Ivy & Ophelia

It's not too late.
I can still find you.
I can still save you.

Ivy, dear
You quiet kind
Retreating into yourself
Away from the pain
Find your solice in the wind
Dance away to somewhere else
Ivy, dear

You were never the poisonous one
You were innocent and true
But he would never see that in you
I led you to your hell
And myself to rain
Ivy, dear

Ophelia, dear
I'm chasing your shadow
Your echo in a frame
You'll be different
Although I know you're pained
I'll come to you on time
Make sure that you'll be saved

Ophelia, dear
You're my Ivy
I'll get to you on time
I already know
Why you're etched on my mind

It's not too late.
I can still find you.
I can still save you.

You're not like Ivy,
Ophelia dear
I won't let you be
Even if it takes it all from me

Irreplaceable

For Ayan's sake I'm gonna keep y'all updated what's going on with my life so that you're not wondering. Yep. I'm two days behind in Nanowrimo but I do not despair. I'll write like hell after babysitting tomorrow and on Sunday and hopefully pull it off, by the looks of it the very last second, but it doesn't really matter. I'm gonna keep writing even in December as well.

Kay, other than that, yesterday was a wonderful, wicked concert with Takida that totally rocked and was the most fun night in a while, all my problems disappeared for a couple hours and didn't hit me again until in the car on the way home. It's strange though how calming it is to sleep next to Jessie and to just talk about our lives and remember stuff. I don't know what I'd do without you, hon.

I thought I had a therapy appointment yesterday, but apparently that was next Friday, and to be honest I'm almost looking forward to it. I have something pretty disturbing to discuss with her, at least it feels that way for me, and it has to do with my sis and shit. I discovered that some things that would normally upset me just passes me by and I feel nothing at all; while other things gives me bursts of emotion that I just can't stop.

Like anger.

I feel angry, all the time. When I picture Rockstar in my mind, first it gives me a twinge around my heart, and then I feel the anger bubbling through me. If I saw him right now by accident and without being ready I can't promise I wouldn't walk straight up to him and hit him. I am so angry at him that I don't know what to do or where to go. And the worst thing is that I hate myself for it, because in the end I just fucking miss him, and it makes me feel fucking vulnerable.

When I started writing on this blog on what will soon be three years time backwards in the past, I set out with one promise, I would keep this blog honest. And I stick to that vow today, and I will share with you something that has weighed on me but that doesn't seem to trouble anyone else.

Someone I used to be very good friends with said to me a few days ago that everyone can be replaced. I was saying that I wasn't looking for someone to replace Rockstar with, because no one can do that, ever. Maybe one day there'll be someone new to fill a new and exciting role, but to take his place? Just thinking the thought is insulting. I said this to said friend. I don't think said friend understood. What bothers me is the following - if everyone can be replaced, then no one is special. No one means anything to anyone to begin with. And it's just a fucked up and meaningless mess just as the voices in my head have been telling me since I was born.

That's another thing I should discuss with the therapist. The voices.

Anyway. I have fought this view of the world and of everyone in it since ages in order to believe things can still be okay. That someone can still matter. That people can still love, that there can be epic, magic things around us. I've fought to stay naive. I'm not naive anymore. I've become very cautious and cynic. But it's a world view I don't want to forget. I don't want to believe that a relationship you share with someone can just end and that's it, and no big deal, and you just pick yourself up and move on after.

I can't do it.

It hurts too much. It hurts me, every day. If he is just someone that I can replace - why haven't I already? Why is it still empty? And why won't he fucking leave me alone?

You accept the fact that the world is meaningless, if you want, that no one is irreplaceable. I'll see you in ten years time and see if you changed your mind. Meanwhile you let me deal with my own pain and my own memories in my way.

As though they were special.
As though it meant something.
I have to believe it.
POET IN THE JAR

Ship O'hoy

Hey there, here's a treat
Sugarcoated, dark and sweet
Swallow! Get it up again
Die, the poison's gotten in

Hey there, here's my red banner
Follow it by any manner
Chase! And then lose track again
Fall, the decoy's at your end

Hey there, here's a pointer
Ivy passes, time to join her
Run! Then paralyze again
Fear, the Reaper has been sent

Hey there, here's a smoke
Candycane in lethal cloak
Choke! Then come to life again
Breathe, your monster's in the den

Hey there, allow me to trick you
Fool you with my simple toys
Until you, Blue Eyes, walk my plank
And fall off screaming
"Ship O'hoy!"

Rebels 4-Ever

I wonder why we're capable of dreaming. If maybe it's just painful to do it. Maybe we should just settle in for what we got at hand and ignore the rest. But we never do. We're never satisfied. In our minds and hearts we're always someplace else, somewhere better.
Is this what's real? Or are the dream worlds that we create the real ones, and this is just a fictional dimension? Can I know that I'm feeling pain? Why do I? Why don't we all just drug ourselves until we feel nothing more, until we don't have to think.
The fact that it's possible to create entire universes that we've never been in, make up people that never existed... does that mean we have a good imagination? Or do we just channel something that is printed into us already, and describe places and people we once somehow knew?
I can't go for the fact that all glimpses of imaginary places are makebelieve. Some have to make some kind of sense. They have to come from somewhere. Maybe we're more complicated now than we used to be. Now we get messages streamed into our subconscious every waking hour of the day. We've seen images move on screens since we were small, and unable to sort it. Maybe everything we create holds fragments of things that have been stored inside our brains for later use. Or maybe among them there are some debris and scattered evidence of something that we couldn't possibly have known, or seen, anywhere.
It just doesn't seem possible otherwise. I wonder how otherwise the dark man that appears in the introductory chapter of my novel turns out to be a character I didn't invent until 70 pages later. Does that just happen by itself? I'm amazed how the details are coming out. I thought the writers with all the little threads tying together in the end had to sit for hours and plot how to make it all add up, drawing little schedules and whatever.
And what about drawing?
I drew a painting that was supposed to depict what I felt, inside. It became a very strange painting. It had one eye in the middle surrounded by sharp knives and thunder. The eye was red and the rest grey, and here and there ink blotches made on purpose in coal black. And underneath there were bloody letters that read "Rebels 4-ever" after one of my wristbands. It's very weird to look at but when I drew it I just knew that it stood for what I felt. It was the inner parts of me at that moment. Hmmm. How does that come through? How does a feeling and a mood automatically turn into symbolism and color when it's channeled to paper?
I don't understand creativity at all, and especially not the kind that drives me crazy, and makes me weird, but I'm in love with it, nevertheless. Without I'd have no reason to hang around here. That's what it feels like, anyway, although I know you guys would miss me awfully, ha, ha.
POET in the PONDERING JAR
Philsopher
Poet
Heart

Any Longer

I have to take another breath
To steel myself
I have to take another step
To reel myself
Back in

I'm straying back
To all those places
That are no good for me
I'm fading to black
Through all your mazes
Open your eyes and see

Look at me, I'm real
Look at me, I'm here
You can't ignore me
Any longer
Look at me, I feel
Look at me, I fear
You can't deny me
Any longer

I'm straying back
To all those moments
I remember there were
You're giving back
All those moments
Resigning for good

Look at me, I'm real
Look at me, I'm here
You can't ignore me
Any longer
Look at me, I feel
Look at me, I fear
You can't deny me
Any longer

___________________

Wish you could hear how this one goes, it's a bit different. But it's what's in my head, and I always say - go with different. Returning soon for another post.
POET IN THE JAR

Coma

It stabs me again
Through the hole in my chest
It pierces me through
The hole and the rift
Still left after you

I'm in a coma
Waking only from pain
The only way to know
I'm still real
That I'm sane

It knocks me out again
I'm down on my knees
I won't beg to be set free
I'll swallow and take it
I'll suffer, I'm me

It drives me through again
Stake through my heart
I realize you're not here
I'll learn to live, eventually
But where do I start?

Unspoken

My link to you is broken.
It grows weaker by the day.
I can't read what you are feeling.
I don't know where you will stay.
I think you broke your link to me,
On purpose broke the chains.
You thought I'd take control of you,
Wash all the free away.
But the link I didn't make on purpose.
I didn't make it just by will.
It only appears when someone matters.
When someone's close enough to kill.
When the last of the chain falls,
And I no longer feel you at all,
I know that I'll be broken.
Say that I'm irrational.
Call me insubstantial.
But I'm all of your words,
Unspoken.

Epic

There is such a thing as epic love. It becomes epic when it ends. When we fight our inner and outer demons for another glimpse. For another whisper. For another touch. When the whole world is painted with darkness, there will always be the epic stories.

I'll be an old lady in sixty years. I'll have married and have great grandchildren and have traveled the world. I'll be a writer, long out of date, but who never stopped. And when my grown up children and grandchildren come to my lap and sit on it and look into my old and starry eyes, while I look back into their equally blue eyes that they all inherited from me - I'll tell them a story. When they ask me if there's such a thing as true love, as epic love, as the cinema movie kind of love - I will answer this:

Yes.
There is.
It is the most powerful thing you can imagine.
And the most painful, all at once.

Great grandchildren, I will tell you a story.

Before I met your great grandfather, a long time ago, when I was a young and slightly foolish little girl - like you are now - I was a different person. Can you imagine me as a young girl? Well, I was young once. And I know that there is such a thing as epic passion - and epic, dangerous and challenging love. I know, because once upon a time, I saw it with my own eyes. I felt it, with my own fingers.
Now, don't tell your grandfather I told you this, but there was someone before his time. Someone stronger and in many ways wiser, but also many times more dangerous.
"Gran!"
It's true.
Your grandfather is the kind that is good for you. And it's much, much harder to love someone that is good. It is one of life's mysteries, but it's the way things are.
"Don't you love Grandpa?"
Grandpa still takes care of the lawn. Is that love?
"Gran!"
Listen, now. Before Grandpa, the world was a different place, and the people were different people. It was not a time perhaps of joy. Of happiness. But it was a time of open-mindedness, and for my part, it meant many new places to go and many new faces to see. It was difficult not to be swept away. Everything was a big adventure, and life had only just begun.
I was an independent woman, in many ways. I was openly bisexual, dears.
"That's not a big deal, Gran!"
But it was back then. I wrote books. Mostly very dark adventure books. Some might even scare you. There was a dark and unexplored side of me that sometimes took over, and lent my fingers to that pen. Remember what I usually say about the word flow.
"The word flow tells the stories, the writer only guides them to paper."
Yes, exactly. And your old grandmother here, she was a real explorer. She had friends all over the world that she would travel to, and travel with. I felt like I had seen the entire world, but it only made me eager to see the rest. And girls, I still haven't seen all there is to see. But I didn't know that then. I was very young.
"Were you young and stupid, Grandma?"
I wouldn't say I was altogether stupid. I wasn't quite as young as you are now. I had seen a little of life, enough to make me very careful where to place my feet. But I was not wise. And I'm still not, mind you. Only a fool thinks he's wise.
And only fools rush in.
"Did you?"
I tried not to, but it was hard to resist the power. There was a force pulling me in that I couldn't resist. Still today it can strike me at any time. It hasn't lost its power. I will never forget how it felt to have it control everything in my life.
It started out innocent, like it almost always does. I looked carefully where to tread. I kept watch over the ever changing path. But I was trapped. Wham! The jaws of the trap clenching me, holding me still and wounding me. For life.
"What happened, Gran?"
Late one night, we were in a nearby city, losing ourselves in the moment. It was your aunt Jessie, dears, and your aunt Mary, and me. It had been a spur of the moment to go, for once leaving the grey town where we lived. For once forgetting our every day lives and spending a few hours in light-headedness and dances. And in lust. I remember that he could tell what I was wearing that night, even months later. He always remembered. He had a photographic memory when it came to these things.
"Who?!"
Didn't I tell you? He who came before your great grandfather. He who was the epic passion. The epic love. He who would let his fingers follow the paths of my polynesian tattoo, dears, and who would later let his life surpass my own. The dangerous one, girls. The only one I really loved.
Now you want to know how I can tell that, don't you, girls? How can I know? Well, it's an easy test that my mother taught me, and that her mother taught her, and that I've always applied for every important person crossing the path of my life. It determines everything. It tells your conscious how to act. It is the Bible for non-believers.
"What's the test?"
Do you want to take it?
"Yeah!"
Alright, if you really think you're ready...
"We're ready, we're ready!"
Alright then. First of all, you close your eyes. Close them so hard you can't see anything but darkness. No peeking! Keep them closed, and think of someone important. Someone you think you love. Do you have a clear, visual image of that someone in your mind now? Can you see that face among all that darkness? Good. Now imagine this. Imagine that from this very second, you will never see this person again. Never. You will never hear their voice. Never look into their eyes. Never say goodbye. They will be gone, this minute, with the wind.
To this you will have a reaction. A feeling. Embrace the feeling. Remember it. Remember what it tells you. Now open your eyes.
"Gran... how does this make any difference?"
You will understand that when you're both older.
"No fair!"
That is how it works. It only works for pain. You are lucky. You've had no pain. Not yet.
In my case, it enables me to know. I know that what I felt for this someone, that came before your Grandpa, was love. Epic love. It becomes epic when it ends. I know this, because sixty years away, separated in time and in space, picturing his face and his voice makes it sting in my heart. It is the wound he left bleeding in me, that will not seal. It tells me that it's possible. It's possible to find real love. But not everyone are lucky enough to keep it. I was not. I was wounded.
"Grandma... tell us about him."
His name was John. He accidentally took me for a musician. It wasn't all that wrong. I wrote songs back then, many, many songs. Or to say it right, I wrote lyrics. John played guitar. In an enchanting way. He is still the most talented guitarist that I've ever listened to. But he never believed me, of course. He was modest, to a start. Someday, I would like to hear him play again. But by now maybe his fingers are caught by rheumatism and I can only hear him play inside my head. Like the only way I still see him.
I don't see him as an 84-year-old, as he would have been by now. I don't see myself that way, when I think of him. I see us both where we were at the time. In our early twenties. I'll always remember him that way. That's even the way that I miss him, today.
"You still miss him?"
Every day, and every night.
"It's been such a long time."
I know. It almost scares me. I can't go to sleep at night before saying out loud that I miss him, hoping in some way, somewhere, he would hear me. He'd find his way back to me, as if he had simply lost me. We'd just start where everything ended, and pick it up from there. It would be as if he never left.
He is in my dreams. He talks to me there. I say I find him foolish for missing out on what we had. He says he knows he is foolish. We laugh about it, in my dreams, and then we have breakfast together in the kitchen. The one he used to have, of course. Because in my dreams we are always young. Always frozen where we were.
And every morning, he wakes me up. Really early. He knows that it annoys me. He does it anyway. He wakes me up from my dreams quite roughly, I must say, making me sit up and gasp for air, as if it had been a nightmare driving me towards my wake. And every morning, I realize again that feeling I have when I do the test. I realize he is not here. He is still not here. And every time it makes my heart sting.
"Grandma... is that really him?"
I don't know, dears. Do you think it is?
"Maybe?"
Well, of this I am not sure. He could be a ghost from my memories. He could be here, and it could really be him, in some strange and unexplainable way. Maybe, in his end, he remembers too. Maybe in his dreams I let him sleep way too long. I know it would annoy him. But in the end - I can't know. What I feel is the only truth, and it is all I can be sure of.
"It must have lasted for a lifetime, Gran."
Rest assure, kids, that the greatest things in life are the most fleeting. All in all, everything happened in less than one year, and still it was all that it took to change your old grandmother's entire life. Life has a curious way of interfering with your business. It always has to come looking for a way to hit you from a new direction, only to see what will happen when it does. We can't always explain it. We only sense that it's there.
Your John and me were pretty obvious, from the beginning. It was difficult to keep away. Invisible chains grew, that kept us both in a tight clench. I don't know which of us was the most trapped. All I knew was that it filled me with the rush of freedom. It gave me hope that there was still some good in this world. By then I didn't believe he was dangerous. The opposite. I believed that I'd be safe around him, that he would somehow keep me away from harm. That would be why he rocked me to sleep at night in his arms. That would be why coming to where he lived made me feel at home. Me, kids, who never felt like I belonged anywhere. Not even here, with your Grandpa.
"Granny... how was the whole thing... epic?"
Well, you see, apart from that he's still here, or I imagine that he is; even though he said once he'd leave me, and even though closing my eyes and remembering him makes my heart weigh like a big boulder, that is not all. Maybe this is just your old grandmother's vivid imagination, but I believe there is some sense to it all. That it if not else holds some grain of truth.
See, I remember the time with John as if in snapshots. Clear videos if you will. Scenes from a grand movie. I remember when I ran to him through the falling rain, and it made me short of breath, but I wouldn't stop. I can replay it inside my head. And then I know it's epic.
I remember when my mother and me were finishing up in the apartment I lived in with my sister and with your aunt Mary. I remember that we fought and that I cried. I remember that in that moment, John came up the stairs, and I hadn't seen him in days. That's how I know it was epic.
I remember his blue eyes, blue and grey, almost as your eyes. I remember them looking at me as if it was just yesterday. I can picture them so easily in my mind, after all these years, when everyone else from my past have been forgotten.
And as I said before, it becomes epic when it ends.
"Why did it end, Gran?"
I asked him the same. He tried to answer in many ways. I think he was trying to make up for his guilt by trying to put words on what he felt. Or rather, what he didn't feel. You see, this is where he really turned dangerous, and where the passion I'd held for him really turned cinematic. Epic, as it ended.
We tried to speak. We spoke past eachother. No one wanted to hear what the other had to say. It didn't take long before all attempts died out. I deleted all my ways to get in contact with him, because I knew I would never hold. I would break. And I wouldn't survive it one more time.
Time passed, kids. A lot of time. Days at first, in a haze. Then weeks, months. Years. He had desired to leave me and lead a lonely existence, but it didn't last. He haunted me. He still does. I wish I had a way to haunt him back, just to let him know I'm still here, but I know no such ways. I wonder, many times, if his life turned out for the better. Maybe he has his own grandchildren on his lap now, telling this story, or maybe some other story that mattered more in his eyes. But to me this is the only story. This is what I know of him, and how I will remember him.
He believed leaving me would make my life easier. That I would be free. But the chains that he saw as imprisoning were to me a ladder to freedom. There was no way I could reach there without them. I believe he may have told the truth when he said he didn't love me. Not anymore. But I tend to go for one of many other theories when I'm in denial of the first. Maybe he was scared. He had been left before. Maybe he was fleeing from the pain that I never knew until he himself inflicted it on me.
I saw his face when I faced danger. It made me seek it out. And to this day it still does. I wish I was vital enough to still cliff dive and jump motorcycles, because that brought me closer to him. When he left, I died; and I had to nearly kill myself to know that I was still alive.

Great grandchildren, there's a hole through my chest, that your Grandpa, your parents or just about anyone in the whole world could ever fully fill. Not even you, although you are most entertaining. This is the hole made by epic love.
A love that became epic as it ended.

Wolf Hour

You don't understand.
This is not me.
This is the replica
you want me to be.

I take off my necklace. It isn't me. I take off my pretty dress. I stained it. I take off my tights. My bra. It has pressed on the half-finished tattoo. That is me. I pull my t-shirt over my head. This is me. I stop. I gasp for breath. You hit me again, with your absence. It's so strong it hurts me. It kills me. This is me.

You can't protect me.
Not from everything.
Sooner or later there will be something
ripping us apart.

I stagger into bed. Not to sleep. That is me. I type. That is me. I channel my anger in my words. That is me. I take off my smile and jokes. That isn't me. I take off my mask and my joy. That isn't me. I listen to songs with heavy beats. That isn't me. I need it. I need it to divert my attention.

You don't understand.
I'm not conventional.
It won't pass.
It will never pass.

As if it was just yesterday, I remember. I want to forget. Be alone. That is me. But I can't. You press on my mind, constantly. You leave me no rest. You. Drain. Me. That isn't me.

I wanted to haunt your dreams.
I wanted revenge.
I wanted you to bleed.
But it didn't happen,
or so it seems.
You're haunting mine,
You're in my sleep.

I'm insomniac. That is me. I'll never rest. That is me. I'm a ghost. That is me.
That is who you've made me to be.

Leave me.
Like you promised.
Don't fuck things up.
Don't tear me.
Not again.
I can't take it.
I can't live with it.

I can't have you so fucking close when you're supposed to be completely absent.
I can't have your face as my first thought in the morning.
I can't wake up in one more wolf hour, without breath, realizing you're not here.
You're still not here.

Take it back.
Undo what you did.
Or you'll kill me.
You'll kill me.

Run, Little Girl

Run, little girl
Run from the monsters
And their claws
You can't handle them yet
Flee, hide, disappear
Don't let them catch you
Don't let them know you're here

Run, little girl
Keep your innocence
And your flaws
You're not perfect yet
No one will ever be
But ideals will chase you
What monsters they are
Chase you like they chased me

Run, little girl
To your cradle
To what's safe
To your illusion
Stay who you are
Run from it all
Run from us all

From everyone telling you otherwise

Nocturnal World

We are the sleepless ones.
Those who stay awake until late at night only because we fear tomorrow.
Because we believe there are things we are missing while we sleep.
We are the insomniacs.
Those who wake up in the early mornings during the wolf hours, unable to fall back into slumber. For hours we agonize and torture ourselves, finally drowsing off back into a shallow state of anxious dreaming.
We are the restless ones.
Seeking eachother’s outcast words of sorrow and comfort to get us through the night.
Seeking eachother’s lonely company to get us through the day.
We are the dreamers.
Always longing for another place.
We dream the most while wide awake.
We are the sleepless.
The insomniacs.
The restless.
And the dreamers.
You’re welcome to get lost
in our Nocturnal World.
And you're welcome to despise us.
But we're the ones who will change the world.

In Your Dreams

I want to haunt you in your dreams.
The way I looked when we first met.
I want to taunt you,
tease you,
hurt you
I want to stalk you in your dreams.

Remember that falling curl of hair.
Bleached to blonde by the sun.
And the blue eyes
that would pierce you through.
Remember it was painful too.

I want to follow you into your dreams.
And know what you desire.
I want to hold you,
know you,
search you
I want to paint inside your dreams.

Remember how I held your hand.
As if it was just obvious.
And the new songs
that I'd play with you.
Remember it was hurtful too.

I want to haunt you in your dreams.
I want to bleed within your sight.
I want to be the nightmare
Through your night.
I want to stalk you, in your dreams.

Remember that whispering voice.
First to say that you were loved.
And the laughter
that I'd see in you.
Remember it was destructive too.

I want to haunt you in your dreams.
I want to be in your mirage sleep.
I want to be missed and killed by you,
If that's all I get to keep.

Lullaby, December

I embrace you, December
Your darkness is my all
It's only in your winter nights
The blinding stars fall

I embrace you, December,
I'll always remember
When it's tempting to die,
You remind me again
Why I stay alive

I welcome December
You hold all my truth
All that I grieved
All of my youth

I embrace you, December,
I'll always remember
When it's tempting to die,
You remind me again
Why I stay alive

I bow to December
Your melancholy is mine
Aligned with your sadness
Is the healing with time

I embrace you, December

Lullaby, December
Wag me into sleep
Whisper your promise
That you're mine to keep

I embrace you, December,
I'll always remember
When it's tempting to die,
You remind me again
Why I stay alive

You hold all essential
I envy your grace
Remember me for another year
I'll long for you, December, to be here

I embrace you, December,
I'll always remember
When it's tempting to die,
You remind me again
Why I stay alive

_______________________________

A tribute to my December girls <3

Razorblades

Put it down, be careful
The razorblades were just replaced
Just a shallow cut's enough
To start bleeding

Don't do it here, be careful
There's nothing safe about this place
Remember who has to find you
Could you live with knowing?

Watch your step, be careful
The pool of blood is slippery
You don't want to die here
With blood on your hands

Put it down, be careful
The razorblades were just replaced
Remember who has to find you
Could you live with knowing?

Oh, that's right
You soon won't live any longer

Something Inbetween

When did I become so restless?
So sleepless
Unable to focus
When did I become this wreck?

I don't recognize myself
I'm not who I used to be
I'm not strong
I'm not weak
I'm something inbetween

Why didn't the world stop?
With my loss
It should have frozen
The way I became paralyzed

I don't recognize myself
I'm not who I used to be
I'm not strong
I'm not weak
I'm something inbetween

When did you change?
To someone I didn't know
How could it slip my attention?
How could I watch you go?

I don't recognize you
You're not who you used to be
You're not strong
You're not weak
You're something inbetween

Midway Mark

Tomorrow we're supposed to reach 25K, I'm just around 800 words away from that. Giving up writing for the day though. I'm dead tired and can't really motivate myself to another word. I'll see if I can get some more work done tomorrow cause I might very well be off tattooing all day.

Other than that, just some random thoughts speeding in my head. Thought I'd sit down with some gaming now and try to divert my thoughts. I can't focus. Oh, and I should probably hop the shower.

See you later peeps,
POET in the JAR

Eraser

There is a way to forget,
they say.
A way to erase what was.
All that pains you to remember.

There is a way to repress,
I know.
Block out all the painful.
Washed away by rain.

Take all my bad memories,
if they're of any use to you.
But you're never getting
my good ones too.

Those I prefer to keep
To think of and fall asleep
Even if it tears me
All of it's gone

I'd rather have it all again
Than forget

I'd rather love what used to be
Than hate what is

But I can't choose, can I
You already made the decision
for me

Angel Of Rust

If you didn't know hard I'd take it
You were never even close
to understanding me

That's who I am,
I need courage to trust
I'm brokenhearted,
and outsmarted
I'm an angel of rust

You think you're heroic
Saving me from yourself
But all along it was you
Who needed help
Don't be a hero
Admit you were wrong
Admit your betrayal
I'll cheer it all and hail

That's who I am,
I need courage to trust
I'm brokenhearted,
and outsmarted
I'm an angel of rust

You think you're angelic
Saving yourself from me
All awhile I was a savior
More than you'll ever be
Mark me as a zero
In your book of songs
Admit it, you failed
I'll cheer us both and hail

That's who I am,
I need courage to trust
I'm brokenhearted,
and outsmarted
I'm an angel of rust

So the answer is yes,
I should get to blame you
I should get to drain you
And lead all my pain to you
Don't be a hero
Admit you were wrong
Admit you were lying
All along

That's who I am,
I need courage to trust
I'm brokenhearted,
and outsmarted
I'm an angel of rust

I do what I must

Deities

I wonder if there's really such a thing as Karma. Seems at the moment as if life is extremely unfair. I wonder if we weren't done already, paying for our sins? What else is there that we need to suffer for? Building false hopes and then snatching them away is more than bad karma, it's cruel.
Maybe Karma is something we make up in the lack of believing in God. For me who is an agnostic, Karma becomes a close second when we're talking about possible deities. As God, Karma can be brutal, rewarding some for their wrongs, punishing others for doing everything right. As God, Karma is unpredictable, and we can never tell before-hand what Karma had in mind when handing us another card in life.
Difference is, I guess, that there is no Karma bible.
I wonder if I should just resign myself to the idea that nothing happens for a reason. That all of us are simply in this world by pure chance. That there is no meaning in anything. Humans meet humans, and inevitably you have trouble; because there were never such a thing as human perfection. Not even close. And with the greatest experience you can have in your life - love - comes the greatest pain, always walking side by side, with no exception.
I'm so tired. I'm tired from knowing there's no use in trying. I'm tired from things being so different. From not being able to fall asleep because the one person I ever loved isn't here to wag me to sleep anymore. I'm tired from knowing that person leads a better life without me. As if I was a burden. I'm tired from nothing working out. I'm tired from crying in the bathroom out of no apparent reason. Tired from seeing myself in the mirror and knowing why no one would love me. Tired from working where I don't belong. Tired from knowing there's a whole year before I'll be able to get out of this fucking town. Tired from cooking for myself in the kitchen and not having someone tell me how it tastes. Tired from taking pills just to make the simplest things work, and yet they don't. Tired from the darkness. From knowing there will be months and months of darkness ahead before spring is here again. Tired from not having anything to look forward to. Tired from pretending I'm angry and bitter. Tired from talking. Tired from seeing people. Tired from being alone. Tired from seeking my refuge in pain and writing.
I want to smash things! I want to drop things off my balcony and see them slash against the asphalt beneath. I want to throw everything that's old and not working out the goddamn window. I want the windows to break, I want the walls to tear down, I want all my things to be goddamn broken, maybe then they'd show what I really feel.
That I'm a broken soul. We're all broken souls. There is no comfort. There is no grand solution. And I have no idea why we keep trying to cope when the option of giving up is so fucking tempting.
POET in the ANGRY and SAD JAR

Idiot

If I could change you
I could make you love me
But what would I get,
besides hatred,
and faking?

In some ways
It'd be easier if you'd died
In some ways, I guess,
Some days

Give me someone to blame
And someone to hate
Hating you while loving you
Doesn't satisfy the same

If I could change you
I could make you love me
But what would I get,
besides hatred,
and faking?

Some mornings
I feel like dying
It'd been easier if
I'd found you lying

Stop your reasons
You can't save me,
It's much too late
Aren't you relieved?

If I could change you
I could make you love me
But what would I get,
besides hatred,
and faking?

Don't pretend you miss me
That you're a friend who cares
Since I left the picture
Your life is better there

Go on, live it, don't look back

Idiot...

You Do The Math

You say it'll be over.
You say it'll pass.
You've forgotten all we had together,
all our laughs.
You tell me to forget the pain.
That you can't be the one to blame.
You've forgotten what we were together,
You do the math.
You say there is no empty hole
By your side where I used to be
At least not empty in the way
something's missing to me.
You wanted us to stay friends,
You had no more love to give.
You're losing both in the end,
and I'm fighting just to live.
You have no idea how much you hurt me.
You have no idea what you did to me.
Before you tell me my pain will pass,
Remember you used to love me once,
You do the math.

World of Cade and Ophelia

Sorry to rant so much about novelling, guys; but as I usually say it's my best friend, someone who doesn't leave you for no good reason. Someone who's always there to have my back when I fall. And this time I'm falling hard. Feels weird, this world, when I'm the one going to a therapist and spilling my life while others can just pick up their stuff and move on. Can't believe they take me seriously. But they do. I think I had issues with myself and the world I didn't even know about...

I prefer losing myself into the slightly magical world of Cade and Ophelia. Even though it's an urban story, and it's not precisely the adventure genre anymore; it has a slightly... surreal... touch about it that enchants me. Maybe it's the falling rain and the rusted railings. Maybe it's the changing photograph and Cade's growing insanity. Maybe it's the quest to find the girl when it should be impossible. Well, it's something alright. And even though Cade and Ophelia have never met, they just feel right. I symphatize with them a way I haven't done before, without myself being the character; and this time he's mostly just himself. Unlike Woven, who is mostly me. Either way he has a lot of my thoughts in him, naturally.

As I've become obsessed with writing and with this novel I've begun to plot the story in my head, even when I'm not near my notebook or my laptop. Earlier tonight I had to write something down on the back of a receipt in my wallet because it showed up so inconveniently. Luckily, I always carry a pen, mind you. And I think the basic moves in the story are now known to me, although I'm debating the ending slightly to myself.

What the problem really is, is getting the characters through the middle of the book scene by scene, and ending up in the, well, end. The way there is long and rough and has a lot of gaps that need to be crossed.

Slightly optimistic about it though. Slightly.
Won't be online again until probably late Sunday night or even Monday (gasp! lucky I wrote so much so far!), so see you then.
POET in the JAR

Stealing Intelligence

It's dangerous to allow me to be really enthusiastic about something. Especially when it comes to writing. Especially when it comes to Nanowrimo. During November, I'm a detached asocial writer going to sleep when dawn strikes the sky. This year, strangely; more than ever.

Cade Sebastian is stealing my intelligence. He comes up with things I would never have figured out. He ties it all together, by himself. Ophelia named herself, after the HMS Ophelia that is sailed by the industrial steampunk band Abney Park. I was worrying I wouldn't quite use up all the 50K before the story was over, but as it looks, I should worry 50K won't cut it. One fifth into the story and Cade Sebastian is visiting the economy office. Plot needs to quickly advance forward against the highly anticipated ending that I for once have a vague idea what it's going to be.

Unless Cade is changing it without me knowing. I think he's quite capable of doing that.

I don't even much like the guy. He has the annoying habit having to do with light switches. He works in the city archives under Defence Acts and Records. And he likes it! He avoids his working place. He's set up his own, temporary working place two floors down in the middle of the archive because it's "practical". His drink of choice is bourbon on the rocks. Sometimes without the rocks. He doesn't like mirrors because they force him to face himself. He's an off-on smoker that can't decide whether he likes the nicotine or not. And although he's a perfectionist when it comes to archiving, he's a total and complete slob in his apartment, which he rents with the furniture included! The sofa that he always sleeps on instead of his bed is mouldy and makes him stiff in his back and neck but he won't budge.

And the worst part is he keeps outsmarting me! Gaah!

And I can assure you, it wasn't my idea to stay up til 5.40 AM writing. It was his. It was his, because he knew all along what was going to happen at the economy office, and I sat there dumbly, watching. It was his idea, and Nanowrimo's; because the feeling of hitting 10K is so extremely adrenaline-rewarding. And addictive! And now gents, we're talking 5 digit count!

I'm currently two and a half day ahead of daily count.

POET in the NANO-LAND TOE-ESCAPING JAR
PS. Actually I love the guy. Can't do much other than that when he's becoming such a strong character! DS.

Random Post-First-Day of Nano Thoughts

Never try protecting someone you love, because you think you'll spare them their pain. Be honest. Even if the truth hurts, it's always better to know than to wander around in doubt, even if sometimes you wish you'd never known.

The first day of Nano has passed. Strangely I have hit a word count equivalent to two and a half days. My count right now is 4,1K. I don't think I've ever, in the history of Nano, done such a day! Pretty impressed by myself, and I don't have to be as pressured while writing tomorrow. But the story is enticing me. I don't know why. I never thought any story besides my trilogy would ever catch my interest that way. I guess it's because it's not entirely realistic, and I even kept the genre Adventure, although I'm sure it'd fall under some other category; but I sure didn't find anyone suitable when I was looking.

I guess part of my insane energy is because I need something to occupy myself with. I can't allow myself to start thinking about my own life. It's easier to project everything on Sebastian. I'm gonna make his life fall apart. I'm gonna strengthen him. As with everything I write, part of him will be me.

Now I really should hit the sack, it's 2.21AM and there's another day coming tomorrow. I'm gonna flip some channels and avoid text as much as possible.

"Living well is the best revenge" - REM
Well, REM, I'm really trying. I'm trying really hard. Did I say I was trying?
POET in the GLASS JAR