(no subject)
I always feel the need to run my mouth. it's a very bad habit, it gets me into big trouble, especially when I say things that I don't actually mean just to hurt people because I feel like they've hurt me. whether the slight is real or imagined, I feel the need to retaliate, and my levels of paranoia are so high that I know I can't really trust myself, so I aways end up second guessing everything I feel and wondering whether or not I just hurt someone who didn't deserve it, and if I think I may have then I feel even worse...
Laura's friend Julio gives me very bad adivce, but I still like to hear him talk... he just talks and talks about nothing, but it's comforting and soothing, because everything he says is kind of stupid but at least it's amusing, and he kind of takes my mind off the fact that I want to cry and scream and throw things at people. when things don't go my way I get irritated and try to force people to do what I want, which is not the way to do it, but once again, I don't care...
I miss Massachusetts very much...
there's something soothing about the cold. I miss the bare, skeletal faded trees... the way everything gets whited out underneath the frost. I miss my corduroy jacket. I miss wearing boots for a reason. I miss the hopeless feeling you get when all you want is summer. I miss my family, and I miss my school, and I miss everyone up there. I want to go back so badly. the fasion is better, the people are better... the food is infinitely better. I want all-natural crap. I want hippies to lecture me about my eating habits. I never thought I'd miss Massachusetts hippies but they're one of the best things in the world. I'm so homesick. I want something down here to grab onto that reminds me of it.
"if you think that I could be forgiven I wish you would." -- The Counting Crows, A Long December
a blonde-haired man is moving boxes with his shirt off. a black demon is tattooed between his shoulderblades... his skin is red from the sun, and peeling in little flakes on his shoulders. he stands, stretching his back and taking a sip from a bottle, shouting to a dog sniffing around the gravel driveway. his shorts are hanging loose around his skinny hips, you can see the tops of faded boxers.
the sun has been setting for a while... the shadows of flowering trees stretch across the cracked roads.
time here is hard to measure.
the sparse grass remains uncut, but the trash strewn throughout the lawns seems to keep it in check.
I try to place my feet in between the lines on the sidewalk and avoid the shards of brown glass at the same time.
the upstairs carpet is thick, but covered in stains and burns. paint is splashed around the maroon edges.
I have no furniture at the moment, just boxes of clothes. still, the empty rooms, the balls of dust and tiny peices of trash left by previous occupants give me chills of an emotion I can't identify or even explain.
it's the happy-sad-lonely-excited feeling I get sometimes for no apparent reason. it reminds me of my father, the way he used to stare at abandoned, delapidated buildings and tall, dark, forboding modern ones with a longing and a love that I never saw in him at any other time.
these houses remind me of him. he would love the faded glory of their architecture. I inherited that love from him. its deep in my blood. I think maybe I wasn't made to live here, or I thought that for awhile... but now I'm not so sure. I feel very vulberable, very afraid, for no particular reason, but I feel like I belong here.
the dogs don't seem to agree. they're staring out the front window, barking at anyone who walks by.
I think I knew when I was born what I was supposed to do. the other night I met a crackwhore. I talked to her for a few hours. she had an NA manual in her gigantic pink purse, and a little orange leather book of the New Testament. she told me to read the prayer for the day.
it went something like, "God, show me how I am to do your work."
I'm almost positive I know the answer for myself.
we're all here for a reason, we must be, and maybe some people are not meant to be happy. but I'm not sure I'm one of those people. I think I'm here to help the few that I can.
I think the reason I am not who my mother wanted me to be is that that is not who God wanted me to be... I'm not supposed to make a lot of money. I'm not supposed to live a fancy, comfortable lie.
I think I'm here to teach.
I think that He gave me my father so that the aging, broken buildings and the aging broken streets and the aging broken people won't fill me with fear-- they'll fill me with love.
I think I'm supposed to be here.
buildings tower over the bay. they send their light out onto the water and it catches and sparkles and travels on the waves and calls to anyone who sees it. the sky is black behind them, and all you can see are the squares of light that we convert into the recognizable shapes of skyscrapers and houses and windows and life and civilizations...
right now my rant is a little bit drug enduced.
Laura's friend Julio gives me very bad adivce, but I still like to hear him talk... he just talks and talks about nothing, but it's comforting and soothing, because everything he says is kind of stupid but at least it's amusing, and he kind of takes my mind off the fact that I want to cry and scream and throw things at people. when things don't go my way I get irritated and try to force people to do what I want, which is not the way to do it, but once again, I don't care...
I miss Massachusetts very much...
there's something soothing about the cold. I miss the bare, skeletal faded trees... the way everything gets whited out underneath the frost. I miss my corduroy jacket. I miss wearing boots for a reason. I miss the hopeless feeling you get when all you want is summer. I miss my family, and I miss my school, and I miss everyone up there. I want to go back so badly. the fasion is better, the people are better... the food is infinitely better. I want all-natural crap. I want hippies to lecture me about my eating habits. I never thought I'd miss Massachusetts hippies but they're one of the best things in the world. I'm so homesick. I want something down here to grab onto that reminds me of it.
"if you think that I could be forgiven I wish you would." -- The Counting Crows, A Long December
a blonde-haired man is moving boxes with his shirt off. a black demon is tattooed between his shoulderblades... his skin is red from the sun, and peeling in little flakes on his shoulders. he stands, stretching his back and taking a sip from a bottle, shouting to a dog sniffing around the gravel driveway. his shorts are hanging loose around his skinny hips, you can see the tops of faded boxers.
the sun has been setting for a while... the shadows of flowering trees stretch across the cracked roads.
time here is hard to measure.
the sparse grass remains uncut, but the trash strewn throughout the lawns seems to keep it in check.
I try to place my feet in between the lines on the sidewalk and avoid the shards of brown glass at the same time.
the upstairs carpet is thick, but covered in stains and burns. paint is splashed around the maroon edges.
I have no furniture at the moment, just boxes of clothes. still, the empty rooms, the balls of dust and tiny peices of trash left by previous occupants give me chills of an emotion I can't identify or even explain.
it's the happy-sad-lonely-excited feeling I get sometimes for no apparent reason. it reminds me of my father, the way he used to stare at abandoned, delapidated buildings and tall, dark, forboding modern ones with a longing and a love that I never saw in him at any other time.
these houses remind me of him. he would love the faded glory of their architecture. I inherited that love from him. its deep in my blood. I think maybe I wasn't made to live here, or I thought that for awhile... but now I'm not so sure. I feel very vulberable, very afraid, for no particular reason, but I feel like I belong here.
the dogs don't seem to agree. they're staring out the front window, barking at anyone who walks by.
I think I knew when I was born what I was supposed to do. the other night I met a crackwhore. I talked to her for a few hours. she had an NA manual in her gigantic pink purse, and a little orange leather book of the New Testament. she told me to read the prayer for the day.
it went something like, "God, show me how I am to do your work."
I'm almost positive I know the answer for myself.
we're all here for a reason, we must be, and maybe some people are not meant to be happy. but I'm not sure I'm one of those people. I think I'm here to help the few that I can.
I think the reason I am not who my mother wanted me to be is that that is not who God wanted me to be... I'm not supposed to make a lot of money. I'm not supposed to live a fancy, comfortable lie.
I think I'm here to teach.
I think that He gave me my father so that the aging, broken buildings and the aging broken streets and the aging broken people won't fill me with fear-- they'll fill me with love.
I think I'm supposed to be here.
buildings tower over the bay. they send their light out onto the water and it catches and sparkles and travels on the waves and calls to anyone who sees it. the sky is black behind them, and all you can see are the squares of light that we convert into the recognizable shapes of skyscrapers and houses and windows and life and civilizations...
right now my rant is a little bit drug enduced.