March 17th, 2004

Dirty pages don't write clean, but so goes life. I'm unsure of what to do where to go, and how to leave. Unsure of if I should leave. But if I don't leave then what's left? Staying. And should I stay? Is there anything to stay fr? I can only hope, but even that should go somewhere new someday. I'm writing unlike myself as the words bounce in my mind, hitting the tones and meanings. The exact syllables. I kind of wish they would bounce faster. But I don't want to write with the rhythm I had before. A new rhythm, a different one. I'm almost tired of dirty pages, and suddenly someone is speaking loud interrupting my rhythm. Causing me to look up and see a boy from dance. He smiles and nods and I return the same quickly returning to write exactly this. Ray is studying again here with me. Creating a new sort of art. My emotions are so confused and flustered, I don't know how to act or react. What am I thinking? Am I that insane? Yes I think I am. Because his smirk and dimples make me smirk myself, and where else from there? A little farther or a few steps back? Or could I really stand still with this? I can, and I suppose I should. He won't take it a little farther, and I don't want to take it a few steps back. With an infinite amount of options standing still is the best, for the both of us? A little change in direction perhaps? A new perspective on the situation? But where do I go for that? Lindsay was one. But no she's my same. She sees me smile with him and laugh and get along. But even she doesn't know the way things are with me and him alone. It's nice having someone appreciate what I feel. So where do I go for the new perspective? Could I just ask him? Or would that be weird? Something to consider, rambling for no sake. But still there's room on this page. Could I leave a blank spot?

January 11, 2005

2:03 am.
It's been raining for three days straight and I have yet to even smell it. Perhaps proving to me how distracted I've been. I know I'll have to stop writing soon, at least for the night. But while it lasts I'll take it. Deep breath and I want to cry. For all the moments lost. All the love and excitement I had for something so fake. I don't feel it. Or maybe what I feel I just don't know because I haven't written it down. But geez. These emotions I've been hiding, suffocating. This deep red coming through my blue. The pain and anger that interrupted my calm facade. But that's all it ever was: a facade. Turns out a lot in my life is a fallacy. Any thing I came to love and appreciate is at least. So f*** me. I'm going to lather myself in cold lotion. And fall asleep to dream the strange dreams I've been having lately.

March 8th, 2004

I don't remember what day I started this. But today is Monday. It's warm outside and my feet are sandled and unsandled. Grass under my skin, cool air, through my hair. And I'm happy. Probably and most likely the happiest I've been in a long time. Free from cold air and ice, free from curly-haired guys. Figures though, doesn't it? Karma or a good omen. But who knows? And I don't care right now. Just happy to be happy. J.P. can write pages of thoughts. But his heart is freshly broken, and mine is beginning to mend. Back to old journals and here again. I can write, I can. I've read it myself and I feel it all again. It's good to have this, it's good to know. "But what's good in knowing the day you'll die?". Except perhaps to live your last day. I live everyday, and I almost said I die every night. But I don't. I live in my dreams. So that I'm ready for tomorrow. And I'm ready now. For whatever may be the next step, not the last step. Just the next to prepare me for the next. And then, perhaps, more. Jorge, asleep and snoring. Ray contemplating geography, pencil, paper, and book. J.P. no where to be found in a sea of books and whispers. And me. Where am I? Here and there, but nowhere. Oh. There I am.

May 25th, 2004

And now to fill more pages. My scattered thoughts are more scattered, but there is always room to write. So much has changed since this all started. A maybe-Ambri is nothing now. I'd never even dream. And the past is more clear. I realize what had all happened and how I had thought. Young and naive. So cliche. No shit. I can't wait for Summer, and Summer won't wait for me. But this Summer has to change everything. I need so desperately to work. Earn money and move on. Move. So much to consider. And Ray calls. To tell me to relax. Focus on finals. Save the future for the future. So I listen. But it's all still there in the back of my mind.

May 25th, 2004

Been busy. Been good. Been tired, but I wish for insomnia. More time, less work. More ink. Two weeks. But too much to do and no time to do it. Thoughts can still lead to ideas I had shared with Spencer. That lonely world we created, that was so much more real than all this. Too busy to write. So I want to read my own stuff. Read it and remember what it was like to have the time to write.

March 20th, 2006

March 20th, 2006

And suddenly I'm dying for my pen. And these tears sting inside my head. But why do I want to cry? I don't even know. I just know that it's good to feel again. I still miss outside. But I can still feel the warm air. And now I am glad to have this spot to write. Slow and nice a rhythm, a beat, to compliment this music I hear in my head and out loud. Quieter now and my light is dim. My heart, so confused. My head, so numb. My pen, is it broken? I want to write hard and good. Or even soft and bad. I blame my pen for my head's mistakes. Stupid isn't it? And I can hardly breathe. So I'll shut my mouth and suffocate. Breathing deep inside myself. My own poison. In my lungs, through my blood.

And now I come to realize I'm still breathing. And I don't want to stop. It's good to breathe and good to be. But just me. No one else here to interrupt, my pen can fly and so can my thoughts. More rhythm, less rhythm. It doesn't matter how I write. It's good to move. Move on. My thoughts are switching from one thing to the next. And Spence is still there. So deep in my head. He'll never be gone. But he's so far gone. So what now? Did I finish that closure in my last three words? Yup. I know. So does he understand what I meant when I said it? I just feel like he wasn't listening. Maybe I didn't say it loud enough. Or maybe he's grown deaf. So now it's time to move on. Maybe he'll catch up. But for now I'm finally on my own. And I'm good with that. He still doesn't understand. My pen and paper. Such better listeners than him. He doesn't know how much I've grown and maybe he won't. I can still smile. It's been so long since he's been gone.

February 7th 2005

02/07/05 1:51 pm
Lonelier. Still. Brought on by my own self now. And I've tried too hard. But at least I know. Back to having no one. But still wanting. And it feels as though no one will ever be good enough. My attention is turned to my clean right wrist. So uneven. So pure, un-aldulturated, but still screaming with sin. This was the tool. The tool for the down bringing of it's twin. Punishment so deserved and so desired. And not just for itself. But for me. For my mistakes. I wish I could scream out-loud. My throat is burning to speak. My eyes burning to cry. But the fire that I know will come if I do, is much worse than this pain. If I begin, I'm afraid I'll never stop. My pulse is no longer just that, now it is a consistent knocking. My blood pleading to be let free. Pressure, unearthly pressure. To just make a slice, let just some out. Relieve just a bit of the pressure. But could I be happy with just that, or would I still want more? Always. More.