This is it...

I finally found you
in my dreams last night.
In passing, I was able
to throw my frustrations
in your face-
About your absence.
Your indifference.
Your lack of sincerity.


You stood still against
the wall eating
cupcakes, pink frosting smeared
along your mouth as I walked
out the door.


This is the only closure
I seem to get.

Counting...

Eight more days.

Tell me there's another beginning

somewhere other than here.

I don't want to go back.

True Story...

...We're surrounded by perfect endings, extra lives and reset buttons.

It's a terrifying realization to come to when it dawns on you:

you have no access to those things in real life.

Life:
You only have one of 'em.
Live the hell out it.

A song got me thinking...:

i don't mean to seem that
i am constantly complaining.
that i'm constantly unhappy.
that i'm constantly stuck.

the truth is, while i can be all
of those things, it is not because
-i live at home.
-i don't have a "real" job.
-i have a mountain of bills that my income can't support.

i have faced that.
it's life.
i can deal with that.
i will always be able to.

what drives me to my moods is simply
that i feel that i am so
blessed
and
thankful
to honestly just to be alive.

sometimes i can't stand to think
that i'm wasting one second
of this gift.

this life.

this opportunity...

the C word...

stack of papers here.
pile of clothes there.
random bits of mess
scattered in between.

clutter.

i can't seem to get away from it.
i feel that i'm constantly
cleaning.
straightening up.
putting away.
and i can never tell when i'm done.

clutter.

the stacks, piles, bits and mess
feel like they're spilling into the rest
of my life
till nothing seems to get accomplished.

clutter. clutter. clutter.

even these words i write...

clutter.

An open letter to whoever lives upstairs [or whoever cares to listen]::

i'm trying.

i know that i am.

but obviously not hard enough.

i'm open to criticism. really, i am.
lay it on me.

because apparently i'm not doing something right.
and i have no idea what i'm doing wrong.

lend a hand?
a finger to point me in the right direction?
please?

because i'm tired of feeling sorry for myself
and questioning my abilities.

i'm tired of staying stuck in the same place.
i'm tired of being patient.

Are You Writing...?

There is a constant need to write.

To create.

About the day. About the thoughts in my head. Stories about people.

It's the people that get me. That stress me.
Those people can do whatever you want them to. They can represent whatever message you want to put across to the reader and so forth.

We're always told: "You don't write the story--the people do."
But the characters can always do a number of things. Anything they want.

Who am I to tell[write] them what to do? Or how to do it?

There is a pressure behind that. Because all I can think about are the countless possiblities. And I find myself stuck. I've always had trouble with the beginning. But it's always the end that gets me. Because nothing ever ends.

Stories are, in essence, about life-the life or instant of a person. And life doesn't have a nice, set-up ending.

unless, of course, the person dies.

And we're always told and always warned not to kill a character at the end of a story as a means of copping out an end.

Is that death the end? And who would I be to give it anyway?

So it goes on...