To You, My Dear.

Humans are capable of more hurt than they can understand.
Humans are capable of more pain than they can understand.
Love is fighting a dying battle.
Love amongst rogues.
Love amongst thieves.
Murderers.
Monsters.
Devils.

The only way out is this way.
The only way out is this one way.
You must realize you are nothing by yourself.
You MUST realize you are nothing. Your blood is poison.
Your hands claws.
Your teeth fangs.

The only way out is this way. This one way.
You must love totally and completely.
You MUST love wholly and truly.
That is the only way out.
You must love, because when you love, you transcend your limitations.
You must love because when you love, your exceed expectations.
You must love.

It is the only way out of this spiral.
Love is the only way out of this muck.
You must love because your shadow tells you to.
Because your shadow needs something to cling to in the dark.
You must love because you are loved.

This is the answer.
This is the way out.
You must love.
You must love because you are loved.

Silence Outside

Sometimes at night
I wake up in a startled hush
The quiet of the world patting me on the face
Whispering me back to sleep


And yet I quietly refuse the Night's wishes
Like a man to his dying mother.
I push her struggling hands away from me and rise,
Rise out into the night.
And in that brief moment, I
Don't know what I am.

I stand in the shadows of the room and feel ageless.
I look down and see the hands of an infant
yet they (all at once) become gnarled and grainy,
Ageless.

I stand in the middle of the room at night,
and become a part of the quiet dark. Outside
A streetlight colors the fog of the earth.
Silent streets that lead to where ever.

Eventually, I make it back into bed,
simply because there's no where else to go.
The drowned out face of the pillow hits my own,
and I forget just exactly how alone I was.


Only a silence outside remains.

That Feeling You Get Too Often

It's like there's this huge joke that keeps slipping out of my hand.
Snickers in the dark, always behind me.
A shadow with an impish sense of humor.
At what point did everyone's lives advance so far ahead of my own?
At what point did "being content" become "you're boring"?
I guess I'll just remain as the one who stands in the back and asks questions,
Whose laughter always seems one wavelength behind the pack.
Whose companionship is as a tick to the fleece.

The Virgin Suicides

This might be the first time I've ever seen nostalgia as horror. Sofia Coppola's The Virgin Suicides (1999) reflects on the "free-for-all" suicides of the five Lisbon sisters with a lackadaisically amused glimpse. The sunlight always manages to get in your eyes in this film, and it's hard to tell what we're actually seeing and what might be happening behind the stifle of closed doors. Is this a horror film? Maybe not, but I felt a real dread whenever I was in the Lisbon household, a sweat that wouldn't get off my skin. It was like going through an unpleasant dream; not necessarily a nightmare, but I wanted to wake up. I wanted out of this wealthy town because I couldn't breathe.

The movie is very good, but in a sickly-sweet sort of way. I think it lacks a bit of focus; the main story is about the obsession of a town over these girls' suicides, told from the perspective of young, obsessive boys. However, Coppola also seems interested in the time period, adding numerous distracting rock songs and side-plots that don't add enough to the movie's general progression. Trip Fontaine's story is interesting, but it doesn't feel complete; the other girls are not fleshed out enough, and we start to view them like Children of the Corn. Once again, prove me wrong that this is not a horror story. This is a film of memories, but they are memories we wish we could forget. Like the image of a 13 year old girl in her father's arms. Or a set of petite feet in church shoes dangling over the floor. Or a still-smoking cigarette in a pale, still hand.

That's it!

I got it.

Being depressed is like being the gray crayon in the 96 box. Everyone around you has something wonderful to offer, even brown, and all you've got is gray.

Amateurish but...

Written freshman year amidst some contemplative stupor. I'm not sure what to make of it; it's pretentious, yes, but I think it has some sincerity within it that I may have lost between then and now. I'll keep it on here for the time being. Think of it as artistic masochism.


Dreamscapes.

For what do I and me pursue through countless days and rhythmic nights?

To embrace a hundred thousand lilted memories of skin dripping with melody and adolescent sincerity?

To stab out at shadows within shade and grasp at a wisp of light, hoping, praying, conceiving for an unanswerable answer?

To stand above the eyes, sweating blind and ignorant passion, reaching for what's been there over and over?

To hunt the mystic tremors of wonder beyond the glass rivers, preying upon the terror of aborted chance and desert-baked risk?

To awaken and unleash a dream into reality, bleeding new life-alters into crevices of humility and disregarded faults?

To dance through bald streets of suburbia, screaming to the mothers with their cookies and ornaments and fireplaces that a wolf prowls tonight?

To rebuild hopes of misbegotten romances, breathing warm-winded sighs across the heath of a throbbing neck?

To race the guttural pulse of the moon, seducing the stars to tempt the gypsies that claw the frozen ground?

To believe within a hopeless soul, transforming, transcending the angel that aches to shiver an infinitesimal barrage of notes towards the mattress of your front door?

Sunshine.

It's intimidating to look at other's accomplishments.
What a slug I am. Drooling down the pavement.
People must walk by and wonder how
I could possibly be around on these beautiful warm days?
Why isn't he (it) in his hole, chewing on fungus cud?
This world's too fast for him, people move in a blur.
Look at him, but oh god, don't touch.
Get some salt and some sunshine,
Make him shrivel away.
Let his vomit dehydrate,
Let his soul cake away.
It's his nature.