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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.

The most logical thing I have ever said was You Are What You Think You Are. I wrote this in the mist of my shower this morning, and have been thinking about it ever since.
I am ugly because I declare I am ugly. No one else has a right to say this but me. So in order to change MY opinion about myself, I must change myself to like myself. Then I will be what I think I am, in a more positive way.

Anticipation is the worst feeling in the world, seconded only by laziness. I anticipate things and they don't happen, realistic or unrealistic my subconscious takes over and I think whatever the hell I want to think, going over the boundaries, over the likelihoods into a place that is not going to happen, and in the end, nothing happens.

I can see myself as an old woman looking back and cussing out all the anticipation I've ever let myself do, my monster of imagination terrorizing what I think, altering reality, twisting the truth until it fits my hypothesis. Until it fits what I want my life to be like. How childish to let myself think this way–how lazy of me. I'm too lazy to do many things, everything, and I sit in a puddle of will do later's and won't do's. I'm almost sure that these are ideas that I would do if it were not for my laziness.

But one thing is for sure; I cannot do this anymore, I cannot keep in touch because it is harder, I'd rather stick to the now instead of sticking to the yesterday thanks to laziness, laziness, laziness.

I will never do anything exactly the way I want to. Why? Because of the anticipation of doing something; and because of my lazy mind convincing myself not to do it. Frankly, I shall never get anywhere, but I anticipate different. I always always anticipate, and I will always let myself down.

Tomorrow will be busier than today, where I dreamt of finishing something important and dozing in the bathtub full of bubbles. I have not made a Santa Claus beard with bubbles since I was two, and here I found myself doing it. I went out shopping today and bought a shirt that I didn't like. I have the shopping anxieties where I absolutely insist on buying something, anything. It is white and ugly. I never wear anything white, because it is too innocent the fashion magazines tell me.

More than that, I am overloaded with homework and will have no personal life until tomorrow afternoon whereupon I'll have a lunch date with friends. I wish it could be considered an actual lunch date; a sophisticated thing with long wispy trails of cigarette smoke and the crossing of legs upon legs, the tapping of stiletto shoes in mixed company. And rum with soda, you must not forget rum with soda.

I've been thinking a lot about death lately. Could it be because my novel is simply about death? I am writing it for ideas for my own suicide? I have been dreaming excessively during the past few weeks, is that the sign of a creative writer, or is it the sign that I have not been talking very much and therefore I have need of having conversations with myself during my sleep. Either way, I don't like all this dreaming. Most of it is pretty spontaneity.

I had a dream of a little girl standing in my kitchen. She was barely four and had long dark hair in plaits, and had a little dress on. I helped her open a pickle jar, and that was when the dream faded away into the ugly black blue of two o'clock AM.

There are things called harbingers which I have started to believe in, foreshadowing in life–cracks in the curtain that show bits and scribbles of the future. I also have begun to believe that all things have meaning and are connected. If so, I must understand the significance of the pickle jar.

A green little man destroyed my day this morning. He lives in a tidy surly little bungalow with wide library windows facing my room. My life was filled with dreams and headaches this morning, my mind soaring with the events of yesterday night's sub conscious. He stood staring at me in my pajamas from his front door.

Why are you looking at me little man? He was still there when my bus came around and his face flicked by like a skipped channel.....what had he seen that was so shocking?

They asked me today what I represented, and I automatically thought about Green. He has metamorphosed from a color on a palette of spring pastels to a living breathing person, whom I dedicate many thoughts to.
He has been so nice to me lately, and sometimes I wonder if I am imagining it. Perhaps he is a bobblehead to me, a floating face whose mind and words I've only dreamt of. Or perhaps not, perhaps he is madly in love with me–that I doubt. Or maybe I am simply a symbol of the less fortunate to him and he therefore makes an effort. I would give anything to know what he is thinking every second of every day, every sweltering moment we stand facing together, eyes blazing.

To be fair, I don't like him too much and am very critical of him in a thousand ways. I never talk to him I've realized, so soaked in the spotlight of attention I'm not used to. I shied to the side and looked at him laugh. If only there was disappointment hidden in his words. If there was disappointment, I would care. But the aftermath is full of a combination of regret, and shock. I snap my fingers in regret, and promise that tomorrow I'll talk to him.

I shall take a rocket-ship to the moon, as well.

Snow–*

There is nothing more perfect than untouched snow. I laughed in it for half an hour before it melted...I drew pictures in the deck; snowflakes, lily flowers, and smiling faces. I am happier when perfection is all I must think about.

They denied Jack-Jack of a brain. They said she was ignorant and hidden and awkward. I feel protective over her, a small girl with a thrilling personality of grey. I have been to her house before. It's a depressing hell hole of a place, her room a scatter of things she wants to be. She wore her ponytail lower today, and spoke to me once only, something is wrong, I can tell.
I'm not sure if I'm supposed to feel grievance for others like that, especially as I am someone whom people look down upon. Is it insulting to be pitied?

Today was a day of peppermint aftertaste. That horrible green god was not here and so I sat bored for four classes without him, wondering if my new obsession with green was apparent. Only one thing consoles me; that is the simple longing for tomorrow.

I have also decided that I do not mind comments.

In my sleep I have no sense of sound. Every creak in the house goes unheard, every clap of thunder hidden in reality. I sleep in peace, and dream of a night where I am not afraid to put my hands to my ears in fright. I dream of a self conscious princess-like sleep, an adorable doze.

I feel guilty, a puppet with its strings cut. I have no balance anymore, and I am covered head to toe with anxiety. It strikes me that I might be clinically depressed. It scared me to think that the only thing coming to mind was Sylvia Plath. Her prominence in poetic society is dominated mostly by her suicide. The only other thing I thought of belonged to well crafted, well thought out envy.

Envious of a dead poet, imagine that. My subconscious must have had a field day.

The holiday anticipation is already washing off, I feel bored and dejected, unexcited for next year's Christmas. I fell asleep last night at 11:58, and I have a year to wait for another chance. Sadly.
New Year resolutions look more accomplishable and easy three days before you must begin them. So far today, I have done nothing on the list especially...though my mother is not any more angry than she was before.
The wind is ripping through the sky, and I pray that a tree branch will smash our house to pieces–so I may have another six hours of lazy holiday.