Long and rambling, but possibly worth your time? Maybe not, but you won't know until you read it.

There are times when I think, "You know, it could be easier. Maybe even better. Who knows."
But I've always hesitated because it wasn't my style. To give up on something just because it's a little more difficult. There are bound to be snags along any way.

I've never been afraid of difficulty. Utter boredom, yes. Settling, yes. Meaninglessness, yesyesyes.
But never difficulty.

Sometimes though, difficulty reaches a point where you do get bored with it. It doesn't become a learning curve, it becomes something to deal with. Something that slowly loses meaning. Something that becomes your life.

There are a few things on my mind. Work is one. Love is another.

Work is work. I love my coworkers and there are days when I love my job. I have quite a few customers that make me smile. But there is also a visible side of humanity that is arrogant, rude and deceitful. I could do without that. (So, people, please stop lying. Don't be a douchebag.)

Of course, I also need a vacation. Maybe my mini day off will help a little.

Taking classes towards Art History would be fun. As soon as I get my taxes done, I'm going to go online and use that FAFSA4caster tool to see a round-about guess at how much financial aid I could get. Hopefully it'll work. I cannot afford to take on any large sums of debt, even if it is for education. Especially because I'm not sure I'll even end up using the degree in any big capacity.

Art Ed would be cool, but that kind of thing is being fazed out too. Because art's important, but it's not math or science... even though it can be linked TO math and science. Funny how all the subjects they teach in high school are inextricably linked together.

Besides, no one would ever pay for an art tutor at this point.

Sorry, tangent. (Cosine and sine.)



And love. Ah, love. That filthy son-of-a-bitch that keeps chipping away at my mental state. Word to the wise, don't try to make sense of anything. Love is ridiculous. There is no sense in it. It's that word we give to the undeniable urge to make babies and carry on the human race. A human race that we humans will probably destroy on our own because we can't stop fighting. Because, you see, we don't actually believe in love. We like to think the concept is nice.

Except that I do believe in it and I actually do live it. I hold no ill feelings towards anyone in my life (save one person, but she doesn't count because she is the scum of the earth and the opposite of all things lovely). I give up things and feelings I like for the people I love.

Love is wearing me down. Well, the lack of actual physical touch by love. All I've got are words. Words that can build or break an entire empire, I believe.

Physical touch, I've got none of that. Not since Eric left, at least. He was the last person I touched (outside of family) that I could honestly say I loved. And yes, the touching went from sexual to friendly to cop-a-feel to friendly again (haha)... but I know he cared a lot about me. Actually, he cares about a lot of people... his hugs made me feel protected.

Words. Words. Words. That's what I've got now. It was nice to have Eric around because he gave me more than words, even if it wasn't a lover-relationship, it was meaningful. All was good.

"Meaningful" is pretty necessary in my life. Everything I do has meaning. I require it. What is worth doing if it doesn't mean something to you deep in your soul? Life is so short. The earth has been around for approximately 4.5 billion years. We live on it for 100 years, if you're lucky enough to get old. That's a ratio of 1:45,000,000.

That's pretty pathetically short. And if I live to be 100, I've already used up almost a quarter of my time. I might be lucky to see 80 considering the cancer that runs on my dad's side. So really, I've used up 30% of my allotted time. What if I don't even live that long? What if I die tragically young? That kind of thing happens. (Though I can honestly say I'm going to do everything in my power to stop it from happening to me.)

So why should I purposely waste my time? Everything needs to have meaning. Eric was my partner in crime. (Something I ultimately want in a lover-relationship.) Even if we were just watching a movie, it was meaningful because he is awesome.

I also know I want someone who's willing to compromise with me. I'll give up a little if they give up a little and, in the end, it will work out even better than either of us expected. That sort of thing. I want to spend my remaining days on earth not settling for less. I want to be a partner in crime and I want to see places I only dreamed about. I want to be something better. I want to make someone else stronger. I want to shape minds. I want to be a foundation. A steady rock for someone.

But I need that in return too.
I'm ready for that. And I guess when it's ready for me, it will actually find me, hold me and keep me warm.
Until then, I have words. I'll use my flannel PJs and sweatshirts to keep me warm. And I'll hold myself.
I'll make due. Because I can. Because I'm complete on my own.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to look up art classes because they'd make me feel more enriched than anything else.

I had a [nightmare].

You were here. Then you left.
You didn't even say goodbye.

I called.
Something about Amanda.

I cried. I said "You just left? Without saying goodbye?"
I cried.

I cried and you said "So, can't we just be friends?"
I gasped. I cried harder and I said "Fine, you want to know everything? I'm going to tell you everything."

Then I started to spill my soul all over my front yard. I yelled and cried into the phone.
I wanted you. To be with you. To hear your and touch you everyday.
I was just about to get to the soul-wrenching part.
I was going to tell you I love you.

I woke up.

Perhaps Freud would tell me I needed closure.
But my conscious mind wasn't quite ready for it.

Well, I'm going to do this myself.
It's obvious that the universe is [and has been] telling me what I need to do, now I just need to do it.

I wish I could turn this into a novel. Maybe I could become a best seller.
Perhaps since you're stealing my dream space, I could at least steal your dream.

This goes for you.

I loved every part of you.
The pretty and the ugly.

And I always will.

It's painful and beautiful.
I cry and smile at the same time.

Emphasis on the smile.
Wiping away a tear.

Head Clutter. (from elsewhere)

Listen, I'm upset about particulars. I'm also tired as death of caring... But I also can't help but care. Such is the life of a 20something girl who's still learning about herself.

Of course, this learning process never ends, so I should get used to being tired.

I love. I hate. I'm passionate and apathetic. I'm not crazy, I'm lovely. Someone will eventually wake up next to me passionately in love. I'll look at them and breathe them in.

They'll kiss me on my collarbone, near my heart, and I'll skip a beat for them. A tiny death and a resurrection.

Don't mind me, I ramble on. I don't know what I'm talking about but I know it means everything.

They'll save me from myself and I will save them. We will live for ourselves and our love. We'll be everything and imperfect. Maybe we'll make babies and they'll grow into someone who shares our ideals or maybe they'll be completely different. They'll have tiny tragedies and big ones and love and hate and be imperfect too. They'll be beautiful though. Absolutely.

But I am the one that doesn't know anything. Silly girl, right? Just looking for frivolity and nonchalant relations. Who needs meaning when you can have easy? So many times I haven't been "worth the trouble."

Well, guess what, I am. I am.

All I could ever give you, all I can ever give, is all of me. My love, healing, acceptance and soul. That is enough. That is me. I am worth the trouble.

I am worth a risk. A fight. A potential heartache.

And I'm tired or hanging on to the edge of the cliff. I might let go. So go ahead and step on my fingers.

Goodnight.

I don't think you understand.

You obviously don't want me as much as I want you.
So stop pretending, please.

Sobered Alcohol

It's funny how my mind is quickly sobered by the addition of alcohol.
Everything seems so obvious now... without logic clouding my vision.

Accidental confessions that were already known.
Colors that tried to flow out of my fingertips.

Artistic muses turned into an artistic muse.

I smile as the music just... matches up with my heartbeat.

("Accidental Babies" by Damien Rice)

Well, I held you like a lover, happy hands -- your elbow in the appropriate place. And we ignored our others, happy plans -- that delicate look upon your face. Our bodies moved and hardened hurting parts of your garden with no room for a pardon in a place where no one knows what we have done.

(This is disjointed because I have become a lightweight, officially.
The equivalent of two shots of SoCo should not make you introspectively tipsy. It did do its job in making me sleepy though.)

Complexity.

Why does it feels so hard to verbalize three words.
Seemingly insignificant words.

And why am I finding it so difficult to type them tonight.