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?

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.