No Vacancy

People speak of meaningless past lives. They speak of voids they never knew existed. They speak of the one who filled these craters like no one else could. Me, I speak of all the wrong doors I've taken and the right ones I've neglected. Swinging doors, creaking doors, door frames all too wide. He speaks of all the places pieces of his worn out soles are now left behind- places in other people's hearts and places he loses himself in whenever he reads. We speak of our dreams. We speak of our fears and we speak nonsense. We speak the words which linger on the curls of our lips and hang in the air cycling between his lungs and mine. We speak the words we actually never say. 

I was whole then as I am whole now. Him? He was no-assembly-required, and self-satisfaction guaranteed. Fate just happened to turn her head by chance when we stumbled through the same motel door. My suitcase was full of souvenir knobs and his shoes, though worn, had no holes to be filled anyway. 

So maybe one day we'll find this room we share too empty, go off to find different exits, and leave with everything we came with. I speak only the truth. He is my complement. He is not my completion. But I'd be a fool if I said I'd walk out this room the same woman I was when I came. No. I'd walk out that door a better woman than I'd ever be if not for him.

And so, I speak of bravery. Motel room or not, I've already unpacked my bags next to his unlaced sneakers. It'd be nice to settle in here a while longer.

Person. Mother. Human.

"Tell me."

I can't.

"Tell me what you think of me now."

You are everything I don't want to be. 

"Please try to forget all of this."

..because you think I purposefully try to remember? 

"...do you still love me?"

Always.

Act II

"You are amazing dont ever die. I think that you make up for a lot of shitty things in this world"

Shaky ground. Uncertain why. Remember how to stand alone? Cue aria

She and I

He is one of the few who hold her reflection in his gaze. A girl. Blink. A beast. Blink. She made music in the same manner that she created her world. To others, it is a manner which knows no manners, and dismisses all reason. But if you insist that purpose in her cruel world must have existed, it was to create the illusion of spontaneous generation. She sat at the piano bench with eyes closed, self-control relinquished, hands without a master, and notes spawning from nothing. There, she made melodies of maggots crawling out of the flesh once belonging to a life she never intended on taking- never thought would be harmed because of her empty decisions. So on and on went the reckless runs and capricious crescendos, drowning out any voices pleading  with her to stop confusing naive with cowardly, and impulsive with irresponsible. It was far from the beautiful, raw art she wanted so desperately to convey. When he came along she shivered in the nudity of her childish compositions. For the first time, she wanted cellos and oboes and bells. She wanted symphonies! His silent eyes spoke volumes. And when she dared to gaze back, I saw her for who I had truly been.

Happy Birthday

No doubt we've taken steps forwards and backwards and sideways and in circles. It's all clear where we stand now, though I wish I knew exactly where you are with yourself. I think and dream about you, your parents, the cats, and the dog. I lost one of my best friends but I hope we both gain something out of it: you, the wings you always dreamt of, and me, the roots I longed for. I hope you continue to love more today than you did yesterday, but less than you will tomorrow. Happy 20th

Fear

Never have I in darkness hidden from the solace of the moon's light. Nor have I before, shivering, found lunacy in the sun's warmth. Fear grapples with the aorta. The heart keeps pumping, ever so mightily, but with nameless destination. It convinces me to cut off all extremities from circulation- anything but to let your sweet venom nourish every micrometer of my being. In the shadows, no light can touch me, so as to reveal your name across my chest. If I don't see it, it does not exist. It is cold here, and it is dark. And you alone lure me out slowly. But this light is blinding. And so is that other thing I dare not speak of.

Relish

It's exactly how we met. "Where's the relish?" "That's what I'm sayin." Exactly what I was looking for. "Don't you wanna have fun?" Exactly what I wasn't looking for. "Let's have dinner." And precisely the only way my mind- this labyrinth, this web- could have ever untangled itself. Call it a story web. Of lust or of romance? Of selfish endeavors, or a coming of age? It's debatable. And what about butterflies? No, not those. Never really had those. Hm...Caterpillars. Crawling around and eating whatever they fancy. Yes, I think those. Then somehow you spun and I spun and we can't stop spinning this cocoon. It's becoming something I never expected. It's nurturing my body and my soul. My heart is on the brink of metamorphosis.

We are gods in the chrysalis.

----R E L I S H----

(noun) great enjoyment

(verb) to savor

Chị phải hứa một ngày sẽ trở lại nghe?

Studying for finals is 25% podcasting classes I've missed, 15% reading, and 60% reminding myself about why this all even matters to me. It's been 2 years. On my last day this one could barely open his eyes. He had always been so fiesty and ready to fight. But when his mom told him I was leaving, he looked at me through quarter open slits and tried to reach out his hand to me. It's been about 100 weeks. That's 695 days and 695 chances for him to wake up in the southern sunlight, sip on his strawberry milk. Maybe watch a couple minutes of Doraemon, then get distracted and run around teasing the other kids. But that's also 16,680 hours in which he might have lost the chance to do any of that again.

I'm sorry I'm taking so long. I'm sorry if you've been waiting for my head to poke through the door again and call you over, swoop you up and throw you on my back to make you fly, read to you in English so you could laugh at me. I'm sorry I've been idle. I'm sorry that this all might be completely self-centered or ingenuine. I'm sorry I can't just be happy that you were so full of life on your good days. And I'm sorry that the most I'm doing right now for you is just hoping that you're still physically capable of being disappointed at me for all of this.

Substance

The cream filling. The meat. You know, none of that bullshit carb excess they give you before your meal to mask the reality that 7/8 of the sad excuse of a dinner they call an entree is just garnish and fancy drizzle. I never realized that the people I've just met this year and those I've known for years are actual substance. Real, grade A, handpicked, quality human beings. People who keep dreaming and chasing and falling and getting up and dreaming some more. Substance. I'm not suicidal, but boy how I wish I could OD on each and every one of you. Thanks for reminding me of the big picture.

II. Hear

And when I saw it, I wanted to see none of it.
But when I saw it, I needed to see it.
It was just the shell. It meant nothing.
Stiff but powerless still,
embalmed but feckless.
It's dead. It'll rot.
And it's not you.

My inner eye blinks, mused fingers stroke.
I play you into every frequency and wavelength
so that you remain afloat
Above this streaming body of sound
where you've escaped the fall of once-crowned man,
and rise with the swelling dynamics, heard as only the just can.

Hear, not the melody
but instead the overtones.
Harmony in discord
endless, hear, in my bones.
I know this is you,
see, no drear
even in silence,
listening-
Here.

I. The grasp

The glories of our blood and state
Are shadows, not substantial things;
There is no armour against fate;
Death lays his icy hand on kings.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
And in the dust be equal made
With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield,
They tame but one another still.
Early or late,
They stoop to fate,
And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds.
Your heads must come
To the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet and blossom in their dust. 
-J. Shirley 

Selfish

There really was only one thing I wanted for my birthday. In my dreams I made a deal with a black magic man to bring you back. You were just how you were before: bright eyes, full cheeks, warming smile. "How are you my friend?" and a fake punch to the shoulder. I hear your voice echoing through the house. The songs you love to sing easing my nerves. The sound of your shoes from the way one foot dragged a tad more than the other. It's not time to play hide and seek- come out, come out, wherever you are.

 Please...?






I miss you.
God I miss you so bad.

Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Hope

Someone told me that people are dirt. That same person told me that if I held an optional fundraiser everyone would just drink and bounce. I anticipated raising about $50. We raised $164.63 that night. I've said it before and I'll say it again. I think person are soil. Thank you so much to everyone who came out and donated out of the goodness of your hearts. The phrase is so overdone, but you all really have helped change someone's life. You're cultivating a fruitful future, knowing that you won't personally be able to reap the benefits of it. And I think that's pretty fucking beautiful.

Donation Page 

Wish it was just an April Fool's Joke

Bippody Boppidy Boo
Your spool of a tongue,
Wrapping every inch of my cold skin in the finest silks,
Dressing me up to be so much more than I can live up to.
Midnight.
Snippidy Snip Snip
This-
is the thread I will cut
And we'll unravel. Laced fingers untangle, brains disconnect.
"If it's not in the books just write it in." Cake?
Soufflé.
Rising, ever so swollen.
Then a rush of cold air and
Reality sets in.
I fall flat on my face

lplplplplplplplp..

to be an ornament! Yes,
adorned. But in truth? Absent
of substance.
No-
to be a trill,
forever fluttering between two sounds and failing to find
a resting note. Yes just
itching to be
more than just a squiggly on paper,
but forgetting why you wrote me in there at all.
No, I don't even know who you are.
To fear. Yes, to fear.
I play on till I give out.

And that's all I have to say about that

http://rappersandanimals.com/

<3<3<3

Slinky

He likes playing checkers with Woody, usually choosing the red side. Slinky is shown to be the most loyal to Woody and stands up for him when Potato Head complains. Slinky is fascinated by Buzz, along with the rest of the toys, but does not make fun of Woody when Buzz arrives like the others do. When Woody knocks Buzz out of the window, Slinky is one of the few toys who believes it was an accident. Later, when Andy notices Woody is missing, he and Bo Peep are worried about him, in contrast to the others, who are glad he's gone. Later, he attempts to help when Woody throws a chain of Christmas lights from Sid's house to Andy's, but Potato Head stops him. Even Slinky, though, appears to give up on Woody when he pretends Buzz is with him but accidentally reveals his broken arm. He is stretched almost to the point of breaking when helping rescue Woody and Buzz on the moving truck, but is fixed by the end of the film.

At the beginning of Toy Story 2, Slinky is the one who finds Woody's hat, and joins Buzz, Hamm, Mr. Potato Head and Rex on a mission to rescue Woody from Al McWhiggin of Al's Toy Barn. His springy coil is used as a bungee cord when the toys jump from the roof of Andy's house. When the toys break into Al's apartment, Slinky uses his spring to hold Jessie and Bullseye back by coiling them up so the toys can safely rescue Woody. After Al packs up Woody and his Roundup gang and heads for the airport, Slinky, stretching down from the elevator ceiling by Buzz, Hamm and Potato Head, reaches for the case that contains Woody, and almost manages to save him, but is thwarted by the Prospector. He goes to the airport with the others and is able to rescue Woody, and returns home with the rest of the group. In an outtake, he is seen petting his own hind section and talking to it.

In Toy Story 3, Slinky has a smaller role compared to the previous two films[...]At Sunnyside Daycare, he is seen being tangled up constantly by the young children, and is easily dispatched by Lotso's gang and imprisoned. He is shown to be the happiest toy to see Woody return, and assists him in subduing the Monkey toy who monitors the security cameras. When the toys reach the dumpster, Slinky stretches himself to create a bridge for the toys to climb across to safety, although they are stopped by Lotso. When the toys end up at the dump, Slinky is the first to be taken up by a magnetic ceiling due to the metallic section of his body. When Lotso betrays the toys and leaves them to be burned up in the incinerator, Slinky is the first to follow Buzz in joining hands with his friends in acceptance of their fate.

I will take the ring,

though I do not know the way.

Annual Winter Quarter Beach Day

They give beauty new meaning

anhhhhle is Idle

A homosexual Mexican Buddhist hairdresser once told me that people become addicts when they are desperately trying to avoid something else. So here it is- that grey dot next to my name. I am addicted to doing nothing, in order to avoid everything. I don't want to feel anything. It's wrong. It's cruel. But I'm sure you'd tell me this post is that same shit, different smell, kinda thing. Because you know me so well, don't you? Indeed.

Paralysis

Everything in the universe seems to

point

to one thing.

Or is it just that I am in possession of the pointer?
Does it even matter?

Speechless

http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/525347/display/popup/sid/4f3d991f13478


I find myself clicking this link over and over. It's quite mind boggling.

Manual Reblog From J.Lin

The Circumstantial Break-Up

Say wonderful. Means something which inspires delight, pleasure, and admiration. Say wonderful because it fits, like compatible and forever night conversation — every cliché come to life.

Say perfect. Means euphoria can be casual, locked between fingers on errands and commutes, wrapped wide and warm while you slept. Say perfect because every part of you fell so easily into place, as if by design.

Say intimate. Means a language of glances. Codenames and inside jokes. You were a connoisseur of the rougher parts, the acquired tastes, those subtle hints which others failed to appreciate. You drank it up, all of it, and it stained your lips.

Say opportunity. Means the doors finally opened, like you knew they would, like you hoped they would, and you felt a reflexive joy at their success. Smiled with pride. Your own opportunity followed. They smiled with pride. Two goons smiling at each other — sprinting across shared furniture.

A job.

A school.

A relocation.

Say distance. New York and New Mexico. Miami and Minneapolis. Paris. Something far — the distance as manageable as the opportunity was deniable. The first of many long talks. You want the best for them. You want the best. This is best. Mature. Correct. No infidelity. No ill will. No problem but the distance. So an amiable break then. Victims of circumstance. But the better for it. Only the best. A Circumstantial Breakup. And hey, you know, maybe a few years down the road?

Say unlikely. Split items into boxes and move to a room devoid of color. Wonder what you’re doing there. Your decorations cover only half the walls. This is an opportunity. Make spaghetti. Realize they took the colander. Use a fork. Verb alone from now on. No.

Say denial. Call them to talk about your unshared day. Try to remember the names of faces you’ve never seen — the cast of characters in a narrative to which you no longer belong. Smile with your voice; be happy for their success. You don’t need a Word file to keep track of their new friends. You have stories. Today on the train there was this bird and, oh, you say, I guess I didn’t realize how late it was there. Time zones. Skype. Dead air. You don’t say regret. But neither do they.

Say months it’s been now, months you tell your friends, the new friends, the ones with names your Someone has trouble recalling on the every-so-often phone conversations. You flash your friends a picture of a Boston Terrier puppy you saw at the park. That Someone loved Boston Terriers. So you texted them the picture, and they didn’t respond, not until two days later, when they asked if you’d seen the Banksy documentary. Should I resend it? you ask, Cause I think their phone is pretty bad, so sometimes they don’t get my texts.

Say confusion when they stop calling. Send a text asking for their new address, though, and your phone rings almost immediately, the voice on the other end muted but alarmed. They say you’re not coming here are you? and you say I was just gonna mail a birthday present. You feel inexplicably guilty. Overwhelmingly guilty. Sickly. Strange. They say they’ll be out of town for their birthday, visiting the parents of a name you have in a Word file somewhere. Your gut retreats. You smile and hope it carries in your voice. Oh, cool. They acknowledge how great their new lover is, and ask — so casually — if there is anyone special in your life at the moment.

Say yes. They stained your lips.

Say regret and let the color drain. Bind yourself to misery with a string of joyless f-cks. Close your eyes. Pretend. Pantomime what worked before. Feel the weight of your failures — let them anchor you. Sink. Drink. Smoke blow kiss fight die a little over and over until you’ve died a lot. Discover that ‘emotionally vacant’ is a look someone, lower-case, finds attractive. Date them. Say wonderful. Say compatible. Say perfect. Say intimate. Mean it as hard as you can. Fail. Feel the weight. Hate their colander. Hate having to retell your stories, the forever redundant night conversation — every cliché come to life. Suffer through this person who loves you, this kind, giving person, perfect on the page, this beautiful outfit that won’t ever fit. Wonder: how hollow is your commitment when a single call could change everything? Love swings for the fences; it doesn’t wait like a minor league pitcher for a call from the majors.

Say sorry and go it alone. Write words like these only better. Listen to old songs. Wish they would’ve slept with your best friend or, or something, something which allowed you to hate them. They never gave you a reason to hate them. Would that all your future relationships could end in hate. Blinding, final hate — fiery like Cortez and his ships. Permanent. Something so explosive it propels you forward. Means it’s too painful to look back. Means you never relive the first date stop the vacations together come on the way they’d wake up ten minutes before your alarm to kiss you to consciousness just stop.

Say acceptance. This is the prize you earned for your maturity, for letting the logic of opportunity win out over emotion:

A relationship without the protracted descent into resentment. A friend. Sweet memories. Freedom in your twenty-somethings. Self-aggrandizing what-ifs. New lips, with their own stain. Awkward hugs. Facebooks you don’t check. A job. A school. A relocation. All your old tricks made new. Tension again — tension over comfort — you never knew how much you’d been missing it. Forever middle couch cushions. Bridging the distance. Walking the streets. Collapsing in bed. Hoarding the sheets. This was what you chose, remember? This was what you chose.

Say opportunity. 

 

-Jack Cazir

Reminiscing

One of the few good things about high school

Pineapples

Somehow I've become very cautious. When I put on a raincoat, I put on sunglasses too. Who knows when it will rain, or when it will turn out sunny?


2/26/12 1:48 AM
Something was different yesterday. Emotions, where is your magnanimity! When raincoat and sunglasses fail, I look for shelter. But a broken home with a perforated roof only makes it worse- falsely lending hope of relief. It's not getting better. I am ablaze and drenched all at once, but don't know if I can withstand them separately, as to feel one or the other in full magnitude.


He would never be the man who

Camille Anne

Walking into Mr. Hayne's terrible class was one of the best things I could have ever done. It brought me to this lady

"Please Help Me."

I don't think I've leveled up enough to be of any help, and I'm not exactly sure what you're talking about, but you always get me thinking..

Some see themselves as the Frodo. The Luke. The Bruce. Then there are those who see themselves as the Sauron. The Palpatine. The Joker. I used to think that every person was the hero of his or her own life. But every hero needs a villain, and every villain makes it possible for a hero to exist.

Ok, so A) I call myself a hero and believe that every outcome revolves around me, then proceed to touch and pleasure myself for being so awesome. But making someone else the villain would be like finishing the roll of toilet paper without changing it for the next person. It's lazy and irresponsible, and sometimes comes back to bite me in the butt (which I wouldn't even be able to wipe). Or B) I feel guilty about everything, call myself the villain, and curse the moment I became a zygote. But that would be as equally lazy and irresponsible as choice A.

It's not black and white. It's not even taupe and beige. Truth is, Harry the Hero and Voldemort the Villain are one and the same in this story that you and I are living- this story that we are creating for ourselves. If Marvel can keep milking the shit out of the udders of its original characters by creating "the end, lol just kidding" stories, you and I still have time to alter our endings. Keep writing, my dudes. Because trying to erase what has already been written in ink is a waste of synthetic rubber. Oh, and time.