I went back to where I met you
I've been there a thousand times
I tried to wash away your stains
To put a lid on all the pain
Every time, it faded in strength
Every time, returning again
Your echo isn't weak to me
I catch your trace,
Still frequently
Out where there are no sounds
I heard your whispers in the wind
I tried to run until I found
Your footsteps, weary
Dancing away
Every time, you faded in strength
Every time, returning again
Your imprint isn't weak to me
I catch your scent,
Still constantly
I went back to where you left me
I've been there a thousand times
In the cocoon of nothing you sent
Where there is no sense,
No reason or rhyme
Every time, I faded in strength
Every time, returning again
Your shadow doesn't flee from me
I catch your trace,
Still constantly
I may disappear sometimes
And not know where I am
In the mornings, in the nights
But something glimmers
Something bright
The ending light
Every time, it faded in strength
Every time, returning again
Your lantern isn't vague, to me
I'll follow you
You have the lead
Sunday, January 31
Saturday, January 30
Colorful
Things have changed, my dear
I feel it in the air
Something quite invisible
But clearly, it is there
It strokes you
Can you feel it?
Stay, please
Even if it's your words, only
Stay, please
I'm not lonely
With you
I can't fall in love anymore
As if I forgot
Should be quite natural
But clearly, it's not
It smothers you
Can you feel it?
Stay, please
Even if it's your words, only
Stay, please
I'm not lonely
With you
I don't know you, my dear
Who you really are,
If you're really here
I'm the same, haven't changed
But life is less colorful
Less wonderful
Stay, please
Even if it's your words, only
Stay, please
I'm not lonely
With you
We've become a film roll
In only black and white
Muted, by remote control
Robbed of all our heart,
And soul
Stay, please
Even if you've lost your color
Even if you don't want to paint me
Any more
I feel it in the air
Something quite invisible
But clearly, it is there
It strokes you
Can you feel it?
Stay, please
Even if it's your words, only
Stay, please
I'm not lonely
With you
I can't fall in love anymore
As if I forgot
Should be quite natural
But clearly, it's not
It smothers you
Can you feel it?
Stay, please
Even if it's your words, only
Stay, please
I'm not lonely
With you
I don't know you, my dear
Who you really are,
If you're really here
I'm the same, haven't changed
But life is less colorful
Less wonderful
Stay, please
Even if it's your words, only
Stay, please
I'm not lonely
With you
We've become a film roll
In only black and white
Muted, by remote control
Robbed of all our heart,
And soul
Stay, please
Even if you've lost your color
Even if you don't want to paint me
Any more
Friday, January 29
Long Oddity
It's been a very long and odd day, I'm happy that it's drawing to an end. Usually 10PM on a Friday would be nowhere near the end of the day, but I'm feeling incredibly tired. This is the fifth working day (before that I had one day off, and then before that another three work days) and I can't really relax since I know I still have all weekend, and Monday, left to drag myself out of bed and go to work. Then maybe I can let go, for a while...
I try not to think of it, but the thought hits me over and over again that I'm a failure. That I can't even keep a relationship, that I dropped out of uni, that I've done nothing at all, achieved nothing. I know it is not so, when I'm thinking rationally, but when these thoughts strike me there is no logic. There is only dark and logic. Had I been at home this time I would have gone to take my pills, but I was still in the store, and I remember thinking "not here, not now". I had to stop for a while to control my breathing before I could go on and leave the store, and by then I had forgotten half of what I was supposed to buy. Sigh. I don't know what it is that's bugging me, and that's the worst part of all.
It seems to me, when I look at my life, that I don't have very much to complain about, not when I compare myself to others. I can't understand why it should be so difficult just to live, I never wanted it to be this tricky. I saw myself as someone who loved life and what it had to give. Now most of the time it tires me. There are flashes of light, like when the sun comes out after two weeks of darkness and it makes the white world glisten in every corner; or when you read a really good book or really love a song, or whatever it might be. But soon as they appear they are clouded again, and I'm drifting away.
Anyway... there are a few things to look forward to... and I got some very welcome money today so I'm overall satisfied.
POET in the JAR
I try not to think of it, but the thought hits me over and over again that I'm a failure. That I can't even keep a relationship, that I dropped out of uni, that I've done nothing at all, achieved nothing. I know it is not so, when I'm thinking rationally, but when these thoughts strike me there is no logic. There is only dark and logic. Had I been at home this time I would have gone to take my pills, but I was still in the store, and I remember thinking "not here, not now". I had to stop for a while to control my breathing before I could go on and leave the store, and by then I had forgotten half of what I was supposed to buy. Sigh. I don't know what it is that's bugging me, and that's the worst part of all.
It seems to me, when I look at my life, that I don't have very much to complain about, not when I compare myself to others. I can't understand why it should be so difficult just to live, I never wanted it to be this tricky. I saw myself as someone who loved life and what it had to give. Now most of the time it tires me. There are flashes of light, like when the sun comes out after two weeks of darkness and it makes the white world glisten in every corner; or when you read a really good book or really love a song, or whatever it might be. But soon as they appear they are clouded again, and I'm drifting away.
Anyway... there are a few things to look forward to... and I got some very welcome money today so I'm overall satisfied.
POET in the JAR
Wednesday, January 27
Where Is The Soul?
All these empty words. All these people, pretending like they care. It is to dampen their bad conscience, and their guilt, guilt for simply being alive, and in the eyes of some, having it all.
We are not willing to give up any of our own luxury. We have roof over our heads, food on the table, we have water available straight from our taps. In a perfect world that would be all we needed, but it isn't. We need our chocolate bars, our cigarettes, our movies. We imagine that shallow and material things will buy us happiness. Make the difference between surviving, and living.
Everything I've read so far of the Haiti earthquake proves this thesis. It doesn't matter how much money people decide to donate, sending text messages to certain donation numbers, or calling there during charity events. In the end the help is heartless, it has no soul. As well as most the articles of the disaster. The attempt to write in a solidary manner is so extensive that it falls flat, and becomes only mockery, ringing false. Where are the real portrayals? Where, among all the numbers of victims, charts over collapsed buildings, and Haitian history, are the human beings?
My co-worker said the other day what Darwin thought in his time - the strongest will survive. My co-worker's idea was to stop helping crisis countries with the argument that in time the strongest would remain, and the "weak" would have been sorted out of the equation. I'm reminded of the writer who wrote the ironic essay suggesting to eat infants in order to cure starvation. Where is the human being here? Where is the living and breathing person, with dreams of the world?
We are not the strongest. It was luck that we were born here. I doubt my co-worker would have the same arguments if he had been born in Haiti, or anywhere else where there is chaos, and where they need our help.
I understand that the world is over-populated. I understand that maybe, if you were utilitarian, you would argue to let some of them die. But that would break us. That would break everything we are and pretend to stand for. That would make us heartless. Perhaps the help that we give with our small donations, rarely more than we'd use on a single stop by the grocery store, is too little. Maybe it is to dampen our conscience, and maybe, many times, the help rings false. I can't decide which is worse - to completely ignore this crisis from the start, or give it tons of attention the first few weeks only to let it fall out of our minds and our medias when the first and worst part of the crisis is over. This is why it is false in my eyes. It is because scandals with famous people get more space in the papers than real news. Than news, that matter. Even if we can't help in any good way, then at least we should give it all our attention, and not look away as soon as it gets too painful.
The head of the Swedish Red Cross help organization holds a salary twice as high as the head of another similar organization, SOS Barnbyar (SOS Children's Villages). It would, as a reporter recently noted, be more accurate to announce "Text HELP to number XX, and we can pay our head's salary"; than to announce it will go to Haiti's earthquake victims. Where does our charity money really go?
Today the newspaper had an article about a radio station in Haiti which is now airing from the streets, after their studio was destroyed in the quake. While not many in Haiti are able to read, and even less own television sets; the radio has become a haven. Through this media people are told where they can find shelter, food and water. Through this media all official and semi-official announcements are recited for the people.
This is where the human beings are.
This is the soul.
POET IN THE JAR
We are not willing to give up any of our own luxury. We have roof over our heads, food on the table, we have water available straight from our taps. In a perfect world that would be all we needed, but it isn't. We need our chocolate bars, our cigarettes, our movies. We imagine that shallow and material things will buy us happiness. Make the difference between surviving, and living.
Everything I've read so far of the Haiti earthquake proves this thesis. It doesn't matter how much money people decide to donate, sending text messages to certain donation numbers, or calling there during charity events. In the end the help is heartless, it has no soul. As well as most the articles of the disaster. The attempt to write in a solidary manner is so extensive that it falls flat, and becomes only mockery, ringing false. Where are the real portrayals? Where, among all the numbers of victims, charts over collapsed buildings, and Haitian history, are the human beings?
My co-worker said the other day what Darwin thought in his time - the strongest will survive. My co-worker's idea was to stop helping crisis countries with the argument that in time the strongest would remain, and the "weak" would have been sorted out of the equation. I'm reminded of the writer who wrote the ironic essay suggesting to eat infants in order to cure starvation. Where is the human being here? Where is the living and breathing person, with dreams of the world?
We are not the strongest. It was luck that we were born here. I doubt my co-worker would have the same arguments if he had been born in Haiti, or anywhere else where there is chaos, and where they need our help.
I understand that the world is over-populated. I understand that maybe, if you were utilitarian, you would argue to let some of them die. But that would break us. That would break everything we are and pretend to stand for. That would make us heartless. Perhaps the help that we give with our small donations, rarely more than we'd use on a single stop by the grocery store, is too little. Maybe it is to dampen our conscience, and maybe, many times, the help rings false. I can't decide which is worse - to completely ignore this crisis from the start, or give it tons of attention the first few weeks only to let it fall out of our minds and our medias when the first and worst part of the crisis is over. This is why it is false in my eyes. It is because scandals with famous people get more space in the papers than real news. Than news, that matter. Even if we can't help in any good way, then at least we should give it all our attention, and not look away as soon as it gets too painful.
The head of the Swedish Red Cross help organization holds a salary twice as high as the head of another similar organization, SOS Barnbyar (SOS Children's Villages). It would, as a reporter recently noted, be more accurate to announce "Text HELP to number XX, and we can pay our head's salary"; than to announce it will go to Haiti's earthquake victims. Where does our charity money really go?
Today the newspaper had an article about a radio station in Haiti which is now airing from the streets, after their studio was destroyed in the quake. While not many in Haiti are able to read, and even less own television sets; the radio has become a haven. Through this media people are told where they can find shelter, food and water. Through this media all official and semi-official announcements are recited for the people.
This is where the human beings are.
This is the soul.
POET IN THE JAR
Monday, January 25
The Mausoleum Of Fragile Objects
Alright, so, I changed the project title a little bit after my sis had a very, very good laugh about my first suggestion (therefore I won't mention it here), but anyway that's it, the project name of my new novel project. I am writing this for Forgefire Press and when the time comes - in perhaps a week or so - I will tell you exactly how you'll be able to follow the story from that site.
Here is a teaser for you (the current synopsis):
"The rumored beauty, long since gone, buried in a dusty mausoleum in the corner of a forgotten graveyard. Her tomb, sealed from the outside, as arranged. The man who loved her most of all, determined to last 38 days trapped inside her small enclosure, in order to make a statement to deaf ears, to walls that will no longer listen.
Every day is night.
Every breath, a knife.
Every step, an echo.
Every death... a life."
POET in the WRITING JAR
Here is a teaser for you (the current synopsis):
"The rumored beauty, long since gone, buried in a dusty mausoleum in the corner of a forgotten graveyard. Her tomb, sealed from the outside, as arranged. The man who loved her most of all, determined to last 38 days trapped inside her small enclosure, in order to make a statement to deaf ears, to walls that will no longer listen.
Every day is night.
Every breath, a knife.
Every step, an echo.
Every death... a life."
POET in the WRITING JAR
Forgefire Press
The reply was positive and landed in my mailbox today. I asked someone I know from the Abney Park forum whether or not they were interested in having new writers to their writing group, at www.forgefirepress.com. After sending a few samples of my writing (as it happens from Ophelia's Photograph) I've been cleared to go on and sometime during the next couple of days I'll be all set up and ready to go.
I was stunned what to write about at first. I have found that the easiest thing to do is to take one simple idea and play with it, and then whenever you stray from that you remind yourself of that one simple idea that it's supposed to all come down to in the end. As with Ophelia, the idea is "a man obsessed with a photograph". It has kept the novel surprisingly well on track. Either how, I was inspired by a friend for the idea I'll be writing at Forgefire: "a man in the mausoleum of his dead love". May sound very gothic, but I might make it a bit more yknow, not so literal. Anyway it seems to be an idea I could write endlessly about, which is good.
What is Forgefire, you wonder?
It's a group of writers posting weekly, either it's new chapters of a novel or if it's short stories. I will be writing something novel-ish, I think. We'll see how much potential the mausoleum might have!
POET in the JAR
I was stunned what to write about at first. I have found that the easiest thing to do is to take one simple idea and play with it, and then whenever you stray from that you remind yourself of that one simple idea that it's supposed to all come down to in the end. As with Ophelia, the idea is "a man obsessed with a photograph". It has kept the novel surprisingly well on track. Either how, I was inspired by a friend for the idea I'll be writing at Forgefire: "a man in the mausoleum of his dead love". May sound very gothic, but I might make it a bit more yknow, not so literal. Anyway it seems to be an idea I could write endlessly about, which is good.
What is Forgefire, you wonder?
It's a group of writers posting weekly, either it's new chapters of a novel or if it's short stories. I will be writing something novel-ish, I think. We'll see how much potential the mausoleum might have!
POET in the JAR
Sunday, January 24
Independence Day
Maybe I'm trying too hard with this whole thing. Just because this is a small place and there's a nagging part of me telling me I can't be honest. Not here, not with these people. But what a relief it would be, not having to tip toe around everything, not having to pretend, not anymore. Most of you who know me online already know this about me, and everyone who has ever asked me knows as well. And still it seems like it would give me some sort of relief to have it stated, to note it down. However slim a difference it would make.
It's tiring to keep my eyes and ears open for any opportunity that might stray me by. It would be so much easier if I could put a stamp saying bisexual on my forehead, preferrably with the additional ...and tired of men phrase following it, and then just sit around and wait for something to happen. I would prefer it to be like just running into someone by chance, meeting their eyes and then just knowing you were meant to be. But I'm probably much too romantic for this world, and much too naive. The friends or aquintances that I wouldn't mind dating I'm too shy to ask, and too afraid I'd lose them in the process.
I ventured onto some online place, stating what I'm looking for. A lovely girl that wouldn't mind falling asleep beside me, someone that wouldn't mind late night talking and a lot of hugs. You'd think that wasn't too difficult to find. Well, like I said, I'm trying too hard and I know it... but I'm tired of being alone and it's the only way I can think of.
It would be a lot easier if my family knew. Sis might know, she might be guessing. Probably just thinks I'm experimental. I don't feel like asking. We don't talk about things like this with our family. I'm sure that once the news panned out and everyone settled, it wouldn't be a big deal, I'd be just as accepted as before. But I'm still not looking forward to stirring a storm, however temporary.
I have come to a refreshing insight as my parents are abroad and the phone has fallen graciously quiet. That I'm not supposed to care. Not this much. A friend of mine told me I'm too dependent on what my parents think, and that's probably true. It didn't keep me from quitting school that wasn't for me, or to decide for arts university; it didn't keep me from doing tattoos and piercings and living in collectives, but then again...? Didn't I do it just to prove that I could? Just to prove how independent I was? Doesn't that make me entirely lose the point of actually being independent?
I'm done with tip-toeing, with even bothering what other people should think. I'm tired of not being truthful, of pretending that I care about guys (apart from my guy friends this heart beats only for one guy, and he's not around anymore). I don't want any new boyfriend, come to take my soul away just like everyone else already did. Al calls this twist of my life as an obsession of girls, she has a point I guess, but there is good reason for it. Just maybe I just want to explore some bit when I'm single anyway, and have nothing to lose. Just maybe I'm tired of living in this delusion, when I could make everything easier for myself.
So, that was that part. Now for everything else, for example my synthetic dreads which are now ordered and paid for (just two weeks away from getting them!). Who cares if my mum doesn't like them? Really? And about art school, who cares if that's not what they would choose, who cares if they don't understand me? Who cares if people I know get married, get children, get houses, grow up, that doesn't mean that I have to.
I feel strangely left behind, like everyone is moving on with their lives and I'm just standing still, it's as though I've lived my entire life already. Nothing changes, nothing major, it's the same thing day after day. Same place I work, same tiny apartment, laundry every Tuesday. Rockstar used to love routines, I hate them, I loathe them. They get me out of balance and depress me. Life should be more than just this, life should be more spontaneous. It should be all, let's do this, let's do that, not care if any friends tag along or not, just do whatever. Just head out for the horizon whenever you feel like it, board an airship, fight some pirates, hunt some treasure (now my novelling mind took over, and a crappy novel it seems to be), do whatever you want, and not care.
I will make it out. I will stall here until summer, until July. Then I'll be out of here, and I won't ever look back. I'm not ever coming back.
POET in the JAR
It's tiring to keep my eyes and ears open for any opportunity that might stray me by. It would be so much easier if I could put a stamp saying bisexual on my forehead, preferrably with the additional ...and tired of men phrase following it, and then just sit around and wait for something to happen. I would prefer it to be like just running into someone by chance, meeting their eyes and then just knowing you were meant to be. But I'm probably much too romantic for this world, and much too naive. The friends or aquintances that I wouldn't mind dating I'm too shy to ask, and too afraid I'd lose them in the process.
I ventured onto some online place, stating what I'm looking for. A lovely girl that wouldn't mind falling asleep beside me, someone that wouldn't mind late night talking and a lot of hugs. You'd think that wasn't too difficult to find. Well, like I said, I'm trying too hard and I know it... but I'm tired of being alone and it's the only way I can think of.
It would be a lot easier if my family knew. Sis might know, she might be guessing. Probably just thinks I'm experimental. I don't feel like asking. We don't talk about things like this with our family. I'm sure that once the news panned out and everyone settled, it wouldn't be a big deal, I'd be just as accepted as before. But I'm still not looking forward to stirring a storm, however temporary.
I have come to a refreshing insight as my parents are abroad and the phone has fallen graciously quiet. That I'm not supposed to care. Not this much. A friend of mine told me I'm too dependent on what my parents think, and that's probably true. It didn't keep me from quitting school that wasn't for me, or to decide for arts university; it didn't keep me from doing tattoos and piercings and living in collectives, but then again...? Didn't I do it just to prove that I could? Just to prove how independent I was? Doesn't that make me entirely lose the point of actually being independent?
I'm done with tip-toeing, with even bothering what other people should think. I'm tired of not being truthful, of pretending that I care about guys (apart from my guy friends this heart beats only for one guy, and he's not around anymore). I don't want any new boyfriend, come to take my soul away just like everyone else already did. Al calls this twist of my life as an obsession of girls, she has a point I guess, but there is good reason for it. Just maybe I just want to explore some bit when I'm single anyway, and have nothing to lose. Just maybe I'm tired of living in this delusion, when I could make everything easier for myself.
So, that was that part. Now for everything else, for example my synthetic dreads which are now ordered and paid for (just two weeks away from getting them!). Who cares if my mum doesn't like them? Really? And about art school, who cares if that's not what they would choose, who cares if they don't understand me? Who cares if people I know get married, get children, get houses, grow up, that doesn't mean that I have to.
I feel strangely left behind, like everyone is moving on with their lives and I'm just standing still, it's as though I've lived my entire life already. Nothing changes, nothing major, it's the same thing day after day. Same place I work, same tiny apartment, laundry every Tuesday. Rockstar used to love routines, I hate them, I loathe them. They get me out of balance and depress me. Life should be more than just this, life should be more spontaneous. It should be all, let's do this, let's do that, not care if any friends tag along or not, just do whatever. Just head out for the horizon whenever you feel like it, board an airship, fight some pirates, hunt some treasure (now my novelling mind took over, and a crappy novel it seems to be), do whatever you want, and not care.
I will make it out. I will stall here until summer, until July. Then I'll be out of here, and I won't ever look back. I'm not ever coming back.
POET in the JAR
Saturday, January 23
Panic Attack
The panic attack that set in earlier tonight is finally wearing off. I can breathe again, although there is still a lump in my throat that wants me to pay it attention. I'm doing my best not to think of it. I don't know what caused it, it started very innocently. I told a friend of mine that I'm tired of fighting, that I just do not see the use, or the point anymore. She told me I need to pick myself up and keep going. Of some reason this filled me with panic. So many times I've picked myself up and gone on. So many times, that I don't have the strength anymore.
That I don't see the meaning in it.
I went to take my happy pill, swallowed it down, hoped it would keep the worst thoughts at bay. And then it struck, and I couldn't breathe. I got lightheaded. It hurt to draw air into my lungs. I tried to drink water to swallow, it didn't help. Tried a mint pastill for the throat, felt like I was throwing up. I tried to throw up as well, but all that came was thick slime, and it still hurt whenever I breathed. Went for some air, chewed some gum... nothing. Finally listening to some POTF songs and having some milk, then lying down and resting, made it untie. Now it feels better. And the panic has settled. I have eight work days in a row starting Monday and I know the only way to get through it all is to take one day at a time, right now all I know is that I have tomorrow off, and I want to make the most (read: least) of it. I'm just gonna hang around at home, sleep in, watch movies all day and be overall lazy.
Anyway... this post is sort of depressing me even more just by writing it, so now I'm ending it. I have some business to tend to before sleeping...
POET in the DIZZY JAR
That I don't see the meaning in it.
I went to take my happy pill, swallowed it down, hoped it would keep the worst thoughts at bay. And then it struck, and I couldn't breathe. I got lightheaded. It hurt to draw air into my lungs. I tried to drink water to swallow, it didn't help. Tried a mint pastill for the throat, felt like I was throwing up. I tried to throw up as well, but all that came was thick slime, and it still hurt whenever I breathed. Went for some air, chewed some gum... nothing. Finally listening to some POTF songs and having some milk, then lying down and resting, made it untie. Now it feels better. And the panic has settled. I have eight work days in a row starting Monday and I know the only way to get through it all is to take one day at a time, right now all I know is that I have tomorrow off, and I want to make the most (read: least) of it. I'm just gonna hang around at home, sleep in, watch movies all day and be overall lazy.
Anyway... this post is sort of depressing me even more just by writing it, so now I'm ending it. I have some business to tend to before sleeping...
POET in the DIZZY JAR
Friday, January 22
Into Gere
I have no discipline whatsoever - cancelled the session to stay in bed this morning... although I know I should have gone there. Well, well. I'll just save my breakdown until next time.
Had a very disturbing dream involving Richard Gere who amazingly turned into James's father while we were staying at a cottage that looked like our old house. Hmm. Meaning? Don't think there was any.
Today I got my paycheck, 3 days ahead of time, meaning I can pay the girl making my dreads and they'll be on my head within the next two weeks. Awesome! And with my nerdy glasses the image will be complete. Should now just make to find a nice scarf and be done with the image, haha.
My supposed net dating isn't going all too well. I found a girl who was weirded out and who I blocked, another one that bombards me with "What are you doing?!" thirty times a day, and several men wanting to send me pictures of their dicks or similar. Interesting. Repulsive, but interesting. Last news is I started chatting to a beautiful red-haired girl although that is just on a very friendly basis so far. We'll just have to see how it goes, I'm meeting with the Bombarding girl this weekend, maybe she turns out differently in real life.
Wish me luck, with this, and with everything else as well.
POET in the JAR
Had a very disturbing dream involving Richard Gere who amazingly turned into James's father while we were staying at a cottage that looked like our old house. Hmm. Meaning? Don't think there was any.
Today I got my paycheck, 3 days ahead of time, meaning I can pay the girl making my dreads and they'll be on my head within the next two weeks. Awesome! And with my nerdy glasses the image will be complete. Should now just make to find a nice scarf and be done with the image, haha.
My supposed net dating isn't going all too well. I found a girl who was weirded out and who I blocked, another one that bombards me with "What are you doing?!" thirty times a day, and several men wanting to send me pictures of their dicks or similar. Interesting. Repulsive, but interesting. Last news is I started chatting to a beautiful red-haired girl although that is just on a very friendly basis so far. We'll just have to see how it goes, I'm meeting with the Bombarding girl this weekend, maybe she turns out differently in real life.
Wish me luck, with this, and with everything else as well.
POET in the JAR
Breakdown
I have therapy tomorrow and I'm freaking out, just like I do before every session. I drag myself there highly unwillingly, and then one hour just flies by insanely fast and I'm standing there wondering what it was that just happened. And then my heart opens up as if someone turned a tap open and everything simply pours out. I sense already it's gonna make me a mess just going there but I can't afford not to go. I need it. And I can't skip those sessions, not anymore.
Soon it's January 26th, and I'll be trying out my new geeky glasses (picked a 1960's style, huge black framed ones), and what's more than that I'll be paying the girl who is making my dreads. So in just over two weeks you'll see me in dreads and geeky glasses. Maybe then I'd look on the outside the way I feel like, on the inside. I wanna make sure I've got them inserted when it's time to start the uni again later this year. It'd be a nice first impression to make, haha.
I broke down yesterday. Entirely. Spent some four hours doing nothing but crying and feeling like a mess. It was something unexpected, some memory that just soared by I think. It made me just stop and think and wonder what the hell is going on, what the hell I'm doing. I can meet how many people I want, go on tons of dates, my heart still isn't ready. When I go to bed I see his face. It cracks me open, keeps me from falling asleep. He feels real, like he was just close enough to touch. Sometimes, when I'm at the very bottom, I calm myself down with a daydream. Tell myself it will be alright soon. That if only I fall asleep he'll sneak down under the covers and hold me and make all the bad go away. I miss sleeping in his arms.
And simply talking.
I look myself in the mirror, realizing why everyone I write about can't stand their own reflection. My red swollen eyes staring back at me, my dirty hair standing out in all directions, stained glasses in the way of the tears. I understand that he stopped loving me, that perhaps he never did. Perhaps he never knew how to love.
But who would love this wreck of a being anyway?
And again I break down, and again I cry, and it feels like only yesterday that he left.
POET IN THE WATERY JAR
Soon it's January 26th, and I'll be trying out my new geeky glasses (picked a 1960's style, huge black framed ones), and what's more than that I'll be paying the girl who is making my dreads. So in just over two weeks you'll see me in dreads and geeky glasses. Maybe then I'd look on the outside the way I feel like, on the inside. I wanna make sure I've got them inserted when it's time to start the uni again later this year. It'd be a nice first impression to make, haha.
I broke down yesterday. Entirely. Spent some four hours doing nothing but crying and feeling like a mess. It was something unexpected, some memory that just soared by I think. It made me just stop and think and wonder what the hell is going on, what the hell I'm doing. I can meet how many people I want, go on tons of dates, my heart still isn't ready. When I go to bed I see his face. It cracks me open, keeps me from falling asleep. He feels real, like he was just close enough to touch. Sometimes, when I'm at the very bottom, I calm myself down with a daydream. Tell myself it will be alright soon. That if only I fall asleep he'll sneak down under the covers and hold me and make all the bad go away. I miss sleeping in his arms.
And simply talking.
I look myself in the mirror, realizing why everyone I write about can't stand their own reflection. My red swollen eyes staring back at me, my dirty hair standing out in all directions, stained glasses in the way of the tears. I understand that he stopped loving me, that perhaps he never did. Perhaps he never knew how to love.
But who would love this wreck of a being anyway?
And again I break down, and again I cry, and it feels like only yesterday that he left.
POET IN THE WATERY JAR
Wednesday, January 20
Diamond Dust
There is the moon,
in her silvery glaze
And a thread falls down
for me to climb
So thin is the thread
So thin is my life
There, I see the stars
In their golden smoke
A ladder reels down,
for me to climb
Rickety steps
Rickety mind
Diamond dust
She's the moon
She's the angel
I pursue her, always
She's out of reach
Always
The thread breaks
So thin is the thread
The ladder breaks
Rickety steps
I fall down the steps
Away from her gaze
Away from all the silver,
and gold
There falls her promise
Her whisper,
untold
I die in her light
I die in her cold
Without her to hold
Without my diamond dust
in her silvery glaze
And a thread falls down
for me to climb
So thin is the thread
So thin is my life
There, I see the stars
In their golden smoke
A ladder reels down,
for me to climb
Rickety steps
Rickety mind
Diamond dust
She's the moon
She's the angel
I pursue her, always
She's out of reach
Always
The thread breaks
So thin is the thread
The ladder breaks
Rickety steps
I fall down the steps
Away from her gaze
Away from all the silver,
and gold
There falls her promise
Her whisper,
untold
I die in her light
I die in her cold
Without her to hold
Without my diamond dust
Friday, January 15
Flowers
Once, when I was very drunk, I ran into an old tormenter from sixth to ninth grade. Both pretending that it was great to see eachother again, that we were old friends, got drunker and drunker and somehow in that dim pub he ended up giving me a sincere apology for everything they had made me go through back in school. I didn't understand, at first. What was he talking about? My first thought was that he had been far from the worst one. If he had been one of those in lead I wouldn't even be there, drunk, surrounded by people, at the same table as him. My second thought was that he was being ridiculous. Not only was he taking the blame for all the rest of them, which he shouldn't carry alone; but I simply couldn't remember there was anything that he needed to be apologizing for. Surely it had never been that bad. Surely this was just a sling of bad conscious that suddenly gripped him as he grew more and more sentimental with his drinks.
I said to my mother a few years ago, soon after this incident; that I didn't even remember much of obligatory school. She said there was a reason for that.
I remember that I had to grow very cocky. I was one of few who refused to disappear into the shadows like a scared rabbit, although many times that was exactly what I wanted. To just be invisible, so that no one could reach me. So that they'd leave me alone. Instead I shouldered a fuck the world-attitude, answering every remark with something worse. Of course, this became fun for them, became a game. I didn't realize that by fighting back I just made everything worse. Maybe I did realize, to some extent. But it didn't matter. I just wouldn't do it. I knew I had every right to exist and to walk down those halls and be myself, without any of them haunting me like poltergeists. I knew, and I defended that right, to the point that it got almost scary.
I can see why I was an easy target. I didn't care much for clothes. I put on whatever was clean, and I never wore anything new. I had bad skin, and glasses, and liked to read. I was good in school, in everything except gym and maths. I wrote. I painted. I joined a group of outsiders, or whatever we might be called. There were the popular and trendy ones, and those that really were outside of the clique; me and the friends I had back then hovered somewhere inbetween, not belonging in either category. Sometimes, I talk to one of them nowadays, but in essence, none of them are really left. They were never really friends, in that sense. They were like me, only clinging on to eachother because it helped to survive. It made us a little bit less vulnerable if we stuck together.
That girl, bitching back to everyone daring to come close; that girl, afraid to talk to guys because she thought they'd only make fun of her; that girl, anonymous and geeky, that girl, pacing those halls, learning how to take shortcuts that avoided the worst pits... what happened to her? Did I lose her, because I forgot about her? Or is she still in here, somewhere, and that is the reason I still get chills every time I come near my old school, my old home, a place I'll never return to willingly in my life?
I like to read. I love to write, and to paint. I'm working, I've studied. I wear jeans and tee's. Sometimes skirts or dresses. I wear a black leather jacket and a cap and thick gloves that my mother made for me. I love the big geeky glasses I'll soon be getting, something I would never have picked out when I was in eighth grade. It'd make me even more geeky. I'm geeky now, but in a different way. I love my geek stuff such as lyrics, music, games, silly things. I love to drink, to be with my friends, to do fun things. To hang out. I don't have to worry anymore, because I can be me. I can be myself. But the person I've become is so, so different from that girl I used to be, only alike her when you scout the surface.
Someone I used to go to school with came up to me a few weeks ago, also drunk as hell, telling me how I looked pretty and that I had really bloomed out since we quit school. She was from secondary school, and probably knew nothing of what happened in obligatory school; but it felt like she spoke for them all. Telling me I'm light years away from that shadowy creature, learning how to survive by feeding on cynism. Telling me I've become a blooming flower.
I wonder what happened to everyone else.
If they have burst into flowers too.
POET in the REMEMBERING JAR
I said to my mother a few years ago, soon after this incident; that I didn't even remember much of obligatory school. She said there was a reason for that.
I remember that I had to grow very cocky. I was one of few who refused to disappear into the shadows like a scared rabbit, although many times that was exactly what I wanted. To just be invisible, so that no one could reach me. So that they'd leave me alone. Instead I shouldered a fuck the world-attitude, answering every remark with something worse. Of course, this became fun for them, became a game. I didn't realize that by fighting back I just made everything worse. Maybe I did realize, to some extent. But it didn't matter. I just wouldn't do it. I knew I had every right to exist and to walk down those halls and be myself, without any of them haunting me like poltergeists. I knew, and I defended that right, to the point that it got almost scary.
I can see why I was an easy target. I didn't care much for clothes. I put on whatever was clean, and I never wore anything new. I had bad skin, and glasses, and liked to read. I was good in school, in everything except gym and maths. I wrote. I painted. I joined a group of outsiders, or whatever we might be called. There were the popular and trendy ones, and those that really were outside of the clique; me and the friends I had back then hovered somewhere inbetween, not belonging in either category. Sometimes, I talk to one of them nowadays, but in essence, none of them are really left. They were never really friends, in that sense. They were like me, only clinging on to eachother because it helped to survive. It made us a little bit less vulnerable if we stuck together.
That girl, bitching back to everyone daring to come close; that girl, afraid to talk to guys because she thought they'd only make fun of her; that girl, anonymous and geeky, that girl, pacing those halls, learning how to take shortcuts that avoided the worst pits... what happened to her? Did I lose her, because I forgot about her? Or is she still in here, somewhere, and that is the reason I still get chills every time I come near my old school, my old home, a place I'll never return to willingly in my life?
I like to read. I love to write, and to paint. I'm working, I've studied. I wear jeans and tee's. Sometimes skirts or dresses. I wear a black leather jacket and a cap and thick gloves that my mother made for me. I love the big geeky glasses I'll soon be getting, something I would never have picked out when I was in eighth grade. It'd make me even more geeky. I'm geeky now, but in a different way. I love my geek stuff such as lyrics, music, games, silly things. I love to drink, to be with my friends, to do fun things. To hang out. I don't have to worry anymore, because I can be me. I can be myself. But the person I've become is so, so different from that girl I used to be, only alike her when you scout the surface.
Someone I used to go to school with came up to me a few weeks ago, also drunk as hell, telling me how I looked pretty and that I had really bloomed out since we quit school. She was from secondary school, and probably knew nothing of what happened in obligatory school; but it felt like she spoke for them all. Telling me I'm light years away from that shadowy creature, learning how to survive by feeding on cynism. Telling me I've become a blooming flower.
I wonder what happened to everyone else.
If they have burst into flowers too.
POET in the REMEMBERING JAR
Wednesday, January 13
Stone Statue
I'm full of contradictions
I'm changing, that's me
I'm still the child with crayons,
Innocent, age three
That you won't look at
You won't see
I'm a walking paradox
Bipolar, yes, that's me
I haven't been perfect,
Like you'd rather have me
You don't understand,
Or know me
I'm everything, at once
Dependent on you
I thought I could be happy
And be free
But that's unreal
And untrue
I'm nothing, in your eyes
That look of yours said all
There was to say
I'm still the child with crayons
To this day
A ghost that you can't see
That won't go away
Will you never open your eyes?
Will you never open your heart?
Will you stay a stone statue,
And wither apart?
I'll take you close to me,
Hold you and shiver
And live up to everything
You never delivered
POET IN THE JAR
I'm changing, that's me
I'm still the child with crayons,
Innocent, age three
That you won't look at
You won't see
I'm a walking paradox
Bipolar, yes, that's me
I haven't been perfect,
Like you'd rather have me
You don't understand,
Or know me
I'm everything, at once
Dependent on you
I thought I could be happy
And be free
But that's unreal
And untrue
I'm nothing, in your eyes
That look of yours said all
There was to say
I'm still the child with crayons
To this day
A ghost that you can't see
That won't go away
Will you never open your eyes?
Will you never open your heart?
Will you stay a stone statue,
And wither apart?
I'll take you close to me,
Hold you and shiver
And live up to everything
You never delivered
POET IN THE JAR
Sunday, January 10
Dear Year
Dear 2010,
I plan to make you a good year. You're gonna have to be, yknow? I plan to fulfil my drunken new year's resolution, to BE more. And to go on with the vows from last year - BE more, DO more, SEE more.
I'm gonna use you to get out of this dump, this grey city. I'm gonna take the opportunity to leave here for good. Skövde, here I come! And I should have gone to you a long time ago. But it's easy to be wise afterwards, as we say around here. As soon as I can get out of here, the better. All I need to sort out is the finances... well really, I'll live off student finances and the flats there are rent free during the summer, so what I really need to wait for is the official "you got in"-thing. That's what I'll need to sign up for an apartment there. I've tried to get hold of some job nearby there, but it seems as impossible as getting one here. I'm doing what I can to get some other job, I'm applying like, everywhere, but so far no results. Patience is a virtue, they say. Just the one thing, that the closer we get to spring and to summer the harder it'll be to get a job. I'm trying to only apply for temporary jobs but well. There aren't all too many of those. I did find an English teaching job for only this semester that I could apply for, it was only half time but well. I'd probably make more than I do now with my lousy somewhat around 58 hours a month. Yeah, I think I'll send off an application.
Anyway this was a big rant about official stuff. I'll change the subject to something more fun.
Yeah I'm trying to get some more hours at work, I need to scramble up 1,000 crowns to make those synthetic dreads that I really, really wanna get. I was lucky to find this girl in Uddevalla who does both the dreads and puts them in for that price, and it's one of the cheaper I've found, and her stuff looks really awesome when I went through her gallery. Now all I need is to fund it and place an order with her, she said it'd take her a rough two weeks to do it; I could order now but I wanna wait until I can be sure I can pay for it. Money issues suck, man!
Yeah, whatever. I'm determined to change something. I have to. I have to DO something!
2010, I'm gonna make you my best year ever!
Take what you can -give nothing back!
POET in the JAR
I plan to make you a good year. You're gonna have to be, yknow? I plan to fulfil my drunken new year's resolution, to BE more. And to go on with the vows from last year - BE more, DO more, SEE more.
I'm gonna use you to get out of this dump, this grey city. I'm gonna take the opportunity to leave here for good. Skövde, here I come! And I should have gone to you a long time ago. But it's easy to be wise afterwards, as we say around here. As soon as I can get out of here, the better. All I need to sort out is the finances... well really, I'll live off student finances and the flats there are rent free during the summer, so what I really need to wait for is the official "you got in"-thing. That's what I'll need to sign up for an apartment there. I've tried to get hold of some job nearby there, but it seems as impossible as getting one here. I'm doing what I can to get some other job, I'm applying like, everywhere, but so far no results. Patience is a virtue, they say. Just the one thing, that the closer we get to spring and to summer the harder it'll be to get a job. I'm trying to only apply for temporary jobs but well. There aren't all too many of those. I did find an English teaching job for only this semester that I could apply for, it was only half time but well. I'd probably make more than I do now with my lousy somewhat around 58 hours a month. Yeah, I think I'll send off an application.
Anyway this was a big rant about official stuff. I'll change the subject to something more fun.
Yeah I'm trying to get some more hours at work, I need to scramble up 1,000 crowns to make those synthetic dreads that I really, really wanna get. I was lucky to find this girl in Uddevalla who does both the dreads and puts them in for that price, and it's one of the cheaper I've found, and her stuff looks really awesome when I went through her gallery. Now all I need is to fund it and place an order with her, she said it'd take her a rough two weeks to do it; I could order now but I wanna wait until I can be sure I can pay for it. Money issues suck, man!
Yeah, whatever. I'm determined to change something. I have to. I have to DO something!
2010, I'm gonna make you my best year ever!
Take what you can -give nothing back!
POET in the JAR
Thursday, January 7
Outrun (By The World)
You never meant to walk me this far, but you did. And I dropped here, like a weight of led. Your advice is shallow, and unbed. You're supposed to be there, like a rock, like a cliff, when everyone else fails. But you aren't.
I wanted to say I felt outrun by the world. That I could feel how every step we took, how every breath we inhaled, took us closer to death. How the paranoia rung my mind and stung my thoughts, rendering me unable to move. Unable to feel. I wanted to say that while everything I know of life is standing still, my heart is pounding so fast that it wants to jump out through my throat, because I'm racing towards the end of life.
You said that I am filled with self-pity. You wondered if I was going to tell you any more of horrifically terrible things that had happened to me. You don't see. You don't understand. I don't ask of you to be like me, although you ask of me to be like you. I only ask that for once you see through my eyes, or simply close your own, and not judge me.
Is it strange, really, that I seek out friends that feel, to me, like my real family? Is it in any way surprising? When all you do is mock my secrets, tell them to the world and shake your head at the insight that I turned out to be your daughter.
I'm sorry I'm not what you expected. I'm sorry I don't live in a big house that you can help me fix or that I don't know what to do with a needle and a thread. I'm sorry I don't want children, that I think my lively cats are enough. I'm sorry, sorry that I take to writing, that I stay up to 3AM every night, that I skip meals, that I oversleep, that I drink, that I'm on pills, that I'm full of anxiety, that I have to see a therapist to try and rid me of voices in my head.
But really. You are no wiser than me. You may have seen more in your life, but you haven't seen what I have seen. And you've never been me, right now, right this moment. You don't know me. You don't know my head or my heart. Stop trying to understand me without meaning it. Just take me in for once with open arms and with an open mind.
Stop your stupid tip toeing around the subject, let me finish off, and don't judge me.
But who am I kidding? Why would you ever change a winning concept?
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
POET IN THE JAR
I wanted to say I felt outrun by the world. That I could feel how every step we took, how every breath we inhaled, took us closer to death. How the paranoia rung my mind and stung my thoughts, rendering me unable to move. Unable to feel. I wanted to say that while everything I know of life is standing still, my heart is pounding so fast that it wants to jump out through my throat, because I'm racing towards the end of life.
You said that I am filled with self-pity. You wondered if I was going to tell you any more of horrifically terrible things that had happened to me. You don't see. You don't understand. I don't ask of you to be like me, although you ask of me to be like you. I only ask that for once you see through my eyes, or simply close your own, and not judge me.
Is it strange, really, that I seek out friends that feel, to me, like my real family? Is it in any way surprising? When all you do is mock my secrets, tell them to the world and shake your head at the insight that I turned out to be your daughter.
I'm sorry I'm not what you expected. I'm sorry I don't live in a big house that you can help me fix or that I don't know what to do with a needle and a thread. I'm sorry I don't want children, that I think my lively cats are enough. I'm sorry, sorry that I take to writing, that I stay up to 3AM every night, that I skip meals, that I oversleep, that I drink, that I'm on pills, that I'm full of anxiety, that I have to see a therapist to try and rid me of voices in my head.
But really. You are no wiser than me. You may have seen more in your life, but you haven't seen what I have seen. And you've never been me, right now, right this moment. You don't know me. You don't know my head or my heart. Stop trying to understand me without meaning it. Just take me in for once with open arms and with an open mind.
Stop your stupid tip toeing around the subject, let me finish off, and don't judge me.
But who am I kidding? Why would you ever change a winning concept?
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
POET IN THE JAR
Monday, January 4
4 Hours Left To Sleep
It's 3.10 AM. Zelda woke me up after managing to tangle some yarn around her neck, after freeing her I can't seem to fall asleep again. I feel anxious. I feel like... I could really use some more therapy sessions. The pills aren't doing much for me. If anything it feels like they've made everything worse. I'm tired. I'm so, so... tired.
I'm getting up at around 8 AM. Why can't I just go back to sleep? Is it because normally I'm awake at this hour? Is it because I'm just so used to not having slept that it's... become a habit? I don't know, I really don't. I just feel like the world is closing in on me. Like big, black walls that stand up around me and form a prison around me. I feel like I can't breathe. I feel alone. I don't know what to do. I just. I don't want to go to work tomorrow... I just cry and feel like shit. What is the point? Why fight? All this effort for... so little. I just want to let go of everything and not do... anything.
I miss to talk to John. He always made me feel so much better. Just seeing him was mostly enough to let go of the worst thoughts. There was kindness in his eyes. There was safety.
There just isn't a single safe place left. There isn't a thing about my life that is safe. I really miss ... that safeport.
I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I wished I'd never have met you. I'm sorry I wasn't happy enough for you... I'm sorry I wasn't what you needed or what you wanted. I'm sorry that I wasn't honest with you, that I pretended that life was okay when it wasn't. That I pretended to live well without you when I never came closer to dying. I'm sorry! I'm sorry that I didn't last... that I couldn't help you. I'm sorry that I closed my soul to you to keep myself from harm. I really miss to talk to you and just hearing your voice. I miss falling asleep with you. I miss listening to your heart, that always beat too fast... I miss how you laugh
I miss that you were here
I just wish you'd give me a call. I would let everything go. I would go to you.
I would always go to you.
I'm getting up at around 8 AM. Why can't I just go back to sleep? Is it because normally I'm awake at this hour? Is it because I'm just so used to not having slept that it's... become a habit? I don't know, I really don't. I just feel like the world is closing in on me. Like big, black walls that stand up around me and form a prison around me. I feel like I can't breathe. I feel alone. I don't know what to do. I just. I don't want to go to work tomorrow... I just cry and feel like shit. What is the point? Why fight? All this effort for... so little. I just want to let go of everything and not do... anything.
I miss to talk to John. He always made me feel so much better. Just seeing him was mostly enough to let go of the worst thoughts. There was kindness in his eyes. There was safety.
There just isn't a single safe place left. There isn't a thing about my life that is safe. I really miss ... that safeport.
I'm so sorry. I'm sorry I wished I'd never have met you. I'm sorry I wasn't happy enough for you... I'm sorry I wasn't what you needed or what you wanted. I'm sorry that I wasn't honest with you, that I pretended that life was okay when it wasn't. That I pretended to live well without you when I never came closer to dying. I'm sorry! I'm sorry that I didn't last... that I couldn't help you. I'm sorry that I closed my soul to you to keep myself from harm. I really miss to talk to you and just hearing your voice. I miss falling asleep with you. I miss listening to your heart, that always beat too fast... I miss how you laugh
I miss that you were here
I just wish you'd give me a call. I would let everything go. I would go to you.
I would always go to you.
Saturday, January 2
Maze Race
Old walls, and tapestries
Cobwebs on the frames
Of the paintings
And dust on my name
On my eyes
I'm blinded
I stagger down the hall
Letting my fingers run
Slowly, over the wall
I can hear you
In the distance
I'm always here,
Pacing your maze
Reach out for me
And touch my face
So I can find you
I can find your trace
Cold, dead winter roads
Blackened branches
Grasping me
I'm chanceless
For the ice
I shiver
I stumble on
Too weak to break out
Into a run
I can feel you
In the distance
I'm always here,
Pacing your maze
Reach out for me
And touch my face
So I can find you
I can find your trace
And end my slowly dying race
Cobwebs on the frames
Of the paintings
And dust on my name
On my eyes
I'm blinded
I stagger down the hall
Letting my fingers run
Slowly, over the wall
I can hear you
In the distance
I'm always here,
Pacing your maze
Reach out for me
And touch my face
So I can find you
I can find your trace
Cold, dead winter roads
Blackened branches
Grasping me
I'm chanceless
For the ice
I shiver
I stumble on
Too weak to break out
Into a run
I can feel you
In the distance
I'm always here,
Pacing your maze
Reach out for me
And touch my face
So I can find you
I can find your trace
And end my slowly dying race
Friday, January 1
Ode To 2009
It is time to do me one of those best-of-last-year-lists, and I'll try to keep it as non-annoying as quite possible. Quick random listing of my last year's memories follows here.
The Down Things
The Up Things
POET in the 2010 JAR
The Down Things
- Constant lack of funding throughout the year, and losing my job at the school that I loved/hated/loved.
- Feeling distanced from everything.
- Being left, beginning therapy and getting meds. The constant need to hurt myself to feel alive and less afraid of death.
- The people that we lost during the year to death.
- Going back to work that I most of the time loathe.
- The publisher that was a scam and was a major blow to my creativity.
- Having to move out from the apartment that I loved.
- Friends that gave up.
- The panic attacks.
The Up Things
- Finland, in August. The music, friends and experiences there. Meeting with POTF? Are you kidding?!
- Czech Republic/Slovakia in May.
- The music. Finding new bands such as InMe and Itchy Daze and Soko, and reliving City and Color, but also going to the concerts with Takida, Dead By April etc.
- Far away friends that made everything worthwhile.
- Finding Rockstar. Even though he left me and it nearly destroyed me, he gave this year many bright memories. That said I haven't forgiven him. Don't know if I will?
- My wonderful friends nearby, making life a bit more fun. You are the family that I chose for myself and without you I would have given up a long time ago. I'm proud to say I know you all and I feel honored to be part of you all.
- The parties!
- The art, I've learned so much and it's been great.
- The writing. Nanowrimo 2009 - hell of an experience. Cade ftw! Ophelia, ftw!
- Getting my two kitty cats. With them it's just easier. Their presence here soothes me.
- Bandit Rock radio station that really worked in my favor this year and street teaming for POTF. Amazing, thank you!
- New Year's. I love you guys.
POET in the 2010 JAR
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