. The fact that I didn't even know you thought they were wrong until sometimes weeks later when I finally approached you about it didn't seem to bother you. As long as I failed once again, in anything, even our "friendship."

It sounds familiar. One person finding tiny things to be angry at another over. You're doing the same thing Michelle did. So I'll respond in the same way. I don't want to be friends with you. I don't mind seeing you, talking to you at work, but why would I hang out with a person who fights me at every turn, and only wants to see me fall in my face, even if it's only in the person's mind? I'll tell you one thing, though; this was easier than it was with Michelle. I knew her since kindergarten, and I was best friends with her for six years. I sobbed when I broke it off with her, and I had nightmares for months afterwards. I wrote like crazy about everything, about how I felt, and I still didn't have the guts to talk to her in the hallways, because I was afraid she'd pull me back in again. But with you, well, you pushed me away without pulling me back. I've only known you a year, and we only spent a few months of that as friends. Then it was all about you getting a girlfriend.

You almost had me that night in the truck when you explained exactly why we would be good together. Sometimes logic isn't enough. It used to make me so angry that you blamed me for it not working out between us, because I wasn't trying. Think about it Ken; you were trying to convince me! You were in love with me, how in the world was it my job to make it work?

Well, anyway, I hope this all makes sense to you. Like I said, I don't hate you, and I don't mind talking to you at work as long as you don't attack me, which is what usually ends up happening. I won't be a mediator between you and Andrea; if you have a problem with someone ask them about it. Stop asking yourself why you are so lonely and no one understands you, and start asking them. Just sit down for a moment. Don't do to Kirsten or Amanda what you did to me, because I guarentee, while it might grant you a short while of attention, they won't stick around so long as I did.

My Monologue

I wrote my own monologue for the end-of-the-year exam in Drama class. I have no idea why I wrote it, just that I was hyped up on Shakespeare after having to memorize the first twenty lines of Hamlet's "to be, or not to be..." soliloquy. The first thing I inferred from it was that it was a moment in time, an instant in which a man realizes that his great leap in life was only the first stepping stone, and he resolves to continue his journey forever and ever. I showed it to my Drama teacher right after I wrote it, and he told me no one would understand it. I didn't even understand it; I knew what it was about, but I also felt a deeper truth lying beneath the words, just out of reach. Last night, I realized what that truth was.

How can I write something and not even know why I'm writing it, or what it is really about? Does my subconscious have such great understanding of the world that my conscious mind can't keep up?

I guess I ask a lot of questions. That's life, right? And now, a quote in honor of Mr. Frantz. I may not see him much after graduation, but he'll always live on through Faulkner.

"All of us failed to match our dreams of perfection.
So I rate us on the basis of our splendid failure
To do the impossible." ~William Faulkner

My Lunches

I hate school lunches. I usually spend them either with people I don't like, know or want to know. Or I just eat alone. It's not that I don't have friends; I just always have the opposite lunch as the people I like.

So on Friday, I was sitting in one of the worst places imaginable; with former friends who I don't get along with anymore. You can see how this is a problem? Anyway, these old friends are the kind who stay behind with the freshmen when it's time to grow up. They're the kind who throw spitwads and spraypaint cars weeks before graduation.

When I sit with my old friends on Fridays, they laugh and play and half-include me in their games. I was in a good mood during this particular lunch, so I chose to lean forward in my seat and take part. The guy next to me, Andy, was creating air bubbles in straws and making people flick and pop them. Everyone would laugh. I watched and laughed with them for a while, and my feet were becoming uncomfortable, so I sat back in my chair and pushed away from the table a few inches.

Everything looked different from those few inches away. The girl next to Andy, my former best friend, was putting fries in her neighbor's ear. The girls across the table were throwing food at Andy now, and the guy next to them was cutting up his lunch plate with a plastic knife. I had to look away. It was one of those moments I raved about earlier, when everyone around me seem to be raving lunatics, immature fools parading around here because they have no where else to go and this is where their friends are anyway. And there I was, away from it all, hoping they wouldn't notice that I was gone from them again, looking down on them, because I didn't want to make them angry and start another argument; another reason to feel awkward when I sat with them on Fridays.

But the anger and annoyance and anguish of it all started to feel stronger. It burned in my stomach as I watched my former best friend glare at a girl walking by. I wanted to stand up and leave, but I knew that the action would cause questions, and questions would lead to conclusions and they would be talking about me, my arrogance and my rudeness, for the entire rest of the day.

So I took a deep breath and scooted forward. I leaned back into the table and flicked at Andy's straw, popping it and causing the table to break out in giggles.

Does that make me a hypocrite? Do five minutes of indulgance, in order to escape from the annoyance and anger threatening to make me explode, mean I should be labeled the same as them. I don't know.

My Ideas

I haven't written anything in prose for a while. Every time I get an idea, now, I just write a quick little paragraph and turn it into a poem. It's much easier to get my ideas down, and still feel like I've accomplished something. I wrote this yesterday:

I've decided to stop talking.
The things I say
only make people
angry.
In fact,
this note is probably
making your blood boil
right now.
You'd better stop reading.

My Fear

Is anyone else deathly afraid of life in general? I know it sounds lame, but if I get to thinking about it too much (and by it, I mean everything) I start to kind of panic. Right now I'm working in a deli at a supermarket. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to work there for the next year or ten years, never moving in position, maybe getting raises every so often, a pat on the back here, an admonishment there, and then find myself in the same spot at the end of the day. Not moving is frightening. I told my friend Leah once, "I'd better be a writer or something, because this working thing sucks." I didn't just mean that I was lazy; I don't think I'd be able to stand it if I was stuck in one place where nothing moved. I guess I need to find a job where there is progression, and where I'm working towards a goal, then a higher goal, then higher yet. Something to keep me moving.

Fortunately, I'm only just eighteen. I'm sure I can find something after college. Right?

My Head

You've probably realized, by now, how very strange my family is (if not strange, at least fractured). If you read my profile, you'd know that I write a lot. It's kind of what I do. I write, I smile, and I get annoyed. Sometimes, weird things inspire me. My friend was very angry in class once, just raving and pounding her desk, and I immediately had to have a pencil and blank sheet of paper in front of me. I didn't even write anything, I just needed it. The same thing happened when I saw an old friend driving a pickup truck down the street with his hand on his forehead. Small things draw out big emotions from me. Sometimes creations come of it, sometimes just long moments of unbarable restlessness. It can really be bothersome.

Sometimes, thing I do myself can inspire me. I once woke up on a weekend, rubbed my eyes, and stopped my hand in midair in front of me. I must have stared at my hand for half an hour, just awed by it, but the complexities of the angles and the narrowness of my wrist. It made me want to be an artist rather than a writer; it's so difficult to capture everything through words.

I must admit, though, that I am more often annoyed than inspired by people. Unneccesary fear or bickering can put me in the worst moods. I like people who speak through their actions: drawing, writing, working, creating, showing people what they think and feel without blurting it out before they realize how ridiculous it is. And it usually is.

Gosh, do I sound like a prick?

My Dramatics

Heh, the title is a bit over-the-top, I know. It's the name of a poem I wrote; I thought it was neat. Anyway, this is my first post ever in Blogger. I have my own website where I house my writings, drawings, etc, but I wanted a place to yell about things that I knew no one would ever read. Well, no one I know anyway. I think... So! I'm a senior in high school right now. I'm taking two college classes, getting mostly A's and B's (a C in Science ;_;). I can't wait to finally get out of high school: the people are starting to drive me crazy. I find it difficult to sit quietly in a classroom full of people my age who still pretend to be ten.

Anyway, I'm going to a community college next year because I'm poor. I have two brothers (22 and 2) and two sisters (13 and 16). My parents split up after my little brother was born of a different man (but we still pretend he's my dad's). Just before the breakup, my mom spent all of my dad's money, and we went bankrupt. My sisters and baby brother moved into a one-bedroom house with my mom, and I stayed with my dad and his new nineteen-year-old girlfriend.

Okay, I think that's enough family history for today. I'll write more later. You see, if I cared, I'd care. But I don't, so I don't.