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The Current State of my Humble Abode

You don't know about my humble abode. Few people do. One to be exact. It was lived in once, and loved in. But in the absence of anyone willing to exist within it's walls, it has gotten dusty. As time goes on the dust eats away at it's floors and ceiling and walls. It goes unfurnished and empty. The paint is peeling and the wooden floors are becoming more and more warped with every passing day. Every time I visit I find a new leak in the ceiling or a new and empty place where there once was happiness and meaning. There is no happiness and meaning in my humble abode anymore. It was a mansion, once. It was glorious. Now only the remains of half-forgotten songs echo through it's rotting halls. Only rats and bugs bearing the remembered faces of former lovers twisted grotesquely by time and resentment.

For now I wish only for you to live there. I wish for you to cherish your time within my humble abode. I wish for it to be a place of peace and happiness. I think it could be just that.

But I'm sure there are many other homes you would rather live in than mine.

Alone, sans loneliness

I think I have finally gotten use to being alone.

Not in a sad, pathetic, rock-bottom sort of way, but it feels like my being often alone is entirely of my own choosing. Maybe it's because I am starting to exercise more or I am spending less time dwelling on the things I dislike about myself, but for some reason I feel like I no longer have to impress anyone. I feel that I am good enough for the people around me, and I have a right to be around them, and I can exercise that right or not exercise it depending on how I feel.

I think I have subconsciously decided that the reason I don't spend time with people is not because I am a sad and pathetic person to be around, but because I just don't want to be around them

Being alone no longer brings that hollow, incomplete aching that comes with loneliness, or at least that feeling is dulled.

I don't really know where all this confidence and self-esteem is coming from, but I'm just glad it's here.

I'm really glad it's here.

I'm not okay; you're okay.

I have been listening to the same god damn song on repeat for like a god damn hour and I will probably keep listening to it for the rest of the god damn night. I don't even like this song at all. Not even a little bit. In fact I kind of hate it with every fiber of my being. But I am not one for being rational, so I shall proceed with the psychological self-destruction. It's not really that big of a deal.


If you are reading this, trust me, you really don't have to. It's a lot of stupid crap that nobody really wants to hear about. Proceed if you must, but you'll probably just end up thinking to yourself about how whiny and narcissistic I am. And you would be absolutely right.


I feel like I have so many people to talk to but nobody to really TALK to, you know? I feel like everyone around me is a cardboard cut out with motion-sensors for eyes and tinny speakers for mouths that spout standard useless advise. The analogy really starts to fall apart though when I realize a cardboard cutout is incapable of having a great time without me around, while real people certainly are. So anyway, this is what happens: I feel like if I try to talk to someone about things they will just get irritated with me, or give me some shitty cookie-cutter advice about life. Whenever someone feels the need to tell me about their troubles I just roll my eyes and sigh and thing "What the fuck do you want me to say? Deal with it yourself and leave me the hell alone." So I think I have kind of given up the right to talk to people about my feelings at this point. And then I end up ranting to my blog.

I guess I don't really have anything to complain about. I am only sixteen years old and I spent the last two days laying on my bed looking at animated GIFS and feeling sorry for myself. I am a young, straight, middle-class, white male. I have almost every possible advantage right out of the gate (gate meaning vagina). But I still feel like shit half the time. Then when I look myself in the mirror and think "You fucking asshole! You deprive other people under the exact same circumstances as you the right to be unhappy you colossal cockmunch!" And then I feel like shit for feeling like shit in the first place. It's probably because every now and again when I am about to fall asleep or I am walking home from my bus-stop or I am in the shower or some shit a thought strikes me. Well more of a realization. A realization that I don't think anyone has ever loved me that wasn't contractually obligated to. Not the people with whom I have spent long, cuddly nights (or awkward coming-of-age movie borderline sex scene nights), not the people who I have kissed or the people who told me they really did "love" me in some twisted sense of the word. There is really nothing I would like more right now than to spend time with someone who genuinely loves me, and someone whom I love in return.

But who am I kidding. It's just teen angst talking. I should just shut my mouth and go sit in the corner and be happy because I have no legitimate reason not to.

If you read this far, congratulations, do you want a cookie or something?

My metaphorical herpes has pretty much eaten away at my metaphorical heart's metaphorical genitalia far beyond repair.

A Reminiscent Anecdote of Multiple Memories

I can recall summers long past, spent in a camp on the mountains. The camp was on a lake, and it was almost expected that you would brave its frigid waters at least once during your stay.

Everyone knew that the best way to enter the water was through a wholehearted leap from the dock.

But even after spending the longest minute of my life working up the nerve to jump, and even when I was already in the air, with my arms and legs flailing in slow-motion, one thought would remain in my head.

The thought that maybe this wasn't such a great idea after all.

 That though, and the sensation of fearful anticipation that accompanies it moments before contact with glacial waters, is always the last thing one feels before leaning in to kiss another for the very first time.

In other news, I find myself once again occupying the role of the wise, but otherwise insignificant member of custodial staff who finds himself offering well intentioned advise to the main character of everyone else's plot-line.

You have no fucking clue how much I think about you.

I just can't decide who I want you to be.

Not that it matters, my bed'll still be cold in the morning.

I really want to say something, but I don't have anything to say. I feel like I do but I don't know how to pull it out of my brain, and even if I can, I feel like it might hurt. Like a brain-hangnail.

I am surrounded people. Why do I feel so alone all the time?

Feels

I don't want to listen to music.
Not with my ears.
I want to feel it.

I want to feel the sting
of my eardrums being tanned
like leather
by the constant heat of sound.

I want my joints to rattle
in their sockets.
I want my blood to glow with soulful radiance
as it pumps through my veins

I want lightning
to find it's path down my nerves,
numbing my fingers and toes.

I want to lose my thoughts
in a crowd of sound
and drift helplessly
in the rhythmic waves of noise.

I want to feel the steady ache
of my brain pounded raw
by looming bass
and wave after acidic wave
of piercing verse.

I want my heart to synch
with steady beat
and my vision to blur
with jarring volume.

I want to feel music.

I want to feel nothing but music.

a moment

For a moment something in the air smelled like you.

For a moment I missed you.

Just for a moment

How to ruin an entire day

"Kiss me," you said.

"Where?" I asked.

"Where do you think?" You replied.

So I kissed you.

And then I woke up.

One by one

On New Years Eve

There are those who walk

One by one.

Black spots

Under streetlights.

Fists stuffed

In coat pockets.

Cotton puffs

Of hot breath

Glowing in the night.

Hair salted

With innocent snow.


On New Years Eve

There are those who walk

One by one.

Happy fucking New Years everybody.