Do I sing? God, no.
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Do I dance? Somewhat, yes. I love dancing. I love music. Never can stop. Never.Do I read? Hell, yes.Do I write? I used to write well, but the need, the effect, the ebb has left my mind's sanctuary for so long. My diary is alien to me. Most words from my blog break water beside shell scripts on numbered lines in a technical word editor.I have spent the last couple on months just being. Surviving. Milestones have been reached for sure. New job (old workplace), new apartment, new love and hopefully by my next birthday, a new car. Time as usual has sprung its spring cleaning on me out of season - old friends walked out, some stepped out never to return, others I found were sitting in my living room all along. Its been rough. Unfortunately I suspect I have become a little more materialistic. I've felt myself grow older from within, but thankfully free-er in thought, a trade off I can certainly live with. Gone are the rules that subconsciously led me through guilt. The litmus test will me old friends seeing me after a year in December when I go home. Its a trip that will refocus my life somehow. I know it.
Stolen moments by the river
12:14 PM
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Quietly sitting by the river, she wondered if she should go over to his place. What was the point? Another few months, then back again. Meaningless. This was not how she was supposed to feel. She was 30, God damn it. She was supposed to feel alive. She had enough money to do all the things she wanted to when she was 20. Too see the world, to bungee jump in New Zealand, wine taste in Napa. Alternating between insecurity and over-confidence since she left college, she knew she had had a life to be proud of. She had achieved so much. But those dreams that she fought were, where were they? The money had meant nothing - yet she had taken up law purely for the money. Her one true love was dancing, but that, even she, especially she, knew was impractical to pursue. So she was content with advance classes, the occasional non-professional Dance Festival win. Moonlighting her true dreams, knowing that most creativity never did become a day job. Darren had called her cynical. He would get frustrated when she would vent about how much she hated the politics of law, yet she would continue to play her part - being the cold, icy civil real estate champion of the Chicago courtroom. steadily moving up, yet crying herself to sleep so many times. He didn't understand. She wasn't cynical, merely had this shadow of morose realism that told her the world didn't work that that. You couldn't expect to achieve doing what you wanted. That sense of grounded shadows had been part of her since childhood. It made her oddly quiet, intimidatingly mature for her age, even as a little girl. Why didn't she simply give it all up, he would ask her? After Sara was born, she wanted to. She thought maybe she had let the facade go on too long. she could never admit she didn't want the child. Still, 2 years later, when Sara died, it left her grieving and guilty. Did she will God into taking away what she didn't feel belonged to her world?Now with the charcoal blazer that blurred her Latino figure thrown to the grass beside her, her soft lilac work shirt hugging her figure, and her body slumped over her knees, chin betwen knees, she aimlessly watched a kingfisher swoop down and pluck a tiny fish out of the water. She sighed. Dear God. She was so..bored. What was wrong with her? She had no ambition. The last time she felt alive was when....when?A young boy zoomed by on the bridge above on a bicycle, non-chalant hair refusing to stay where it should. She could hear the music from his player, "..When everything feels like the movies, Yeah you bleed just to know you're alive..."Pop culture trying to tell her it would all be alright. Music. Music could still make her feel alive. Always had. She breathed in deep. She could taste the acrid pungent humid smell of perennially wet dark soil mixed with the fresh lush grass. She ran her fingers through her hair just rough enough to feel it on her scalp, closing her eyes and breathing out. The sun had almost set. She looked at her watch. Enough play. Time to go home. With a purposeful gesture, she lifted her coat and straightened her skirt, walked back to the car and started the engine.Time to go home.
Happyness
12:10 PMBefore someone thinks I'm going into depression, these are words written over 6 months at various points. I am sane and healthy, please don't ask 911 to track my IP address yet.
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Spare moments are hard to come byYou eclipse my life so completelyI don't feel alone even when I amI'm so sick of my own thoughtsLosing my centreUnable to sleep, too wired upI can't seem to get away from myselfI can't seem to really like myselfI can't seem to separate my sense of selfFrom youFrom my lifeFrom all the people in itFrom all these expectationsAnd all these restrictionsFrom the people in the pastGod knows its self imposedLiving the dream?Sure doesn't feel like itSometimes when I feel happyI wonder if this is what happy felt likeBecause I forget who I used to beAnd how happy used to feel back thenThey tell me im a different girlQuieter, wiser, with a sadness in her eyesThey tell me melancholy runs through my veins nowYet i could never be sad around you.I forget what I was likeMaybe I never knew myself at allJust reflections of how people saw meIs that why the mirror you hold scares me?Time is not linear to meIt feels like I've filled a lifetime in a yearLike I'll never have enough to do it allAnd then the emptier daysWhen it feels like I'm wasting my lifeAnd all the things I could never processUnravels in my head with mind numbing speedI'm driving down the roadJust beginning to make sense of it allTime races ahead of meShe turns around and laughs at meFree, resplendent, God how I wish I could be that free.
Haunted Roads
11:58 AM
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ive walked these streets so many timeshere, by this vending machine, i sheltered myself in a stormrusted its walls with my tears, begged you to hold onthere, the exact spot on the carpetingwhere i called you to tell you it was overwho really knows who is meant to be togetherwho knows what was meant to beim sure we would still break it anyhowi walked home on this one with a dear friend every weekday for four yearslaughing and giggling our schoolgirl jokesshe is far from me now, a sadder girlbut i remember the light of youth in her eyesand the joy of innocence in her laughi ran on that one the day we fought mumdo you remember when i bought you roses?thinking that like the children's classic on my bedsideall would be forgiven with carnations wrapped in tapethese streets they've witnessed so many livesso many phone conversations and grocery store tripsso much love an hate and living and dyingenmeshed in the tar and the fading white linesi walk away from this house, worse for the wearall i know is i dont have peaceand its not you i missits how innocent i was about lovehow easily i could give in without regreti promised myself regret would never be part of meyet here it is, againthreatening my dry eyes with every songthreatening every part of my present and futurei will never be the sameeveryone who has touched me has changed mewould i go so far as you didi know i never loved you less it was just time, honeyit was time
Back from the dead
11:56 AMI got told last night - for the third time in a month - that I really need to update my blog. So first let me publish all the bits and pieces lying around .txt's labelled unfinished1, unfinished2, vague5 you get the idea. And then, some news.
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