Lather, rinse, repeat.
Sometimes I ask myself what it is about writing our thoughts down, that makes them that much more real, meaningful, life events we lived through that much more, once jotted down in this here el jay. Maybe its going back to what was, and rehashing what wasnt, coulda woulda shoulda, because really, you can never stand solely on happiness. I cant atleast. For tonight, I'll blame the melancholy on my dads inability to understand donating blood, combined with my favorite time of the month.
Today feels like it never happened, or maybe it just shouldnt have, the choice is yours to make. It went same as most, I woke, showered, put my face on, et cetera, headed to hell, 7 periods of things I stopped caring for after the 5th grade, followed by the usual quick paced walk out of the flames, into my car, and back towards solace. I came home to an empty house, and plainly enough, I left it that way. The day presented me with an increase of moral issues I typically face myself against (maybe as a subconcious reminder that I actually have some); whatever the problem, my solution dwindled down to donating blood: a most worthy of causes, if not for the selfish reasoning behind it. My first experience at the red cross was a brief one, short and sweet, leaving me dizzied with a high rising above your standard saving a life. I was literally floating, and I didnt care why, it felt good. Two months later, and I am left thinking that nothing is ever as good as its first time, your left chasing something you will never get. Ignore the fact that somehow my comparison to donating blood matches up to that of a heroine addicts, needle in hand, reality at bay.
My first time donating blood, I was perched up against the navy blue cots set for all of our soldierous souls, nearing the arm numbing sanctity we call volunteering, wearing ambiance like a second skin. This time round, donating blood did little more than bruise not only my arm, but my ego. Essentially, the nurse didnt use the arm I told her to, the vein she went for wasnt giving what she wanted, and she dug around only to dive into an abyss of excruciating pain. Never again do I donate solely to make myself feel better.Or get high...
Few hours later, coming home to a full house and entering with anger on my mind, my dad cant help remark that I'm only injuring myself for people I will never meet? Hey, temporary ass of a father, it's called goodness, perhaps you could try some, Im thinking to myself. But really, given that I donated so much more because I wanted to feel just, supervious to my peers after a grueling day learning under the man, as opposed to because Im saving a life, am I any better?
In seeing how equally blindsighted we are, my father and I, I think I can vouch for every theory ever saying you become what you swore you never would. Your parents
Today feels like it never happened, or maybe it just shouldnt have, the choice is yours to make. It went same as most, I woke, showered, put my face on, et cetera, headed to hell, 7 periods of things I stopped caring for after the 5th grade, followed by the usual quick paced walk out of the flames, into my car, and back towards solace. I came home to an empty house, and plainly enough, I left it that way. The day presented me with an increase of moral issues I typically face myself against (maybe as a subconcious reminder that I actually have some); whatever the problem, my solution dwindled down to donating blood: a most worthy of causes, if not for the selfish reasoning behind it. My first experience at the red cross was a brief one, short and sweet, leaving me dizzied with a high rising above your standard saving a life. I was literally floating, and I didnt care why, it felt good. Two months later, and I am left thinking that nothing is ever as good as its first time, your left chasing something you will never get. Ignore the fact that somehow my comparison to donating blood matches up to that of a heroine addicts, needle in hand, reality at bay.
My first time donating blood, I was perched up against the navy blue cots set for all of our soldierous souls, nearing the arm numbing sanctity we call volunteering, wearing ambiance like a second skin. This time round, donating blood did little more than bruise not only my arm, but my ego. Essentially, the nurse didnt use the arm I told her to, the vein she went for wasnt giving what she wanted, and she dug around only to dive into an abyss of excruciating pain. Never again do I donate solely to make myself feel better.Or get high...
Few hours later, coming home to a full house and entering with anger on my mind, my dad cant help remark that I'm only injuring myself for people I will never meet? Hey, temporary ass of a father, it's called goodness, perhaps you could try some, Im thinking to myself. But really, given that I donated so much more because I wanted to feel just, supervious to my peers after a grueling day learning under the man, as opposed to because Im saving a life, am I any better?
In seeing how equally blindsighted we are, my father and I, I think I can vouch for every theory ever saying you become what you swore you never would. Your parents