Tuesday, August 27, 2013

I need to vent...

I never realized how hard it is to not talk about something you need to get out. 

It isn't like I don't have people to talk to, I think I do, I just, need to say it another way.
To be honest, I just want to feel less.... like I do. Whatever that is.

So, second day of school, I walk into one of my classes and I found someone  had taken my seat. Not entirely caring, I just sat across, and later found it to be a girl I hadn't met before. Not knowing her name for the whole first week of school, I merely made small talk, along with everyone else at the table. But then, about halfway through the week, it started getting hard to look at her eyes. I felt I couldn't move. Slowly, it got harder and harder to be calm around her, even though I wasn't being too awkward (I think). I fell for her. Stupid, huh? One week, not even knowing her name. Right when I started to admit this, I learned that she has a boyfriend.

That is how this happy story ends. Thanks, just felt like putting it up here. Needed to get it out.  

Sunday, August 25, 2013

Excerpt from my notebook- Part 1

I have been having the most difficult times with ad-blockers on this website. It kept me from being able to post for awhile, but I have that figured out now. 

So, school has resumed... I may have taken on a bit too much, but I expect to at least pass my classes. 
Good luck to everyone else facing school. 

Anyways, I started a new notebook on the first day of school, and I plan on taking small parts of it out and putting up here. In my English class, he gives us about 10 minutes of free time at the beginning of class to text/talk with our friends, so I just write instead. 

Here we are.

The air in the room was warm,
Not an uncomfortable heat,
Just not so cold.
There was no tightness against my skin from the constricting pressures of ice stricken oxygen.
I felt calm. 
It was white,
and not the bleak form of white that artists crave to change,
The kind of white you find against the back of your eyelids,
It wasn't dark there, 
Like usual. 
Just still. 
I could feel the water drip off of my tongue,
Sweet like honey.
But not the viscous, sticky, type. 
The type of honey he found mixed into his sweet tea earlier. 
She was also sweet,
Seated halfway between the door and her seat,
My feet were itching to leave,
to prove a simple point.
To make a stand,
I can't stand here.

There was a time this room wasn't shaking,
That my hand wasn't shaking,
My eyes never shake anymore.
I've settles down in my mind,
This time,
I've found comfort in your silence.

The walls were white,
Only covered in the sweetness of a forgotten smile. 

Saturday, August 17, 2013

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Bookcase City

In my room I have four bookcases.
That isn't to say I don’t have only four bookcases worth of books.
There are stacks of stories cluttered on my desk,
Fables and Fictions filling my floor space. 
I've always liked the idea of walking among these pages so precariously perched in my mind,
Bound paper stacks pose as skyscrapers, 
Their interior office cubicles containing billions of syllables,
Ink imprints are radioactive on the pages,
Their atomic infrastructure explodes in the dimensions of your imagination.

And sometimes,
They leave a small boy,
Clutching a pillow,
Wondering what to do with his life
After completing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
Or the Lord of the Rings Trilogy,
Or that one book he found in the back of the library.

He has devoted every part of his being into these characters,
Felt them breathing down his neck as he lay reading,
Stayed up and had clever conversations exploring their thoughts on science and religion,
And held them in his hands for hours on end,

Books are dead lovers.

We hang on to their last breath,
They have built up to their death with the last will and testament of our capacity to move forward,
Use the information we receive to help us become a better person,
Like a story book character,
We’ll be wrapped around simple sentence configurations,
Accompanied by pictures that put us in the constraint of context,
It isn't about being able to define someone,
It’s about understanding where they come from,
Because I come from the fictitious facilities of being 5,
I still wade in the pool of memories collected over those years,
I remember having several random objects and toys that could somehow coexist in an imaginary world known as my living room.
I come from the days spent imagining we weren't so small,
That the electrodes boiling in our brains weren't so unimportant in the grand scheme of things,
I've noticed this in the outlines of scenic pictures,
A landscape of unimaginable lengths,
Filled with the lore of our storybooks,
I've noticed that in these digital photos,
Our imagination is that one pixel.
That pixel that is a different shade then those around it,
The one that just,
Makes the picture unique.

The possibilities are infinite,
 Only defined by what we find in our hearts,
Not by the printed folds of any book,
But we all try to explain it,
We all try to draw straight lines with these closed eyes,
We haven’t realized it isn't about defining anything,
It’s about understanding where it comes from.

I come from a book I published in my sleep,
Where I rewrote the pages so many times,
I've forgotten all the lies I've scribbled in the margins.
Where time seemed to bend with the binding,
And it felt like a lifetime of waiting to find out what I wanted to say,
I have something to say,
I search authors for answers and see if they've already said it.

I've been looking for the nucleus of an idea to blow me away,
For buildings to come crashing to my feet,
When I figure out how to tell you…
I don’t know who I am.
That is why I pour myself into characters shoes,
Trying to find a size that fits,
Something that makes sense.

Fiction is easy to perceive when you aren't looking for the truth,
Looking for another world out there in-between two covers.

Some bookcase city looking for a story to tell.