somehow someway.

All things considering, maybe our lives are our dreams. Chaotic, nonsensical, lovely. Maybe "life" is the actual dream. Maybe while we're in what we think is "reality," we're actually asleep somewhere else. Life isn't meant to be this boring. blank. hateful. hurtful. painful. remorseful. regretful. unsatisfiable. Or is it? Who is to define life other than yourself? Everything you love will reject you or die. A moment is all you can expect from perfection. Like Tyler Durden sitting in the palm of the hand shaped shadow. Even in my dreams my mother assumes we're going to Heaven. What is "Heaven?" Scenery? Hell is other people. We're all trying to comprehend ourselves. What if we're selfish rude people and we don't even realize it? Fact of the matter is, we're all selfish. Nobody asked for anybody to increase their abandonment issues. Truth is, all I need are my dreams to keep me moving, awake, happy. I don't need you. I don't need your excuses or your justifications. I don't. I will continue to grow with or without you. Hopefully you'll do the same. Everyone forgets the extent of things people do for them. everyone. it.happens. We all reach for a greater good but fail to comply. The people you love always let you down the hardest. Even when you know they won't. Disappointment. That's a given. That's within every promise that is made to you. When all you have left is yourself, how do you live? Apocalypse. You're alone. You now only live for you and you only. No disappointment within people, no one to let you down. Maybe sometimes being lonely is worth it. Like the time travel kid. He loved his power so much he went so far in time that he passed the end of the world. He spent the rest of his life trying to figure out how to go backwards. Isn't that what we're doing? Spending our lives trying to figure out how we'd go backwards? BOOM. You're twelve. Start over from there. Hug your father's neck as if he's been dead for almost three years. Know immediately that every mistake. EVERY mistake you've made after that. GONE. Now, wouldn't everything be perfect then? Why can't we undo things. You know if you wanted to be treated better, you should have said so instead of abandoning me. Whatever. Everyone does it. The dream I had. He was in it. First time I dreamed of him in years. And well. I woke up happy. Dreams are all I need. This constant buzz buzz buzz. There's a never ending babble... Everyone wants you to be crazy. Are you? IS there a never ending loop in your head? Sit down. Breathe. Everything's gonna be alright. I don't know if that's really true. But it's all I have to go by.

All of my hopes, dreams, wishes, my heart, my soul, my everything. It lies within everything that is nothing but fictional. I take biased in something completely made up by media. My tears are trapped between two yellow colored pages. My dreams are the only place in which I feel secure and happy all the time. Everything else? My hate, anger, fear, hurt feelings, and pain? They lie within reality. They bounce between the buzz of the insults you let roll off your tongue. They stick me in a sense of ambiguity that maybe I can live within my dreams. It won't happen. So put on a dvd or hand me my tore old copy of Teen Angel. Allow me to cry myself to sleep only because the happiness I have lies within pure fiction. I wish I was beyond this world; my heart is too big for that. Nothing can save me from this deep rooted depression. Should I resort back to feeling nothing at all? Or allow my only hope to rest with the fiction my mind has been accustomed to? My pain is in my reality. My freedom is within hallucinations and false stories. I can do nothing but accept that.

We hide under rocks until the stars come out.

Everything around you is so much bigger, this mind frame is unreal. How can we collide as people we barely ever heard of? Every person, man, woman, child, mother, daughter, father, son, brother, sister, cousin, aunt, uncle, student, teacher, lover, enemy we meet and pass all have their own screwy heads wrapped around their own ideals that no one will ever be able to explain, name, or justify. If everyone were honest we'd all be in chaos because we're all so used to lying to everyone around us; we're all liars. Then we hate being lied to. Everyone is after the same goal but not. Everyone wants to be satisfied but all in different ways. Marriage? Its a joke. Apparently. People fabricate lies and falsities to someone they put every ounce of effort into, only to take it all back when they're bored of one another. Everyone is constantly changing. Your lover can always be a mystery. The only people who don't want to be loved are people who don't care. Love is just some silly word people use to explain happiness. Is happiness equivalent to love? maybe, but who's to tell? We're all filled with meaningless word after word into this discombobulation of what is morality and what isn't. You'd think by now we'd eat our conscience just so we could have full bellies.
It isn't a matter of good vs. evil. Its you. You, you, you. You're surrounded by everything you loathe and everything you're looking for all at the same time. What are we looking for? Purpose? Meaning? Existence? Explanation?
What.happens.when.we.die. What if we're all just thrown into the same thing over and over and over and we're all just filled with these questions and theories and beliefs. Our faith is rested inside every crevice of every corner we cut. Is there salvation. No. There's nothing to be saved from. Our bodies crave reason; our bodies crave entertainment. We live, day after day, solely on the belief that whatever shit is going on will eventually get better when we all know that it doesn't. We search for those nights where everything is going the way we want. The ocean, the sunset, the busy streets lined with drugs and acceptance. We want to meet incredible people who help change our lives albeit good or wrong.
We hope and wait for something better to happen, but we fully accept that it might not. This is everybody; this is everything.
It's like that feeling you get when you're on a ferris wheel and the wind is blowing cool through warm air. That person you're with... it's never who you want it be. It's never who I want it to be. I want to bump into a complete stranger who's reeking of beauty. I want to go on a ferris wheel right at sunset with the perfect weather and I want to kiss him on the lips. I want to get off, hold his hand, then go away. I want that one perfect moment, Then I want the pleasure of never knowing them. I don't want to know them then four months later yell at them for something stupid then break up and hate each other. I want that moment with a stranger.
I'm so sick of falling in love.
I want to have the good and then go on with my life.
I can fall in love with an idea.
I don't want the mess after.
What do the Heavens say about us; about me? About you.
We sleep to dream, we dream to sleep, everything is a vicious circle.
Constantly hoping for ashes to turn back into bodies, hoping that one day we might repress everything we hate; everything we regret.
There has got to be away to go back. I'll never give up on that rewind button.
I don't want to be old. I want to be free.
When is enough enough? When is this going to get old? When will we be able to strike an atom? When will we fall into a black hole just so we can get over ourselves and these daily dilemmas of false courtesy and the trickster?
We are all just misguided ghosts.
We are all just howling at the moon's beauty.
We are all wasting everything we touch.
We are all searching.
It's not going to come.
So, we'll sit around the fire telling stories of depression, rejection, addiction, science-fiction.
Our thoughst, our tendencies, our heads, hands, and hearts are all lost within the pages of our favorite books; within the scenes of our favorite movies.
Who else cries themselves to sleep while Finding Nemo is playing in the back ground?
Who else remembers the uncanny pain of seeing your father die. Not even that, but the day after. The day after is always the worst. What do you do the day after someone is gone? It cannot be explained other than pure miserable blankness. Turn on the television after every.single.time. your heart aches. Our hearts are just big calloused scars.
You want to be the girl with the big heart, but the scars and callouses make it impossible.
We are all terrible people.
We are all annoying.
We are all lacking morality.
We are all missing hope.
Why hope anyway?
Everything we do counts for something somewhere...
Just not here.
The clouds cry for our loneliness and misery.
But we all look up at the stars with the smallest hint of hope.
We see the stars as beautiful twinkles of hope.
Maybe they look at us the same way.