Rituals.

Dear God, I'm sorry I have been so cruel to you. It is my belief that our lives were set in place the moment you created the universe. That our lives exists as a result of who we become or who we choose to remain, that our lives are shaped according to not so much our choices, but rather our feelings about the things that have happened. Because of this belief, I thought it was pointless to call on you and ask for things, because anything that was going to happen was already going to happen. And this is true, in it's way, but I had forgotten an important detail: You know everything. It is not just about knowing the future, knowing what choices we make. It is about knowing what we are going to ask for. It's about knowing all these things at every moment, even moments we don't percieve as having happened. Even moments we percieve has having happened a long time ago. You feel no need to act because events have been set in motion since the beginning of time. The results of o...

I always thought I would love the first person who ever asked to read the things I wrote. No one ever asked. I have loved many people, but never enough to light the darkness or fill the empty spaces in my heart and mind. I don't think there is a human capable of fulfilling what I wanted. I know that I am not capable of fulfilling what I wanted. At least, no fulfillment beyond this one. I hope for better luck.

Is there even a point anymore?

Sometimes I get trapped inside a book. Sometimes I mind. Sometimes, I don't.

It still hurts, to see that name. To think of the time it's been. I've been lost these past few times. Of days or weeks. Shuttered windows block the view. I lie distressed, with a fever, with rage burning through. Anger that washes cold over my skin. That seeps through and leaves the sheets damp. Twisting in darkness, this four-post bed. A glass of water sits beside my hand. But it could be Holy Water for my fear to drink it. My throat hurts and my voice scrapes. Hands drawn through gravel, a victim dragged. The hole dug. The faint smell of oil and wiper fluid lingers from the trunk. Like smelling salts. When she breaks away, she runs.

I have been trapped inside half a dozen books. For the last week, my mind has swirled among words that drag on too long. It is an octopus, that I break free of one arm to be entangled by another. But it's a symptom. Willingly I submitted to this dragging behind a horse. Anything that would get me away from where I stood. Though, it was kind of like being dragged across a treadmill. One where a picture is turned alongside. It was so clear that, though moving, I wasn't going anywhere. And yet the surroundings were still in motion. In other news, I've figured out why I intentionally tank some schoolwork. It's a matter of being able to exert some control over the things I dislike. As a teenager, I hated that my parents put me under pressure to succeed, but never gave me any encouragement when I achieved something. Now, it's because I don't really want to be in school, but don't entirely have a choice (long story, well, long-ish, just don't feel like relating...

So I have a job. And I like it. It's decent. I get to work at night, sleep all day, and though I usually use my alarm clock, sometimes I don't. Sleep is a little weird though. I think the sunlight affects my dreams because they're been very strange and very vivid lately. The job's not bad, though. I don't hate what I do, though I hate things about it. I don't hate the people I work with, though I dislike some things that happen. But it is unsteady work. I started with five, eight hour days. Then seven hours. Then four days a week. Then three. Then four. Then back to five, with some days at seven, some at six and a half, stretched to seven with a lunch (to get the midnight pay bump). Now I'm on six hour days with one five-and-a-half. So unsteady. And ultimately, where will this job get me? It's not enough money to get a place of my own. It's not enough to pay all the bills I want to take care of. Definitely not both, which is what I need. And what, w...

Why do I lie? Is it just to get by? Yes. Because even getting by is itself a lie. Because I'm not getting by, or barely, or don't even want to.

I want to write without writing. I want to scream. I want to walk out that door and vanish into the night. Even though it isn’t the night. I don’t know where to go. I have a single path before me, but my feet are hovering three feet above the path and I have no way of getting down. Nothing is holding me up. I have collapsed under my own weight and I’m just so sick of it all. If I knew how to get a hold of them, I would do every drug man had ever invented. If I could stand the taste, I would be loaded right now. I am just so sick. My mind is moving at a snail’s pace. No racing thoughts, no wild visions. Just nothing and nothing to make me happy. Nothing to distract me. Just me and my misery alone and wallowing. I know I don’t have the right to wallow. I know I don’t have the right to feel sorry for myself. I can’t see any decision, of all those that landed me here, that weren’t my own. I just don’t care anymore. I d...

Crayon Boxes I think I have died That you no longer care if I live This grave could be unmarked, for all the people who look at it and know I am here I am hunched At my desk in my favorite sweatshirt The hood lined with orange And the sleeves frayed, worn I have worn this sweater for so many years, though loved it half as long The orange does little to cheer me tonight As I have searched your name and found a new addition to your fame An expansion of your being I realize the knife is still there Because I can feel it twisting, fresh, in the wound I smell that change in the sweet spring air and regret that I am not there. These rhymes are happenstance and agony. It has been so long since I have written here, had the charge to write here, and as always, it is of a tragedy My tragedy Like a forgotten war, Like a villager, killed by a despot, who is survived by a child who grows up dreaming of nothing but the tyrant’s death (I don’t even care to draw the conclusion) I have a thousand songs...