If I've ever gotten strangely ironic comments about my blog,
it's how people look to it for inspiration and feel better.

How in the world did I create such a mess of things?

I've recently been worried out of my mind,
reading horoscopes like they are useful,
and trying to regain activity.

But I just feel so exhausted
and there is really no one around who can fix that but myself.

So why can't I?




I spent a day being happy
a day being sad
a day worrying
a day hoping.
And all of those days I spent without you.


I even made a list of things I love:

When people cover their mouths when they laugh.

When my Pandora plays French music randomly.

When people I don’t know very well pronounce my name right.

The smell and humidity after it rains.

When people excuse me for being ridiculous.

Having a clean fish bowl.

People who remember inside jokes we had years ago.

Crawling into bed after I’ve just showered and washed my face.

Falling asleep tangled in someone (Abbey Rosie and Jeff.)

When someone tickles my arms or neck.

City lights when it’s dark out.

Mushrooms.

Remembering what I’ve been trying to remind myself.

Craving foods.

Driving for long periods of time with someone.

People who are genuinely nice even though they have no reason to be.

Looking at old letters and feeling the happy sort of nostalgia.

Random calls of people checking in with me.

When people (Abbey) visit me while I’m sick.

Realizing how wonderful things will be.

Lists never accomplish anything but organize scattered thoughts.

In the end, I'm still going to do what I normally do,
and you're still going to do what you normally do.
And the weirdest part of it is human nature.

It's all human nature.



I'm not sure.

"Except I hate to see you cry
And I need you
But there are things I cannot do
And I love you"

It's the bridesmaids preparing you for the crowd because you can't
calm yourself down on your own.
The father leading you down the aisle because you can't
walk to the front alone.
The mom in the front row holding onto your realistic goals because you can't
make them yourself.

This is tradition.
This is all I've learned.



And then, of course,

It's the man waiting for you at the end of this journey because somehow
you lost your happiness somewhere between dependence and love.

But where does it end; when do you claim yourself a person again?



If it goes down the hole once, we learn the first time.
We build our own houses and treat ourselves with self-therapy--whatever materialistic thing happens to fill that empty slot.
And this time, the years are spent inversing all the old.
You get yourself up.
You get yourself going.
You make yourself happy.

That's what happened.
That's what I've learned.



But these things become exceptions if it happens again.
Or even, again.

Things change if it happens again.
You aren't in charge this time.
I can't tell you who is because the obvious answer is refuted,
but it's not a pretty thing.

It's not a pretty thing what we do to others and ourselves.
We're not pretty people.
It's not a pretty world.

So what can you do?

Repeat the cycle you taught yourself, or go along with the tradition you were taught?



What I'm trying to say is that,
you don't have a choice.
It's your choice.

But I can't help saying:
Know what you deserve.
Know what you deserve.
Know what you deserve.
Know what you deserve.
Know what you deserve.
Know what you deserve.
Know what you deserve.

Defining ourselves by numbers.

1034, 60, 18, 3, 34.

Just things you keep hidden in the back of your mind,
the dial turning continuously without your say.



Well, I didn't ask for this sort of game.
What are the odds,
or is it evens now?
What did you land on this time?



Questions I ask but don't want to know the answers to.
These scripts stuck in my head as if it were a happy event.
I can't remember what it felt like.

For very short periods of time, we're all happy in harmony.
But harmonies are so rare.

And happiness even more uncommon.



There is no way to respond to this number,
increasing and decreasing before you get the chance to talk.

We both know this is a joke...but neither of us are willing to laugh.
Not yet.

You didn't prepare me for this.
Why are you thanking me?

It wasn't words that mattered, rather. it was the look on your face when you said them.
Back when confrontation was a real, tangible thing.
Tangible.
What does that even mean anymore?
Who ever really feels anything?



I know we've essentially butchered each other into a war of who is right and who is wrong,
but I'm just trying to understand.
Why none of this ever makes sense to you.
Why you don't appreciate the things I take pride in.
Why you jump to conclusions that hurt not only you but me.

And you're doing it to yourself.
But we've created this hopeful thread, intertwining our relations.
Our emotions are connected, and whenever you feel it, the cable between us makes sure I do, too.



But I'd be lying to not blame myself; I thought strangers could do this.
I thought...
I thought way too many things that were torn by the scissors you cut them with.



"You know I told you once tonight
That you could always speak your mind
You work so hard to say what's right
I watch you do it all the time
And when I called you on the phone
You said that I could be the one
But here I'm standing all alone
And you're out lying in the sun

Tell me am I getting in to deep
Every night I'm talking in my sleep
Maybe we just holding on
To something that'll soon become
Could you be the one I'm thinking of?
Could you be the girl I really love?
All the people tell me so
But what do all the people know"

I couldn't help but wonder.



Why is yellow my favorite colour..
Why do I know I don't deserve this.

It's not you--it's me.

I've spent a good amount of time reading the mirror's poetic scripts.
Deciphering verses that were meant,
incomprehensively blinded of the majority.

I have always refused to believe that it could get better.
There are fingerprints and smudges from old formal events,
but it couldn't be better.



The way things are will always be spun around to the way you want them,
and if you try hard enough, you might even go up and beyond.

But the fingerprints are always being brought up.
You can't repress the urges.