the only moment we were alone.

I’m scared I’ll lose myself.

Untitled, as of yet.

He waited for her,

as she roamed the globe.

Wistfully, he longed for her radiance

to caress his dark, grey surface.

He looked over his lifeless exterior,

the surface that once fulfilled him,

and only saw what was missing:

light.

Every night he forced his eyelids to stay open,

until they cried and pleaded for sleep,

hoping to get a little glimpse of

her still sleepy face just rising from a darkened world.

The memories of her soft, soothing voice, whispering

in his now-empty ear, played through his head,

a product of nostalgia forever on replay.

The two were never closer than thousands of miles in reality,

which inevitably caused him to curse gravitational pull

and all that is higher in the Universe.

The Man inside him made him no stronger,

and no less dependent.

All he could do was wish,

day after day,

upon every shooting star amidst his presence,

that her rays would caress his dark, cratered, surface

just one last time.

Just one last time before gravity swept him back into the dark.

I need to get back in the habit of writing, I was doing so well there for a while. I was using this as a diary (and, I must say, it really worked); but, now my life has slowed down quite a bit. I have no interesting laments or stories to tell. I thought about resorting to fictional writing (practice for the novel I would love to write), but can’t seem to develop the plot, characters, or even any words. Words have always been my ally… but, they’ve turned against me. They left me for the winning side. Bastards. I’ve been at the computer every night, erasing and writing. Writing only to erase it away, and erasing only with the hope more writing would come. My one-liners seem to be just that, one-liners. The long writing lacks substance and clarity. I have quite a predicament here. The labyrinth of Writer’s Block is swallowing me whole. It seems as if my mind is telling me I need drama just to be able to write? That is not okay. Not okay at all. If I’m happy, why can’t I write about it?

A Retelling of Fortunate Events

The place in which I live does not promote intelligence or artisticness. I’ve never really fit in, except for when I was too young and naive to form my own interests, or even tell the difference. As I got older, I grew apart from the people I was surrounded by. I wasn’t ever a social pariah, I just never had any lasting relationships that I had the desire to keep.

My sophomore year of highschool I dated a guy, who was a senior at the time. Don’t get me wrong, I liked him and eventually thought I loved him. But, it wasn’t the passionate, “I want to marry you and be with you everyday love”. It was the “you’re my best friend, you occasionally annoy the living shit out of me, but I really trust you and I really need that now”, puppy-love type of relationship. We’re still rather good friends, now; he was, at that point, my best and only friend.

We broke up when he graduated and it hit me really hard, I really didn’t have anyone else to stick with. No allies, if you will. (I’ve decided you need at least one ally; if you have one, you’ll be okay.) I felt really alone, and really upset. I just needed to find someone to fit in with at the school. Prior to, I had some good friends but they all seemed to move on to better people and forget about me. It led me to believe I was easily forgettable. So, I began to search for an ally. I’ve never been the one to change who I am to fit in with others, I just really was companionship-hungry. I’m really not sure why I felt it so necessary to “fit-in” with the rest of the school. I was really insecure at the time. I guess me trying to forget who I was and experience new things led me to, eventually, find out who I wanted to be.

Consistently, my best friends were older than me. I had one friend in my grade; she was pretty popular among our class, and she was fun to be around. Not an intellectual being, by any means; more of the “partier” of the class. Slowly, I began to lose interest in reading and art and everything I had always loved. I was turning in to one of the people I had always condemned. I began to search for experiences. Less conversation and more actions that would leave my adrenaline racing and my mouth saying, “that wasn’t the best decision”. My morals went out the window and I didn’t care what I was doing. I was careless, and thriving on experience (and not all the good kind). I went on this binge for a few months, the entire first semester of senior year. I became alot closer to my classmates, because I was then taking part in all of the incredibly stupid things they did on a nightly basis. I felt happy; after all, I had many companions and many allies, it seemed. I had a best friend (who thoroughly enjoyed talking about herself, drinking, and really hated staying on the subject of giving me advice), a boyfriend (who was a jackass, trashy, and, most likely, a cheater) and many (vapid and superficial) friends. All a girl would ever want! After a while, though, the lifestyle I had so eagerly tried to adapt slapped me in the face. The foul habits I had adopted led me to bad decisions, which led me away from the people, at the moment, I thought mattered.

I was by myself again, by my own doing this time. At the time, I was extremely depressed. I lost 20 pounds in two weeks, and was completely unhappy with who I was. I recognized how ignorant my actions were and realized that I had pulled a curtain over my eyes in an attempt to fit in, which is who I had always vowed to never be.

After a month or so of pointless wallowing, I decided I was finished. I locked myself in my room, and painted for three hours. I paid no attention to time, no attention to anybody but me. After that, none of it mattered. I felt like something good was coming, and I’d be even better off. That was the first domino. I met a guy, I met a new friend. I started reading again, I started thinking again, I stopped watching TV, I stopped sleeping as much, and I got rid of everything I didn’t need. It all left me stronger. Although, now, I do have some trust issues and I’m pretty self-conscious; it left me doubting all of my abilities, and intelligence (which all could’ve been caused by the sudden realization of how much time I’ve wasted here, doing nothing and how much potential I think I always had). I just hope I can eventually live up to it.

Now, I’m with someone who has helped me remember everything Livingston had made me forget. He reminds me of the things that I have always loved, but had simply misplaced for a while (for a reference, the previous blog is about him). I have all the friends I need. And, it feels so wonderful to have intellectual conversations with people again. It’s so fantastic being able to say incredibly nerdy things and not be patronized. But, the most wonderful thing is the fact that I no longer care. Yes, it’s led me to criticize and ostracize my incredibly moronic peers, but I’ve never felt so at home.

I’m at the height of my roller coaster; but, this time, things aren’t so volatile.

you turn me on to the idea of growing old.

Don’t leave me like he did. Please don’t get tired of me. I can’t be the one that cares the most in my relationships anymore. I really just can’t. I love us. I am so incredibly happy. Happier than I’ve ever been, I think. I want our plans, and I want to stay with you. I love that we’ll live at the beach and both teach at really awesome schools. And how we’re going to take off and sleep in all day, and take amazing vacations every summer, and roadtrip everywhere. How I’ll open my bookstore with you. I can make you and your class white chocolate macadamia nut cookies; when I walk in, maybe they’ll say “ooooooh!” really loud, like you hope they will. We’re still going to listen to really badass music when we’re old, by the way. And, our possible children? They’re going to be wonderful. “Wh-what the heck do I need to be from Mars for?!” They don’t need to be from Mars because we’ll build space ships in our back yard! And let them draw everywhere, and listen to good music, and we’ll teach them lots so they’re not ignorant.
I can’t imagine ever getting tired of you because you really bring out the best parts of me, as cheesy as that is. You’re exciting, fun, weird, intelligent, and you keep me on my toes. I don’t want this to end, I don’t want this to end. And the last time I thought that it was all a train wreck. Let’s not wreck this one. I don’t want to drive this in the ground. I don’t want to fuck this up. I really just want to stay with you forever. I feel stupid admitting that. But marrying you would be AWESOME! There you go, love. That’s my gift to you. I may not be able to paint you an awesome picture, or play you any pretty music. But, I can give you words. I can give you little pieces of me. Eventually, you might have everything (I’m crossing my fingers this is mutual). But, if you break my heart, I’ll kick your ass.

Let’s go.

I think I want to be a teacher. I wan to affect someone’s life, I really do. I want to teach kids. To learn, and challenge, and write to express themselves. I want to show them great literature and great writers. I want to inspire them and tell them to be great. I want to show them that being normal is overrated and all the most wonderful people are weird in their own way! I’m feeling optimistic and I want to do something. I want to love, to teach, to create, to live, to sing, to dance, to see new things, to go new places, to be thrown out of my element, to feel awkward, to feel loved, to play, to challenge myself. I love this life. And I’m ready to get out there and live it.

Me: “I was really planning on not getting attached to you…
It’s not really working.”

Him: “I was going to try to do the same thing. But, I’ve failed.
You’re so amazing.”

We planned a road trip. Cross country, and across the World. We mapped out our stops, and where we’d sleep. We dreamt, together, about how we could spend every night cuddled up. We mapped it all out…
Please, please, please don’t let me get hurt again.
I know it’s coming, eventually.
Nobody ever really decides to stay. 

Talking in circles.

What, exactly, does the phrase ‘be yourself’ mean? The self you are, or the self you ought to be? The self you desire, or the self you loathe? There are so many different facets to our personalities and egos, how could we ever be true to only one? If we define a specific identity to pledge our allegiance to, doesn’t that leave us trapped within ourselves, or the archetype we have created of ourselves? By claiming something as an absolute, we’re limiting all the possibilities to change. A tremendous aspect of humanity is change. How can we expect happiness if we limit one of the most basic happenings of life?

I’m not entirely sure who I am, yet. I know who I want to be, who I ought to be. I know what I do and do not appreciate about myself; however, all of these categories are on different playing fields. Certain parts of myself I act upon, and others I keep in my head; and, we all do the same thing with our insecurities and opinions. But, in order to be one’s self, does it require a certain amount of expression, or demonstration? If you think, but do not say, are you being true or not? Is it our actions that define a certain level of loyalty, or our thoughts?

Now, when people say “be true to yourself”, tell me, what do they mean?

Play the part.

I am no better than anyone else, but I want to be. I’d like to be the one affecting, instead of the one effected.
I’m infected with everyone else, yet none are sick with my characteristics. For I am simply a compilation of other’s words and other’s ideas. I’d like an identity to my own, beliefs that are solely mine.
Sometimes, it helps to believe everyone else is similarly nothing but a composition.

Maybe, the things that truly define who we are are the things we choose to mix within ourselves.

I’ll be sending out a search party promptly.

I am no longer confident in my beliefs or opinions; I constantly need to feel reassurance from others. What I must realize is my opinion is the only one that matters. Without the self, we have nothing.

I seem to have temporarily misplaced my “self”. I must go on a search.

Silly girl, dreams are for kids.

I roll over in my bed, still caught up in a dream, expecting to be greeted by the warm comfort of your body next to mine. My hands blindly search for your back but fall short and find nothing but a cold, lifeless pillow.

You’re not here.

I open my eyes a little and see the bed is empty, which leaves me disappointed. Still under the influence of a deep sleep and a hypnotic dream (a very bad combination), I roll over to check my phone, maybe you messaged. The phone blinds my sleepy eyes, and I wince as I open it up. I had a few waiting messages but none from you, the only one I had hoped for.
The light violently triggers my consciousness, leading me to realize the folly of my foolish actions.

I’m left lying wide-awake in my empty bed, staring at my empty phone, remembering that we don’t even talk anymore.

I need a new addiction that isn’t you.

Any thing.

Any one.

An opinion you probably don’t want to hear.

I think everything in my life would be much easier if I believed in God. In the words of Kurt Vonnegut, “Religion is the tylenol of the masses, and I am so glad it works.”
Well, I have a headache but my tylenol is defective.

Lately, there’s been a bunch of hoopla about my lack of religious beliefs; I am not sure why everyone decided to blow up over this innocuous opinion, since I have been this way for a few years now. Here, it is treated as a defect. Something that is broken and needs to be fixed. Maybe it does need to be fixed. Maybe I do need to be fixed.
Now, I will go in to a background of why, exactly, my life is religion-less and God-less:

Tonight, my mom came in to my room and advised me to pray. Every one seems to believe that if I pray more, I will suddenly reach an epiphany and realize there is a God. Nobody seems to understand that this is a decision I must make on my own, I have to justify it on my own. They don’t realize that I’ve tried the religion thing, the believing thing.. It didn’t work. I went to church every Wednesday, read my bible every night, and prayed frequently. I attempted to surround myself with pious people (soon realizing there are very few in this world). I tried to believe, I really did. I would listen to people talk about their faith in Jesus and how completely doubtless they were. I would pretend I felt the same, I’d smile and nod; I listened intently to sermons, trying desperately to silence the voice of doubt in the back of my head. Every night after church, I would remind myself over and over there was a God. I felt so bad for even thinking that there might not be. God was real. I had to believe in God. Everyone believed in God, right?
But, slowly, I got tired of pretending. I finally admitted, to myself, what had been true all along: I do not have a religion. I do not believe in a higher being.

I don’t understand the idea of God, honestly. The idea of a big man, or spirit, or being running the World and placing us all here seems befuddling and absurd.  It feels, to me, God was something a random bloak created to offer an explanation for why we are alive. Religion quickly stemmed from that. If you look at religions, they all branch from the same basic ideas. Once I heard the argument “the bible has to be real! How could they get all those people to write over the same subjects in one big book!?” Really? How hard is it to write a novel with a bunch of different characters? (Excuse my lack of factual and theological information in my counter-argument; I don’t know a ton about religion, and you can probably theologically prove me wrong. Go ahead. It will, most likely, not change me.)

I’m sorry you can’t save me, only I can save myself.

A close friend asked me a few days ago why I didn’t believe. I said, “I don’t know, it just never made sense to me. I can’t logically explain it, and I can’t justify it. It doesn’t seem real to me. It seems like something people use just to make themselves feel better, like a drug.” He replied with, “There’s so many things we can’t explain, Kelsey. Can you explain love? Can you explain sorrow? Can you explain hope?”

He is right, there are so many unexplainable and so many unjustifiable things in life.
I can’t explain love, but I can feel it.
I can’t explain sorrow, but I can feel it.
I can’t explain hope, but I can feel it.
I can’t explain God,
but I can’t feel it either.

It’s never been there for me, I just finally decided to stop lying to myself and everyone else.

I think I know you the best when I’m sleeping.

His arms were around me, tight but unattached. This was the second night I had stayed the night, but things were different now… he was different now. I wanted, so badly, to feel something. I wanted him to feel something again… the desire was overwhelming but hopeless. We had just finished arguing and I had just finished crying…
“Why can’t just hate me, Kelsey? I know I deserve it and it would just make this all so much easier…” he begged.
I sat up in his bed, his black comforter still draped over me. My shoulders were hunched over, as if subconsciously I was using them to shield my heavy heart. I had been holding back tears all night (I hate crying in front of people). I looked out the window, the faint light hitting my face… I knew he could see me. I took a deep breath, my lip quivering ever so slightly.
“Why can’t you just hate me?” he repeated.
“I wish I could…” I whispered, as a meek tear fell out of my right eye and down my cheek. “I’ve tried so hard to.” I could barely get any words out.
“I’m sorry, I really am. I’m sorry I’m such an asshole. I still care about you, and I still really really like you. And I still miss you. I just can’t be in this relationship, I don’t want it.” he confessed.
I can’t remember what I was thinking, or whether or not he seemed genuine.
“Okay…” was all I could think to say. I laid back down with my back towards him, my knees curled in as far as I could pull them, and his comforter up to my chin.
Part of me wanted him to go away and never touch me again, I just wanted to sleep and be out of his reach. A bigger part wanted him to pull me close and take it all back.
“Come here, baby. Let’s talk about this. Come on, talk to me. We can’t go to sleep mad at each other,” he said as he pulled at my shoulder. Bullshit.
I hesitatingly turned around, trying my best to remember why the few stray tears were still lingering on my face and who put them there. “I just wish I was still worth it to you… like I used to be.”
“Babe, it’s not like that. It’s not like that, Kelsey. I promise,” he sighed. He moved his hands up to his face and rubbed his eyes. With his hands rested on his forehead he groaned, “Ahhhh, I don’t know what to doooo…” He was obviously upset, though I am not sure to what degree or of what kind.

After a few minutes of silently looking at eachother, I asked “I know I don’t and this doesn’t mean anything to you anymore but, will you hold me again? Please? I know it sounds stupid… I just missed your arms around me.”
“Of course I will.”

His arms were wrapped around me, tight but unattached. Our bodies were intertwined, a feeling they had so easily gotten used to but, now so uselessly tried to forget. My eyes still weren’t dry and the trail down my face hadn’t evaporated just yet. This was the second night I had stayed the night, but things were different now, we were different now… I never wanted us to be different. As much as I hadn’t wanted to, I missed his arms around me; I missed feeling him close. This time, though, instead of butterflies and contentment, I felt sorrow and sadness. I knew he didn’t care, and never would. I knew it would only hurt me, and he would leave unscathed.

After a while, I turned to look at him. I saw the face of a boy I had once loved, the face of a changed boy. His eyes a little more tired. His lips a little more down-turned. His hair a little longer and his face a little chubbier.
I touched his warm cheek, resting my hand softly against it. He raised his eyebrows and barely cracked open his eyes, waiting for me to say something.
“Hey… Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay…” I slowly whispered.
He nodded his head, “I hope so.”
I paused, and rubbed my fingers through his hair. It was undeniable how much I cared about him, and still do. Then, I kissed him; but, it was a different kind of kiss. Not one full of passion or love. Sadly, just a kiss; our lips touched in every way but the kind I missed the most.

“I think you’ll miss me eventually.” I mumbled, instantly regretting my impulse.
With a slow nod he whispered, “I think it’ll be soon…”