ticktackkirsten's Xanga

Tuesday, July 10, 2012

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 22:09:38 GMT

It all starts the same.
They want you to smile.
They want you to be truthful.
They want you to be home.
They want you to be careful.

Truthful and careful can't be the same thing.

Here are build-ups of fevers and weightloss.

Everytime I drive along the dotted lines I remind myself I’m not free to swerve or dive into the middle of the lane.
The wind in my hair is nearly a teasing tickle of what it’s like to smile.
The kind that lasts forever.
And after several lines pass by, I constantly remind myself that the world is in a hurry.
People rushing to get out of and over things.
There’s no time for anyone to appreciate anything.

People rushing to be happy.
People rushing to be sad.
It’s all a miscommunication.

You see, the world was never created for us.

Some hours I wonder what your story is.

The words you tell yourself, walking on the path you created to hate me.
I checked my trunk and every envelope for some sort of evidence.
Something that warned me that you had been tossing and turning at night.
And the scattered thoughts on the back of your letter glued it all shut
and the tallies I made to celebrate our accomplishments seem off.
You never stuck around long enough to see
the tossing and turning that changed me.
But I see you now as I wish I would have then
and your eyes aren’t blue anymore
instead they’re a dark shade
of gray.

And I hope to God one day you find the water that will replenish the colour inside your soul.
Revive your eyes.

And from traveling, you also see what it’s like to have people constantly leave.

And when you travel far you learn things
like
strangers are always going to love you
and the smell of alcohol on someone’s breath can help you fall asleep
that sweating together with a cool breeze is comfortable
and that sometimes people forget to take off their socks
you’ll learn that you’re gorgeous
and a good person
and when the shirt ends up in the freezer
or vomit hits the toilet seat, you know you’re in love.

because sometimes going outside can make you realize
you aren’t you at all.

The chatter of the TV late at night. The ringing of your ears. The silence of getting yourself up. The mock of your soundless phone. The screaming of your palms despite the whole room talking around you.

I know it all too well.

The reach at four in the morning to pull me closer despite the heat inside the sheets. The call three minutes after you left to let me know you didn’t want to leave. Tracing back our steps just so I could jump the bump in the road. The smile on your face before I jumped into the water. The words that could easily, unlike anyone else, change my state of mind. The talks of summer nights and the idea that I held onto this sweatshirt for the nights we’d spend together. The long car trips with and for you. The inconsistent yet constant good night texts to wake up to. The cycle of “maybe.” Sleeping while you preoccupied yourself next to me (or under me.) The anger you felt when you couldn’t fix something, but eventually asking if you could lay with me which automatically fixed any issue. Having our own place to eat. Having our own street. Trying to find our own song but never finding something quite right. Seeing words so carefully thought out in your journal and knowing you thought about me 200 miles away. The refusal to let me pay when I wanted to. The arm that always scooped my waist while we were walking (although I noticed this one two days too late.) Being able to comfortably act-out the “What is that?” joke. The ragged edges of your palm. Being proud of you about numerous things (if you let me.) The good vibes from your parents and family. The call when I thought I was dying. Watching you sleep. The softness of your eyebrows. The idea that you were my peanut butter and I was your jelly. Rereading your letters over and over while you were gone. Your excitement to come home. The stomach sickness I continue to get. Cracking up over us clipping our nails together. The only time you said, “I can picture us doing this when we’re old,” sitting on your steps. Feeling alive and at home, always.

It’s all simple, cookie-cutter things.
But the memories along with them were too complex for us.
And I guess that’s exactly what I miss, you.

I don't mean to be so serious.
Never.

Sunday, June 17, 2012

Sun, 17 Jun 2012 22:58:43 GMT

I'm going to be early.
I'm going to be late.
I'm going to be picky.
I'm going to be careless.
I'm going to laugh.
I'm going to cry.
I'm going to talk too much.
I'm going to be too quiet.
I'm going to argue.
I'm going to be passive.

But don't forget, I'm going to do everything for you.

Because once you forget that,
you're forgetting what I'm about.
You're forgetting what I promised you the moment I said hello.

I will be there.
I will be there when you need me.
I will be there when you don't need me.
I will be there when you don't want me.
I will be there when you want me.

So for now I'm going to wait.
Because life is throwing me curve balls.
One by one they're taking their shape and every single one comes at a different speed.

You're changing.
I'm changing.
We're drifting apart.
We're completely incomplete.

"Why don't you write then?"
"I just can't, not when I'm happy."

Time passed, and I stared at my hand for quite awhile.
How the skin reddened and flushed.
You got quiet when I spoke.
I could feel you breathing in every word I spoke.
Feeling it around your lips and concentrating on my pupils.
I could feel the way your feet shifted in order to open up your thoughts.
And as you slightly touched my wrist, I realize that humans can be so many things at once.
We can be vulnerable, hurt, angry, accepting, forgiving.
We can be human.
We can forget everything around us for just one person, if only that person called on us more than once.
But you let it go, and I let it be.
And when you told me at first, I wanted to cry.
Because now and forever we are permanently scarred.
And I love you, I just can't anymore.
So when you leave, look back and I'll pretend to look forward.
Regret and I'll pretend to forgive.

I'm glad you did it, I really am.
So let's just forget about each other.
Let's just do it to each other one more time.
For us.
For me.
For you.

Monday, June 11, 2012

Mon, 11 Jun 2012 13:52:35 GMT

You have been visited today by a contractor and a technician.
You have been visited today by people from New Zealand, Germany, Kansas, and Ontario.
You have talked to people from Great Britain, Minneapolis, and your own home.

It's not a big world.
You're not alone, ever.

So why do we constantly bring ourselves to believe such bullshit?

We attach ourselves to people and things that please our five senses.
The way things sound or the way they feel.
Smell is always a plus and sometimes a deal breaker.

But, here I am, screaming to my synapses.
And as they fire, they break open to warn another, and another, and another.
And eventually I'm pulling away and running.

Running from what?

Just running.
From my own scream
and the way you feel
and the way you sounded.

And I didn't need you; I wanted you.

But that's exactly why I'm running.
Away.
Away.
I can't go back, anyways.
Not after this.

Everyday I wake up with this new gap between what I thought I knew and what has become true.
I can't stop thinking, What now?
What now?

What the fuck do I do now?
When I had everything planned perfectly for myself.
And I let my senses ruin it completely.
The painting I left out is unfinished and the extra supplies left over have dried up.

What now?

Well I guess I'm running into people and to people and places I've been five thousand times
and you'll come to mind but, again, my synapses pull me away
and I'm floating through these days as if it never happened
and I wish I didn't have to, and I wonder so much if you realize what you've done.

To yourself.

Wednesday, June 06, 2012

Wed, 06 Jun 2012 20:15:53 GMT

There's a lot to talk about.
Some things I can say and some things I can't.
I feel like I need my own permission.

I guess what I'm trying to say is,
sometimes you can't always have answers for other people, not even for yourself.

But when you keep persisting to know, you find out more than you want to.

But then I think about it more and more, and maybe things are just meant to be found out if you try hard enough.
Whether they're in your favour or completely opposing.

And you have to deal, all by yourself, with the "answers" you're given.

I could try to make this about you, but I would be wasting my time.
Because I know you'll have another chance
and I won't.

Of course, "everything happens for a reason."
But you can't depend on reason.
And you can't hope for everything.

Once I give up, you'll start trying.
Just like it has been.
It's like watching a horror movie.

Sure, we'll ask people for advice.
We'll ask our family members, our pets, our friends, their friends.
We'll ask anyone who might give us the right answer.
(The one in which we're hoping to find.)

But it's no use.

I had them read what I wrote
and they told me, "Oh you just write so good, why don't you become a writer?"
I feel as if thoughts have carried me away with writing.
Writing only reflects the negative aspects of my life

and everytime I come back to this blank, stupid, pathetic page,
I engulf myself in self-pity and loathe.

It's nice for the most part.
I get to comfort myself in a way that no one else can,
but then I just feel as though I'm using myself.

Using my talent to persue something I don't want to happen to anyone else.
Oh, I wish you could feel it.
But you can't; I won't let you.

There will always be things I can't stop,
but that doesn't mean I should give up.

I hope.

Friday, April 27, 2012

Fri, 27 Apr 2012 23:05:56 GMT

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.

Monday, April 16, 2012

Mon, 16 Apr 2012 22:18:13 GMT

"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.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Wed, 28 Mar 2012 02:47:13 GMT

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?

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Tue, 20 Mar 2012 23:01:00 GMT

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.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Sun, 18 Mar 2012 01:59:54 GMT

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.

Saturday, December 24, 2011

Sat, 24 Dec 2011 20:26:10 GMT

People don't appreciate me like they used to,
for things I was rather than things they created for me to be.
Maybe I'm better off masked, pushed into a closet of fake boots and
off-brand clothes.

Here are some things I've forgotten.

Isn’t it ironic how you’ve labeled your head with the two words I would have discluded.

Emotionally mature.

Intellectually mature.

How you like Christmas and home sweet home but you seem intolerant of snow. But that’s what it always comes down to, your cold hearted imprints and misfit judgments. You wear your skin like no one else has any. Have you ever thought to take a look at someone else for once? Maybe mirrors were made just to push my buttons or maybe you were made just to give mirrors a meaning. Either way, you’re staring back at an empty mass.

You’ve been eaten alive by yourself, hasn’t anybody told you? You’re a figment of someone else’s imagination, a fake reflection of beauty intertwined with a mouth meant to discrete. If you could see what I see, you’d see a meaningless pair of lost eyes.

Just emotionally immature eyes..

Intellectual immaturity.

Written in my book,
I’m sure one day you’ll acknowledge the wear of the pages.
Waiting on an answer filled with the bitterness I gave you.
Leading you straight to the hole where all things sacred are kept.
Within it, faint scars and distorted footprints.
Uncomfortable moans and misplaced tears.

Written in my book,
You’re written in my book.
You’re driving me crazy, everywhere I go.

And if you’re ever laying in the sheets, i hope that stupid american flag reflects my face, because the picture on her ceiling was our most recent regret. She’s holding onto something she doesn’t even understand.

If you don’t get it,
you better figure it out soon.
Because I’m not going to sit here and watch you catch your own karma.

Where were you when we were together,
because you said one day i'd have my way.