A Whole New World...

I have waded back into the waters of the academic world, and I have found it to be inviting, thus far. A new school, a new roommate, a new city. I'm doing my best to get out of my own head. I am much happier, much more free than I was only a few months ago. I am trying to maintain good habits. To make connections with others and better myself. Even so, I know I have not yet rid myself of my demons. I have learned to quiet them. To avoid disturbing their slumber. But that weakness that led me to fall the first time is still very much present. I'm not sure what to do about that.

And I find that, though I am in a healthier place, I am suddenly stuck with a desperation to connect with others. Suddenly I find myself leaping into any possible relationship I can conjure with a guy. My friends say I "just want to be loved," but I don't want to want that. It breeds weakness and dependence. It means I sacrifice what is genuine in me in a pitiful attempt to draw and keep the attention of another human being.

It's a sinister, recurring loop. I don't want to be interested in finding a partner, or someone to love, because I hate who I become. Caring about someone changes me. It makes me pitiful, vulnerable and stupid. Take, for example, my current person of interest. He lives in a different state, a different city, and basically ignores me. I'd be better off just moving on and ending all contact. But I saw something in him...

That's the thing. I always see something in the other person. I see the potential for greatness and I cling to that.

"We're not that close"

I've heard that so many times, it can't even make me sick anymore. 

I'm never close enough.

I don't know why I'm stupid enough to keep trying. To keep believing that "maybe this time" that line won't be drawn. I guess I'm figuring it out now. The line doesn't have to be drawn. It's a permanent fixture. Like a creature on display, I stare out at the souls that pass me by. 

Sometimes they simply glance in my direction. Sometimes they don't look at all. On occasion, they approach, put their hand up to the glass and gaze at me on the other side. And when I touch the other side, for an instant, we are connected. We share our amazement at that contact, a bridging of differences that makes us one...but only for a short while. I can only hold their interest for so long before they move on. Pulled by time, fate, friends...things more important. Things on their side of the glass. Sure, I stand as a witness to the lives of hundreds. I play shape-shifter. Turning into whatever my audience needs me to be. I am counselor, benefactor, magician, friend, but I'm never close enough. 

What is the secret, then? When do I qualify for the magic of being "that close"? Are we all just floating in some sort of relational ether that separates of from one another eternally, or is it as it seems, that I am the one that must be confined. For the good of humanity, I suppose, I must not be allowed to get "that close."

Why the heck does it matter, then? Who cares if I believe the worst of people? I've tried believing the best. Giving my all. I've tried kindness, the benefit of the doubt, being reliable, being honest, being open, being everything. And when I utter a wayward comment that reveals how much it hurts to be so alone...

"People aren't really that bad."

"You just have to believe in them."

"There will be someone out there for you to connect with."

This heart of mine can only bleed so much. 

Screw You

Screw you
Kiss me
I'm trying to forget you
but the thought of you just won't leave me
I'm better alone, please believe
I'm better alone, please believe
though my heart just won't let me leave

The silence burns
the distance stings
ghost of rejection just keep haunting me
I'm better than this
no need to just wait around
I've got my life to live
but it'd all stop if you'd just turn around

your voice is more than just a melody
it's the artful plucking of my heart strings
your face, it hides
in every shadow of my mind
so all I think
all I think
so that all I think
is that I wish you'd be mine

Screw you
Kiss me
I'm trying to forget you
but the thought of you just won't leave me
I'm better alone, please believe
I'm better alone, please believe
though my heart just won't let me leave

A Familiar Tree

When wandering in the forest, lost without any sense of direction, some marker, a tree, perhaps, may become familiar as you pass it again and again. Eventually, the tree isn't even necessary as the path beneath your weary feet becomes just as worn as your patience. The grass is ripped up and eventually all that can be seen is the dirt and muddy wreckage of what was once lush greenery. Only after hours of drudgery, hope risen and struck down time and again, and the mounting of fatigue until it became so great that even the greatest will could not serve to move your listless body. And when you finally collapse, you look up to realize...

I've been here before.

That's where I am in my life. I have gotten up time and again. I have battled through the incessant onslaught of my enemies and swallowed my cries inspired by so-called "friendly fire." I have given up and somehow found again the energy, the willingness, or even the desperation to continue. And now I'm laying here, my entire being begging for sweet dissociation from all sensations, and I'm looking up at the world and wondering why I should get up again.

In some way or another, I have frustrated, hurt, or disappointed so many of those that are supposed to be important to me. They want more, better, faster, stronger. All I want is peace. Silence. Perhaps even...well, that special sleep.

Who are you?

I wonder what brings people to this site. I surely don't have enough interested friends who would stop by, so I am assuming that my occasional visitors are brought here by accident.

Leave a comment.

I'd like to know what you were really looking for when you stumbled upon this place.

It's funny, because I told my aunt that I used this place as a dumping ground for my private thoughts. "Isn't that doing the opposite of what you want? I mean, everyone can see it." I chuckled. She clearly is not wise in the ways of the internet. There is a certain amount of anonymity that protects places such as these. The hovels that house the hearts of those who wish to hide from the world, from reality.

Complaining

I want to get out of here. I don’t mean out of college, out of Longview, or even out of Texas. I want to get out of me. I don’t want to be someone else either. I don’t want to be. For most, this sounds like some crazy admission of an inclination towards suicide. Granted, I never would have considered it if I hadn’t been thrown from one shrink to another, all completely insistent that my goal in life is to end it. If I wanted to kill myself, I would have. It vexes me that someone would think me so incompetent as to stage a suicide equipped only with a pair of dull scissors. If I really wanted to kill myself, I wouldn’t have given the box cutter away to my friend. I would have used it on myself. If I were so demented as to be unable to guess where it might be best to cut, I could always utilize the amazing wealth of knowledge present on the internet.

They want me to be suicidal, they want me to be okay, they want me to be happy, they want me to get help. They all want a lot of things, and all of them involve me taking pills, not being able to sleep, spending hours on a shrinks couch and even more staring into the dark, praying for unconsciousness.

They all ask that I come to them when I'm struggling or when I'm in a dark place. How do you call your mother and tell her that sliding a blade across your wrist seems like a great idea at the moment. You know, for the sake of discovery and exploration. How well do you think a father would take it to hear you say that if you didn't wake up the next morning, it wouldn't be much of a shame. And of course, if you tell your friends that to live to be old seems like a nightmare, they don't take it lightly.

Because I'm sick, right? That means everything I say needs to be put up under a microscope and dissected until we get to whatever inner meaning they've decided they want to find. Then I get another physical, another shrink, another pill, another month of being stared at like I'm going to take down the whole world with me.

Hah. My life is too dreary at the moment. It's just pitiful to sit in the dark and try not to cry, for fear someone will find you and ask what's wrong. Sucks, eh?

I should just stick to fiction.

Purple Silk

Purple silk. The woman wore purple silk like skin and wielded it like a weapon. Her hips swayed to a beat that entranced any who allowed themselves to be caught up in the movement. With arms held above her head, fluidly winding and twisting while occasionally falling to caress some body part, she danced. Thin strings of jewelry shrouded the woman like a spider's web, silver threads catching the avid watcher's eye. Here and there the tingling of a bell announced the twitch of a hip, the flick of a wrist, or the gentle lifting and dipping of a delicate ankle. She was exquisite.

The man before her, spellbound by the vision of perfectly proportioned beauty, was inclined to agree. His eyes held the beginnings of a lusty haze as he stared, voraciously devouring the visual feast laid out before him. His breathing was still slow and easy, though any sudden movement by the gyrating female would inspire a momentary hitch in his respiration. His expression was a blend of wolf-like hunger and devoted appreciation. Yes, he knew her. Quite well, in fact. Never in his wildest dreams would he have thought she could or would do what he was witnessing, but he certainly wasn't complaining about the change of heart. The woman bent backward, slowly tipping her head back to the ground while simultaneously revealing a beautiful strip of toned, caramel brown skin. If that wasn't enough to break his train of thought, the wink of amethyst in her belly button was. He shifted, just slightly, in his seat and continued to watch.

His eyes were not the only one to appraise the dancing woman. Another's eyes followed the trail of thin, gauzy fabric that fluttered in the air, following the wrist to which it was attached. With every gesture, the cloth swayed and dipped, graceful and mesmerizing in its own right. It made the girl feel even more sick. In another room, behind a thick, one sided mirror, the dancer's less perfect doppelganger withered in the shadows. That's right. The two women were one and the same, and yet completely different.

One danced and undulated with the practiced ease of an athlete, the other was slow and lumpy, confined to the thick chains embedded in the wall behind her. One commanded attention with every breath she took, the other was invisible to even the most astute observer, not that anyone wanted to look at her anyway. In vain, she had spent the last hour trying to push those thoughts from her mind, but every playful giggle and flirty touch the two people before her exchanged brought an acidic bile to the top of her throat and burned in the pit of her stomach.

He had been her friend. More than that, for he had long since gone above and beyond the call of duty for any mere friend. They had shared everything, or as close as two people could come to it, so when she awoke to see the imposter clinging to his arm it nearly broke her. Sure, confusion had come first. Why was she in this room, locked to a wall with chains so thick she had no hope of escape? Who was that woman? Why were they so close? It hadn't taken more than a minute to realize they were on a date, and not much longer than that to see that her friend was enjoying himself. She didn't mind that, but something was still wrong. It wasn't until she caught a snippet of the conversation that she realized who her friend believed the woman to be. From there, her insecurities had done their work thoroughly. Every doubt, every vice, every issue with self image she had ever had was pulled to the surface when faced with the harsh reality of the woman her friend deserved. A woman she could never be.

Turning her head to the side, she clenched her eyes shut, trying to ignore the scene before her. The woman had been taking small, but deliberate steps forward, inching closer and closer to her prey. The smaller the distance, the smoother and more sensuous her movement became. Her dance spoke for itself, and it spoke thunderously.

The man's eyes flickered, checking to see if he was reading the signals correctly. She seemed so completely different, so unhindered and completely out of character. Again, to say he detested the changes would be a straight lie, but sharp and completely unforeseen transformation did raise a few alarms. Gentle hands caressing his face, running through his hair, then sliding up and down the woman's side silenced the alarms promptly. His thoughts shattered and scattered throughout his brain and, with her so close now, he did not care enough to collect them.

That seething bile bubbled in her stomach again. A whole slew of feelings she knew far too well assaulted her on far greater levels. Some part was jealousy, and she knew it. She could never be so bold or so beautiful. She'd never have the courage, or the assets to pull off such a feat. This feeling...was quite like being kicked in the stomach, including the subsequent gasping for air and tearing in the eyes. A small voice, growing steadily louder whispered everything she'd ever hated about herself into her ear. Again and again, she was measured, the slim beauty as her ruler, and endlessly, she was found wanting.

Her breath quickened with the weight of her failures just as the proximity of the warm, voluptuous body quickened his. They were only inches apart, her hand had stilled at the back of his neck and her gyrating had slowed to a barely imperceptible movement centimeters away from his body. The girl in the room was only inches from unconsciousness. Her breaths were too short, too shallow, too useless to keep her awake.

Soft, thick, moist lips make contact with the man's just as the world went dark and the girl in chains hit the floor.

Can't Breathe

The woman gasped, her face scrunching in surprised confusion as her breathing slowly deteriorated.

"Exquisite, isn't it?" The voice preceded a slender man dressed comfortably in black slacks and a red turtleneck. He nonchalantly rolled up one sleeve, then the other, all the while ignoring her strangled breaths, before approaching the woman on the bed.

"No no. Please. Don't get up on my account." He lifted a booted foot, placed it gently on her side, then shoved her off the bed. She hit the floor before she could move to brace herself, eliciting a sharp, barking cough from her lungs. The woman attempted to stand and face the strange man and though her limbs were slow to respond, she managed to pull herself up with the help of the nearest chair.

"What do you want?" She rasped. The man was now sitting casually on the bed, one leg folded over the other, and focused on picking some dirt from beneath a nail.

"Don't worry about that, my dear. I shall have what I want in a few minutes time."

A buzzing began in her head, no doubt a result of her shallow breathing. Repeatedly she tried to fix it, but her lungs could not sustain the air and her condition only worsened. Attempting to get away, she stumbled past him and towards the door. Her progress halted when a fit of violent coughing brought her to the ground. Darkness tickled the edge of her vision and the first fingers of real fear began to clutch at her heart. What did he want? Why her? Trembling lips parted to form the beginning of a question, but a weak breath was all that escaped.

He threw an unaffected glance her way, then leaned back on the bed to wait for her to finish.

"Don't look at me like that. You know what you've done."

It was hard to think. Almost too hard for the words to slip through the cracks of her fractured mind and truly register. But his words found their target, and visions of her sins crowded her consciousness until she could maintain it no more.

A few more minutes passed and the man in red remained until silence had saturated the room once again. He stood, stretching his arms above his head, yawned, then wandered over to the body. He checked for any sign of life with efficiency borne of habit, then reached into his pocket to retrieve a slender, black phone.

"Hello. Yeah. Sanders. It's done. Good."

The click of the phone at the end of the call and a tired sigh were all that disturbed the room's atmosphere. The man stared absently at his watch for a moment, glanced at the dead woman once more and left.