a dull, scratched silence

Grief is....something else. Look at us, reaching hungrily for the next moment, clinging desperately to the last, not once embracing the color of the invisible present. Talking logic, and numbers, and plans, and frantically fitting our mash of heartstrings and tears into boxes and charts. Immeasurable things. And in my selfishness, I'm watching, wondering which one of us will be next, and what it would be like if I were truly, truly alone. Tiptoeing and whispering. "Don't touch that, you'll break it." These things.

from earlier

I have to admit, I have spent the last thirteen days in some sort of sweltering rage that didn’t have the courage to reveal itself other than through sputtering, ugly bursts of tears that were tiring, and terrible.

It came to the point where I let you—who we’d all accepted as hopelessly arrogant—get to me, and for a moment there, I let myself think that I was the mindless, wandering, timid fool you think I am. I mean this exactly as I say it: Psshhh.

Pshhh to several men in my life who have let me down, one above all. I was a fool, chasing your love and protection like a nine-year old lost on the boardwalk. I was a fool, believing that you owed me filial affection, believing that you were the panacea to everything that may/may not have gone wrong in my life! Pshh, to you. We don’t need you, and we never had. The strongest woman I know raised me to be strong. Strong like crying when you mean it, unashamed, and with passion. Strong like several jobs and a heart bigger than her ribcage should house. We are better than fine. We’re strong. As for the other thirteen? I’m hoping they’re sane enough to stay far away. (That one verse comes to mind, and I guess for now…I’d be happy to “honor you” from afar. Far, far, away…)

I will listen to Aretha Franklin and Tina Turner and Billie Holiday, and know that I can love you and never see you again, all at once. The rage has passed; now, to indulge in this Thursday’s sunshine, just me, longboard II “Liz”, and our furious lust for life.

ok, so...

Maybe I've been fibbing a little. It has been about eight days since I've had five minutes to hear my own thoughts. Now, I have had about four hours and 35 minutes to myself, and I feel trapped in a sort of tumultuous silence. Maybe it's not all silence.

I realized sometime between a shower and my lunch—peanut butter on wheat—that I might say too much on here; that all six or seven people that may read this on occasion are likely to think I'm a less sane than I once was. "Don't worry, I'm fine."

It is 3:38pm in Boston. Does afternoon begin immediately after 12pm? Is 12:01 considered "the afternoon"? I'm pretty sure I would consider it noon. Perhaps I've been wrong all this time. Well, here's to the afternoon.

I will be broke in five days. I am jobless. My mom is generous, but not that generous. I wanted this time to be on my own, anyway. It's been rewarding. Sort of. My dreams are more vivid—I think it's the absence of street noise. My view? A sprawling landscape of California rooftops and South San Franciscan fog. A backyard home to overgrown grass, a broken lawn mower, a mossy wooden bench that once belonged to a quaint little set of lawn furniture (but now houses ants and spiders), and a broken fence. There is a cage on my window.

I put up a few posters and photographs to make the guest room feel like home. I spread my red blanket from school across the queen-size, and my sort-of ugly quilt-fabric pillows against the wall. It's alright, I think. I have my music and I just bought some cheap oil pastels. I needed to invest in things to do that won't necessitate leaving the house.

It feels colder here than it does during Seattle's winter, mostly because of wind chill. I should keep spare jackets and pairs of shorts in my trunk. Wind in the morning, sun in the afternoon.

I need to find a place to run. And somewhere warm to read. I need a job.

paz

Jobless, living on two gallons of gas at a time,
more content than I could ever be.
Alone, but not lonely.
Woke up; you haunted my dreams,
but I've decided that's not your fault,
and there are better things to worry about.
Empty houses,
no clocks ticking,
and I can see my breath indoors.
More content than I could ever be.

i miss home.

Here (which isn't that far away)
people laugh at all the wrong things,
and i am foolish,
and i lose that sparkle that you saw in me,
and i make more mistakes than i can count (or at least they say so)
here,
i do not belong—
among blood veins and past friends,
i am a stupid stranger,
a smothered, struggling failure,
swimming in defeat
Here (in a place that should be called my other home)
i am nothing—
and not in that woe-is-me sort of way,
but i am less than invisible,
i am the paragon of idiocy,
a stumbling, bumbling mess,
when with you,
i soared gracefully under the stars.
with you,
i embraced 'neon nights' and looked forward to the night's warm smiles,
now—
night is that horrible time, when we all sit around the table
and laugh at people that i love,
and mock the weary,
and judgejudgejudgejudgejudge.
But you love! (me?)
You do, I know you do—
but only when they live up to par.
I hate ones like this,
the ones that make me cringe and feel gutless.
I wish I was with you,
where I float and feel full—
not trapped here,
in this loud vacancy
i should call my other home.