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.

This isn't a fucking joke.

As redundant as everything is, my point still remains unheard. And that's the thing. I'm running out of juice; I'm running on empty. What’s the point of expressing myself in such a luminescent manner, if everyone is too busy with their fingers up their assholes to care? Everyone is so quick to make assumptions. Everyone is so strung out, too busy being dicks, too busy sniffing said fingers to just fucking stop and pay attention. If everything is spelled out for you, then you don't learn anything. But who wants to learn anyway? You're all so smug. This identity crisis makes me cry every time. To look death in the eye. To lose faith in God, everyone else, even yourself. What hope is there? To look someone directly in the eye and scream at the top of your lungs how you feel and them still ignore you, or still not fucking get it. The hallucinations make everything worthwhile, but then again, everyone is so quick to judge. You want to know me? Read every entry I've ever typed, and it will reveal more to you about myself than a year of friendship ever could. No one wants to try that hard. No one wants to care or feel. You openly admit you know you're doing wrong, but you still do it. Everything I feel is on the tip of my fingertips. It’s collected in this nature, it's written by hand in the form of letter, after letter, only to be transformed into confetti. Nobody openly admits that they steal original thoughts. And all I ever do is repeat the same shit and try to figure out if I can make it sound prettier than the last time I said it. Speaking in metaphors. Everything is so enlightened, so surreal. Can't we all just trip in a pool and stare at the moon until we can’t feel our bodies? We shouldn't be this young and this unhappy. We still have decades and decades to go, and we've already seen too much. How can we get away? How can we erase the things we don't want to see anymore? The nightmares, the memories, the heartbreak, the young, childish mistakes we make. My heart can only bleed so much. I feel like a hundred years old. Life is fucking hard and as much as everyone knows that, they don't even realize the gravity of it. I've overcome adversity but at what cost? The lights can save you. The big city dreams. The feeling of speed and bliss at the same time. The numbness you get when your heart drops past your toes and into the ground. That cold chill you get when you notice that someone else has visible scars. The closet that once saved you that is now a dust filled rat trap. No one is going to go back to the places you've been and feel the things you've felt. No one is going cry your tears. You really are all alone in this world, and it’s up to you to accept it and overcome it. The tools you need are by your side. Everything is all jumbled up. Everyone tries to tell you what you feel. I know what I feel. What I feel is wrapped up in an old, yellow, frayed book that’s barely kept together by a paperclip. What I feel lies within that letter I left inside the theatre. What I feel is within the heart of the first boy I have ever loved… Its within the rain drops that I spun around in…on the grassy hill I rolled down…on the tree I wrote lyrics on. Its in every crevice of every inch, line, and nook of my bedding. My fears and horrors are placed at the front of my brain and the end of my heart. It’s everything. Take your time. Everything is just a big, big mess. And it’s always going to be that way. Life isn’t a joke, and death sure as fuck isn’t either. It’s a sticky, messy ride. And it’s different for everyone. I don’t have a point. I just have a lot of things to say.

It's funny that how for every ten hateful people, there's one nice person. I mean its ridiculous, but maybe if there were more nice people, you wouldn't be able to appreciate them. My scars are terrible marks. They're awful and not enough time has passed for me to understand how to deal with them and put a hold on my emotions. But I'm trying, okay? Don't call me a "wreck." Because all things considering, I think I'm doing just fine. It's funny that how a kiss can change your whole perspective. You're an idiot. You really, really are. And I don't even pity you at this point. You know what you're doing. You're too stupid to stop and think. You bring everyone in your own pattern of self destruction, then you play the victim. I am done. This is me washing my hands. They're too dirty, and smelly, and gross, and I am washing them. So please go away. And take all of you when you go.

Let's get started.

This isn't a game. It's not a battle of wits, or see who can go the longest under water. This is a pure, simple, and clean task. You can search for mention of your name, but it isn't all about you. It's about dreaming to afford a nice car. Or dreaming that one day you'll be rid of this place with your middle finger held out of the fucking window. It's wondering about insanities, orders, love, lust, beauty and everything in between. It's being hungry after you just ate the last bite of the food you spent your last cent on. Things aren't nice anymore. They're messy, confusing, and so fucking expensive. I will never forget the look on your face the last day I saw you. That tired, exhausted, cry for help plastered on your face like you haven't eaten or slept in days. I let you go yesterday. It was time for me to move on. It's only been eight months. But I decided I can't carry my scar forever. I can't show it off hoping someone asks about it so I can tell them the story they'd never expect to come out of my mouth. But I will keep the scar in a box and I will pull it out from time to time and tell myself what happened, just so I don't forget. I am so tired of this lackadaisical excuse you keep giving the world. This isn't the way you have always been. You were vibrant and healthy and caring but now you're lonely, tired, and mean. But I'm done with that. I'm done with people like you. People who excuse everything they do by simply saying that's just the way they are. WRONG. That's the way to chose to behave. If my taste buds can taste the spicy taste of salsa, the sweet taste of shaved ice, the salty taste of my lip on a blazing hot day, then I can get up out of my own misery and fucking enjoy it. So can you. All of you. You're not a welfare case, you're not "special," you're not smarter than everyone. You allude to this metaphorical pretense that gives you this false appearance then you behave normally on a public basis? Be independent. I am so annoyed with the leeches that are around here. I am going to do something I should have done a long fucking time ago. And If I can do it. SO CAN YOU.