I think I complain too much. I ask for too much. I expect too much. I live so well and then feel unfortunate and sorry for myself when there's nothing wrong today. I feel like a rich kid. ToK made me feel like all the stuff I've ever done to help people is out of self-interest and I've never felt so cruel and heartless before.

I feel like a total identity-less bitch who lives in between worlds and in between lives and wants to be something else. I don't know.

I think this is going to be part of a play, or something. I wrote it at camp. What do (hypothetically plural) you think?

"I want to stop seeing this, more and more and more. People who look fine on the outside, but then something slips and you can see everything that’s wrong clearly carved into them. Carved into me, too. I wonder if I always looked as bubbly as they do. A bleeding bubble. Fine now, but with reminders to hide and sleeves to wear just in case what I see is the same as what they see, just in case it somehow is visible to them, even though everybody says it isn’t.

I try not to keep secrets, but as I drink up more and more of what I see around me, the long-sleeved shirts in the closet become less and less a symbol and more and more a reality.

I want to forget that these beings surrounding by skin are people, and that they feel things too. Maybe then I could forget that this is their reality, forget that what I saw when they move is really there, and not something figmented by my own sick imagination. I want to pretend that maybe, just maybe, none of this is true.

I want filtered vision, so I could see what’s there, but not the meaning lurking behind it. I want my ignorance back. I want to numb my “hey, that used to be me” nerve."

I don’t remember dreams, only nightmares. I don’t remember the nightmares that are invented by my mind, only the ones that are real.

In the morning, I can talk about my dreams. But then the coffee flushes the night away from my mind, and all I know is that my dream was confusing. A couple of years ago I dreamed that the Pope turned into a teddy bear. I forgot to have coffee that day, and I wrote the dream down.

It’s a shame that my coffee replaces my dreams.

The Ocean in my Mind

I just got back from camp. I wrote this on August 9th. It's a bit different than everything else on here. But that's good, right? It means I think about other things.
*******

75% of the world is water. 75% of my brain is water. I can therefore safely conclude that the world and my brain are one and the same. My brain has many parts. Some are packed tight with ideas. These ideas come in many colours, shapes, and sizes. The ideas have ideas of their own, and form powerful thoughts when I listen to them. Other parts are oceans. On the surface, they are vast areas of emptiness where I can’t push my thoughts above a crashing wave. But underneath, the holes in my brain are teeming with thoughts, colours, energy, and excitement. Trouble is, these ocean-holes are the best parts of my brain, but my own personal aquatic life needs air to breathe but can’t crawl up on land. All the colour fades away and dies. 75% of the earth and 75% of my brain is essential and beautiful, powerful and large, and never does what it’s supposed to do.

The world disgusts me.

A group of men in Cambodia wanted money. They stormed an international pre-school and held a group of kids hostage. A two-year-old boy from Victoria was shot in the head because he wouldn't stop crying.

A two-year-old child is dead because of some idiots who wanted money. Money is material, and useless in the long run. A child is priceless.

I can't imagine what those parents are going through now.

Day One, Second Period

So, I told my class, via an essay. Here's what I wrote. A poem I wrote, rather. The essay is too much for today.

******************

Everybody knows now.

Come into class, see almost 20 pairs of eyes

Look away, because

They don’t know what to say now.

My class is like pinhole-camera paper.

All clear and pristine

In one collective cardboard box

And then if somebody pokes a hole

It changes their reality

And if you develop them

There’s nothing there

Because knowledge wipes away

Everything that they know.

People who don’t know

What to say

Wash around me in the halls

Like a confused ocean

On Saturn

With a few too many moons.

Eye contact is ok.

Eye contact is ok.

Eye contact is ok.

I keep secrets far too long

So now please don’t avert me.

This is what I've done in writer's club lately!

Knock on the Table
February 24th, 2005

I have a soul-swept body
That wants to take things for granted
But can’t.
There’s always a rock in my shoe
And a bee in my ear
And a backpack pulling the pain
That screams down my neck.
I wish that a painless day
Was something I could take for granted.

When I’m not hurting myself
Somebody’s hurting me
And when it’s all finally gone away
There’s something still hurting.
I want to fly again
Without my arms getting sore.

You can’t knock wood to change the past
Assume the unassumable.
What if this was my circumstance?

I want my body to be mine again
Not yanked and tugged
By memories of a heartless devil
Or by people who help
By pulling and pulling
Until I’m stretched thin
And there’s nothing left to pull.

I wish there was a theft protection program
For my virginity:
Pay ten dollars each month
And if somebody steals it
A company in Never-Never land
Will get it back
No memories attached.

Knock on the table
But the past’s still the past,
Engrained deep into the wood.
Knock, knock, knock.
***


Virginity Freefall
February 10th, 2005

Jump face-first into a vacuum
Of a virginity freefall
So maybe you won’t remember
Where you could have spun after all.

If you had a smooth, unshattered
Memory of how it begun
Would it matter where the slide slid
Or how your trust was snatched or won?

But just a little pale-faced girl
Is staring backward at the world
She leaped, declawed, into the void
And swings there, tied, her body curled.

Gravity works in negative,
The “normal” desires pushed away
And she hangs there, naked, dangling.
***

Malleable
February 10th, 2005

It’s much more than nature – not malleable.
I’m not just hiding from the real world.
It’s not the prelude to falling in love.
Puzzle over my possibility – it’s not malleable.
The birds and the bees are myopic to a fault
And frozen fingers that are no longer mine
Resembled an apparition.
Coming out of its small closet, hiding from the real world,
And if I don’t see it as a problem,
Why do you?
That’s a bit of a sticky question.
It’s a permanent state:
Just sleep when you’re hungry
Eat when you’re tired
And be malleable.
The darkness, smoke, and cold had conspired
To form an ashen form.
It’s not malleable.
I lingered a little, halfway hiding from the world.
Am I radical, out there, over-the-top?
More people are choosing to just say no:
You don’t have to have sex to be human.
I’m not malleable.
***


A Mad Girl’s Midnight Ponderings
January 31st, 2005

I kick the world; it shatters in a dream.
I wonder what I could have broke instead.
(I wish I’d made this up inside my head).

I am a party in your glass of wine,
A hint of high and sleeping powers too.
I breathe the stains that torture you in bed.
(I wish I’d made this up inside my head).

There is a grain that fades to crystal clear.
I watch a woman dancing, all in red.
(I wish I’d made this up inside my head).

A little bird is climbing up the wall
And when he flies, his wings will be my hell.
My kettle boils, bubbling with dread.
(I wish I’d made this up inside my head).

(Inspired by “A Mad Girl’s Love Song” by Sylvia Plath)
***

I Do Not Understand
January 27th, 2005

Sand, slipping through my fingers
Mirrors tears that run down my face.
I do not understand.
A fire flicked your smile off
Burnt it into ashes and charcoal
Swirling down the drain.
I do not understand.
I’ve never seen you cry before;
I can strain my memory, but not remember
Ever seeing you cry.
I do not understand
This sudden explosion
Shrapnel whistling to the ground.
I’m shivering.
Somewhere out in this cold night
Something has changed
And I do not understand.