Friday, June 26, 2009


Is it beautiful that I wait for you
or is it pathetic?

This is the question for me.

A budding flower or a bloomed rose, which will die twice as fast
which could this be?

Beginning of the ending, ending of the beginning, im stuck in purgatory, starved for new ideas. Somehow, I don't think I mind.

As it has always been said with every friend, every lover, every stranger; you deserve better than me- but I dont deserve better than you.

"His head was a city
Of paper buildings
And the echoes that remained
Of old friends and lovers
Their features bleeding
Together in his brain"-DCFC


Possibly inspired by the lyrics from the last post. Also inspired by my brain.. yeah.
A boy and a girl
music flowing through their ears
and also their mouths.

Invisible string
chest to chest, cheek to cheek.
At what point does it end and break?

When will the music stop singing
Where is the pause in the symphony?
Prepare yourself for it, but do not look forward to the moment.

for isn't there always a deadline to your timeline
an end to the labyrinthine mesh
that was dissected with slow pleasure?

the sharp wire will tear at your skin
eventually dissolving and dissipating
leaving you sitting and singing the loudest silence
until you find another type of beautiful netting to unravel.

Beautiful Lyrics

Streched out
Stretched out on the grass
a boy and a girl.
Savoring their oranges, giving their kisses
likes waves exchanging foam.

Streched out
Stretched out on the beach
a boy and a girl.
Savoring thier limes, giving their kisses
like clouds exchanging foam.

Streched out
Stretched out underground
a boy and a girl.
Saying nothing, never kissing
giving silence for silence

--Eric Whitacre, A Boy and a Girl

Thursday, June 4, 2009


When I was young, I used to imagine that everything I said and did was in the mind of another person. Just a figment of imagination. Now, sometimes I pretend (or rather, worry) that I am a schizophrenic and that everything that happens is all in my head.

Thats probably not the healthiest worry in the world.

Then again, when you come from a family with a background of mental illnesses, its different. Every action has a title. Every word you speak has a double meaning. Every facial expression reveals a part of your soul.

I was never raised to hide things. Its virtually impossible.

Its like my occasional bouts of social awkwardness, or self-righteousness, or just plain outrageousness; its all humiliating, and none of it can be restrained.

I'd like to think its normal. But I'm scared it's not. I'd like to think people do not mind. But I'm scared that they will. Maybe its a serious problem. Maybe I'm secretly insane and no one knows it yet.

Or maybe I'm just that kid who is merely cannot conceive that reality just is.

Beginning. Again.

It's simple as this. I refuse to hide.
Nothing else in the world will stop me from writing. Say what you will.
I'm sick of the rumors, sick of your lies, I don't care if you think I lead you on.

Because I don't.

I refuse to hide any longer.
All my life, I have been inching out of my shell, then retreating.
This is probably just another phase, but what else can I do but try?