"When did the future switch from being a promise, to being a threat?'- Invisible Monsters
Water, Water everywhere and not a drop to drink.
I fucking hate Sundays.
In the week, its always the day I dread. Either the beginning or the end.
The beginning of a week of schedules and work robbing me of time to think, ot the ending of an all to brief taste of freedom. Its when I realize I'm wasting my life, with nothing to show for each day, by scribblings or work agendas covered in song lyrics and sketches.
They feel lazy and depressing and grey, the house feels empty and I listen to melancholic music (this weekend, I'm on Nico) and stare at my face in the mirror, full of mourning for myself. On Sundays, even the brightest lights cannot chase the grey away, over coming the grasping light, smothering it out like a candle, the last drop of saniety in the darkness, or perverting the self-imposed darkness,, with ashen haze.
On Sundays, I just want to cry, for no reason. My eyes are suddenly both wet and dry. And by nightfall, I dread that I have to live another week, until the next Sunday.
I wake up this morning, and my first thought is aging.
I am Dying.
I am dying more each day, and so are you.
My thousands of cells are living, growing, mating and dying, full lives that I haven't shared, and I'm getting older. Each minute, each second, I am aging. Changing ever so slightly.
One day I will wake up old, and not recognize the face in the mirror's glass. I'll cry, weep for my lost youth, the time when all I could hope for was getting older.
And one day, I won't wake up at all.
Today, in my throes of Sunday misery, I put on a somber expression. I let my tangled hair down obscuring my face, and the weary hollows under my tired eyes, the creases in my forehead, and my cupid lips. And I cover it all, the entire mess of baby face and cheeks in tape, watching it in the bathroom mirror.
I stare.
But the face doesn't suddenly become beautiful, doesn't suddenly turn ugly.
It just hovers behind a mask.
Should I just give over to masks?
Disguise my middle of the road face, obscure and aging for each new day?
I peel away the tape in strips, struck with white remenants of my dead skin, then I rip harshly and pretend I'm ripping away the skin, and freeing my spirit from its fleshy cage.
For the life of me, I couldn't tell you what posessed me to do this. I just did.
I feel like the Girl Who Has Everything. I have everything I need and more, and almost everything I could ever want. I have plenty of knowlege, plenty of talents, and
But no love. I many not love anyone. I may never have.
I feel like I'm complaining about nothing. But love is just so important to me, without it I feel empty and powerless. Emptiness is fully consumbing, on its own. I think most of my problems could easily be solved by a man, but I would seriously pity whoever could love me.
I may love you, but you'd never be mine to love. I cannot take you from someone else.
I am not a person.
I am not a lover.
I do not live.
Surely if someone wishes to loves me, if they only could
It would only bring them pain and sadness.
I am a curse, masquerading as a human being
I am the poison that fills the air
I am the virus infecting your blood
I do so want to love, but it abandons me.
Leaves me with only my pathetic self, writing these pathetic, pretentious thoughts, as if I actually had introspection, as if I actually had a brain.
I call myself a Winter girl, and love the snow to an unbelivable point, but this year it's so cold, so miserable, that I'm yearning for the spring. In a flash of thought at work yesterday, I churned out an poem, my notebook clasped to me, swiveling my swivel chair, while I'm supposed to be listening to my boss talk about planning events for the months up until June.
But it's too depressing to think about it, because if its June, that means I'm gone.
This phase of my life is over, and I haven't accomplished anything.
You hear about all these geniuses and heros, who win prizes, start charities and are on a course to save the world.
I'm seventeen, and what have I done?
Just this:
Daisy Chains
The sun is a liquid lover
The spring paints the fresh air with scent
Spotlights me in sunstroking haze
I've walked the roads barefoot
Parched
Passed over long ago
My broken toes, struck grassy knolls
The trees weep for secrets
Without mouths they cannot share
I'm melting to liquid
The dew stroking the ground
Where the poison flowers once grew
I lie in sunbeams
Radiant at dawn
Braiding thoughts through my hair
Pluck a lonely daisy, clinging to the ground
The child bride's bouquet
Grown into silken white
Daisy chains to bind
Shroud in table cloth veils, true love waits across
I'm bound with pretty chains
Flowering my eternal spring
Purifying spirited thoughts
Silver flashing dreams
Lazily, I'm stuck in childish thoughts
Refusing to grow, to change
And allowing my poor plucked daisies no options
I can choose to keep them forever new
Held to my dizzying heart
And distilled of theier grandour
I'm still on the dust bowl
The school yard, stuck between chalk box lines
Riding out the storm
I'm living a new life, but the past still owns me
Creates me
And like the daisy petals, I'm not free to fly
Pluck
He loves me
Pluck
He loves me not
I watch the cobwebs grow through endless winters
My loves, My unions
Grow old and turn practical
Withering
Can I just keep my wonder?
The spring,
The rush of my now plucked thought
The daisies I dream
I still do nothing.
Nothing. I've spent most of my years reading about other people having adventures.
I am in love with INVISIBLE MONSTERS.
It's by Chuck Palahniuk, who also wrote Fight Club, and it's spectacular.
All about the costs of beauty, the invisibility our society, so afraid of offending others, gives to disfigurement, wondering where love went and creating a future out of the ruins of the past.
Its so packed with social critcisms also, sprinkled all over the pages, that seem to echo my every passing thought, every condemnation I've ever had about the world I inhabit and never told anyone.
I can understand invisibilty. I do this thing now, where I stare off in space, as if deep in thought or pretending to read and listen to other people's conversations. Learn about them, while they know nothing of me, because I've never shared myself.
Sometimes, I'm just doing nothing but sitting there, clearly listening, and people look at me, the quiet girl, think I'm no threat, and have personal conversations right in front of me, as if I'm not even there.
They don't give me much hope. I've learned that so many people I know, so many people I profane to love, are really two faced. I learn who secretly hates their friends, who laughs at their boyfriend behind his back, who gossips about his girlfriend and thinks she's only good for one thing. I know that even those who are loved, are really alone.
It disgusts me.
I'm sincere.
When I hate someone, I don't pretend to love them, or make them part of my life. When I think something someone I know made sucks, I just say nothing. I'm too polite to criticize, but I'm too far gone to pretend.
I know so many of their secrets, its as if they make my own all right.
"I love Seth Thomas, so much I have to destroy him. I overcompensate by worshipping the queen supreme. Seth will never love me. No one will ever love me again."
"Brandy is waiting to take the card and read it out loud. Brandy's waiting to read my worst fears to the world, but I don't give her the card. I kiss it myself, with the lips I don't have and let the wind take it out of my hand. The card flies up, up, up to the stars, and then falls down to land in the suicide net."
- also from Invisible Monsters
Pathetically, this almost describes how I feel. But I want to be the card, floating, just floating. With no thoughts of wasted lives, or wasted weekends.
I get so frustrated by those guys who whine on and on about never having girls be interested in them, about never being loved, about being lonely.
And I want to scream, I'm right here! Notice me!
I wonder if I would frustrate them with my own whining.
Maybe we should just get together, just try each other and see where we end up.
What we end up with.
Maybe we'd have something.
"Elope with me Miss Private and we'll sail around the world
I will be your Ferdinand and you my wayward girl
How many nights of talking in hotel rooms can you take?
How many nights of limping round on pagan holidays?
Oh elope with me in private and we'll set something ablaze
A trail for the devil to erase "
- Piazza, New York Catcher, Belle and Sebastian
"Was she told when she was young that pain would lead to pleasure?
Did she understand it when they said
That a man must break his back to earn his day of leisure?
Will she still believe it when he's dead?
-Girl, The Beatles
“I thought it was a nice name! And a nice dress!”
She protested with a little pout, folding her arms across her chest.
He tsked.
“Of course you did. It wouldn’t have been half as funny if you didn’t. "
- Catcher in the back field,
Gazing at the stars and not the game.
