I don't know what I'm going to do about this blog. Blog, it sounds so crude, so empty....I really don't know. It feels like my heart in here, my mind, rambling off things that don't matter, or shouldn't matter. Things that pop into my head and out of it–no one takes me seriously after all, as they do not any girl my age.
I don't know what I expected with this place. Perhaps I dreamt up that a publisher would suddenly push adoration on me and I would become a star. Or perhaps I thought that I would be consoled by a sea of fans, a sea of listeners, watching every step I take. Every dream that I have dreamed has come alive on this blog. Those of love, hate, embarrassment. Every unoriginal thought has danced for me, and I have now seen the patheticness of my efforts.
I now see that this is going nowhere, and was never going to go anywhere in the first place. The sick and shitty thing about life is that you never know what is going to benefit you and what is not. It seemed like a fresh start with this blog, a revolution for me, something that I would keep and love and adore. Something I could care for, and a sanctuary for those who would care for me. But where are the fans? Where are the publishers? Where are the handsome boys who race up to me and confess their undying love?
Let's face it. All these wishes, all these things, are part of the racing of my mind, the beating of my soul, attached in a world of both imagination and the dreadful fantasized evils I will never reach and therefore are declared as so. I have risked both heart, soul, and identity in this blog and now it is all over. I haved imagined and wondered and smiled. I have laughed and cried and pitied. I was dancing over this blog. I was dancing with the most beautiful person in the world,and now–now the music has taken pause, and realization floods my face, the spotlight is gone, the dress, the shoes, the feel of his hands around my neck and now!

I am crying in an empty room.

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It's all my fault after all.

I feel so alone in this world of mine, with no one to talk to, no one to point fingers at. Everything is so cold and horrible, and I refuse to make decisions for myself.
Someone once told me that when you're feeling pretty fucking shitty, that's the time that change is necessary to survive. Well my house is my prision and I stay behind locked doors, unable to scream–I'm lost in an empty world.
I have found that most people resort to killing themselves. Those pills sit on the medicine shelf, but I don't think I'm ready yet.
I don't want to do anything right now. I just want to be swept away.

Accomplishment is a very good feeling. So is imaginative thoughts that involve me and a special green eyed someone. I am a novelist now. The word sounds so important. I guess its just an excuse for my absense.
My blog is not so dear to me as it was before.

A letter to Time

Time

I've always known about your existence, but I've never thought that I'd have to feel your wrath. Do you remember my childhood? In the fun little days of Jack and Jane I took all things in and filed them in the fact folder of my head, and now you've destroyed them. You probably owe me some kind of apology?
But that's all right. I know who you are, what you are, and your whole business, anhow science has proved that we can't escape you. There's a reason for you after all, because I guess it wouldn't be any fun if everything stayed the same? But why do you have to hit like a storm? So fast and lurid and abrupt, so we must grieve and fight and moan? Why do you make the taste of sour milk linger in our mouths longer than the sweetness of better foods? I don't understand your philosophy Time, and I know you're experienced but as an adolescent I do have the right to question you?
A little warning next time would be lovely. If you had told me when you were going to trip my feet, and make me fall to the rocky bottom of the pond, that would have been a lot better. But I guess that would be contridicting myself though, as a few days ago I said that anticipation was the worst thing out of all things?

Well Time, I am confused about you, but excited to see what you have in store for me. I know that you are inevitable, Time–but I'm frightened of you, I really am. I'm sensitive, and I'd like you to play a softer tune next time.

The day I decide to get organized and say "hello" to everyone, I find that everyone has changed dramatically. The people whose memories I've shared for almost eternity have developed emotions and experiences and so on that are so baffling I cannot even contain myself– and I scream because I simply can't handle the fact that the wheels are turning faster than I can run to catch up with them.

For some reason, I forget that life still goes on when I am not there. And now my child hood memories have been destroyed because the things I've always thought "were" and "would be permenantly" have drifted away from each other due to the knife of stifling change. I know that death is unavoidable. But who knew I would actually have to feel the sting?

This afternoon I understood the meaning of the pickle jar (see several posts downward). The girl represented an innocent self identity, and the pickle jar symbolized my inner being?
English is really on my nerves at the moment–and now my dreams are becoming analyzed like corpses.
Today I faced the guilt of destroying my own things. Is it wrong to leave your shoes out in the rain purposely to get them ruined? Africa strikes terror in my heart, but I am only fifteen, and what do I know?
Fifty years from now the world's problems will be solved, anyway.