Losing my bolts and screws.

I almost feel completely crazy.
Lately, sleeping has become a complete chore. During the day I feel half alive, sitting on edge of a shelf waiting for the slightest movement to break my glassy exterior.

Days are moving by without my recognition, it feels as if there are large gaps in between rather than taking notice of a progressive aging. Sometimes I want to stay exactly where I am in order to grow and other times I want to rip my tiny roots from the ground and change location to a climate that I may not be very well acclimated to.

Things are starting to feel empty, motionless, lacking color. I need something to ignite me again. I need my flame. I'm crossing my fingers, squeezing my eyes tightly shut.

There are wizards of the world.
Show me, I'm thirsty for some mystic.

Good Morning.

It's a crisp early morning.
I have this heavy feeling in my heart. Hopefully it's not the likes of a heart attack. There is something about today that I'm beginning to become very fond of. Actually it is a feeling that I've been developing since I've been forcing myself to wake up early. Waking up before the sun rises almost makes me feel as I am the only person to witness such a miraculous beginning of day, and I sit pleasantly as I drive home while watching the sun set. Each day that I am privileged to witness another day come and go, and what strikes me as much more miraculous, is my ability to witness more to come. It feels me with excitement and rejoice. It is a strange feeling, a mixture of things, because as I watch the sun, I have this sense of being alone along with a union with many living things. One foot in the door, and the other out. Surprisingly, I find that very pleasing, being stuck in between. I'm tired of seeing black and white, all or nothing, or variations of gray. I want them all, and I would just like to bask in them all. That's it isn't it? Basking in the beauty of choice, in the beauty of life?

Be happy, after all, it isn't as far away as you might believe.

This ship has sunk!

That is not the truth, this ship is afloat and abroad, while heading for the sunrise.

I had told Chris while I was in some sort of panicking breakdown of uncertainty:
"I feel as if I am the captain of a ship, the ship being my body, my heart, my soul, everything of me. I am the captain and my crewmen are running about the ship, functioning the ship in a busily manner while ignoring my presence. I am the captain and I don't know what's going on, my crewmen aren't listening to me, it's my ship, it's my ship! I DON'T KNOW HOW TO CONTROL MY SHIP!" I broke down and started crying and even my own tears felt foreign to me.

There must be a God, there has to be. It wasn't until tonight that I was absolutely certain of this. I can't say whether or not this God is Jesus, or Jehovah, or Allah, or Buddha, or whoever any individual may choose. But he exists, and he is there watching us. Watching the cards become dealt, watching our actions and our hearts, and observing our intentions. I've always been concerned with what is ultimately GOOD vs. what is ultimately BAD. I've taken it to levels where I would attempt to justify what could have been deemed as "bad" acts and tried to see the "good" side of it. I realize now that this should not be my ultimate concern. There is only the truth vs. the untruth, the false, the non-existent. Surprisingly in this world...There is only Truth, with a capital T.

The truth is, people are beautiful, although beauty may be subjective, it is true that one may find one thing beautiful that another may not. The truth is, we always have that decision to decide. Our hearts do, our minds do. We can shun people away, dwell on people that interfere with our lives or made the choice to negatively intervene. Their actions we cannot change, but the Truth is, that we can change ours. I have been dealt such a lovely hand.

I consistently say "dealt" as in there were no things in my control. Some things, there are, and some things I did not have the control over. My mother for instance, I don't know how I was given such a beautiful woman to care and nurture me. My family, whether it be my absent father, or my adorning aunt that lives 500 miles away from me that I miss daily. I can't even fathom WHY I have the hand that I was dealt in that matter. I can however, never take this hand for granted. Truth is not subjective, I always thought it was. I never understood that Platonic "Form" Plato was talking about, and now I do, in a non-understandable way, haha, if that makes any sense.

People are beautiful and inexplicable, and in the presence of those that are not, beautiful people emerge, and why? Well...then there's God. The Truth is, sometimes faith is the only thing that can put your mind at rest when there are only untamed molecules flying about with information on what, when, where, and how. The question Why will always remain left as a choice, your acceptance, and my acceptance.

I am my ship. I am alive and abroad. I am my captain, and this is my ship, watch as I set sail among the sea.

The New Edward Cullen?

VS.



Kudos, to CW casting a guy that doesn't look like Edward Cullen AT ALL, right? PFT.

Ah, why do I allow myself to indulge in these guilty pleasures?
I should probably ask two questions before I go into the initial question.
1) Why is are these feisty, passionate creatures of the dark so pleasurable?
2) Why is such a pleasure that others expose very, and often publicly such a shame to me?

It's simple.

SEX

Even though in Twilight it is clear that Edward cannot indulge himself with physical activities due to his uncontrollable desire to ahem...[bite her], it is obvious that Bella herself definitely wants to jump his bones. Likewise goes with Stefan, in the most recent television show, Vampire Diaries. Why is this even attractive? Are all these sexual innuendo's really what get us going, or do we really find pale, anorexic, European folk drop dead gorgeous? I don't know, it could be both for all I care. I mean, if you replaced the words "suck your blood" with "plow you" you'd basically be watching a soft porn. So is this it? Do we enjoy the evasion of not naming things? The slight hint of an act that comes across almost everyone's mind but goes without being said? Just say it already! Hat's off to you Stephanie Meyer for selling sex to tweens in some sort of weird and twisted psychological way. The media really had a field day with this one.

As to my question, why am I guilty? I'm only human.

Dave, come to save.

I've been watching/listening to the following song religiously:


My spirit feels broken and wilted.
Dave Matthews, for some reason has been strumming my heartstrings steadily, although this particular song isn't the most suitable for "romance."

My thought process has been all jacked up lately as well. So there it is folks, jacked up thought process, inconsistent sleeping patterns and a broken spirit. Does that chalk up to be my diagnosis? What kind of treatment do I need?

I keep telling myself vacation.

I know that's not the solution, or else I'll spend the rest of my life on vacation and hardly alive in the real world. I haven't touched the fabric since that night that I stayed awake thinking of my grandmother. School has been on my bad side. I just want to sit on my bed and play the same song over again. My progression on the guitar is encouraging, I really started off terribly. I don't know whether or not Chris is bullshitting me with his compliments, afterall he IS my boyfriend.

Things I would actually want to do right now:
Read the rest of my leisurely books
Steal the oxygen from a tree
Plant a tree and pursue gardening
Fix my goddamn sewing machine
Pick up some new chords and learn a new song other than Disarm and The Scientist

Jesus, Chris Martin is the most symmetrically unfortunate in bone structure, but he sure can woo the hell out of women across the country. I'd melt every time he hammered away on that piano of his. People in all nations are probably playing this song while wallowing or dwelling in their own love. I really want to travel to Iceland and roll down a hill like a child. I'm pretty lucky you know? I'm not trying to come off pretentious or anything of that sort. It's just that I forget it myself most of the time... Wow, you really do need a daily dose of reminders to keep the soul alive. Haha, ah the venting of blogging and it's therapeutic tendencies.

It's 9:01am, the day has just begun.

Re-Joyce.

I have especially been missing my grandmother more than usual lately. I had stayed up until 2am this morning drawing and designing these dresses that I never gathered the courage to put to paper. I really didn't feel like doing it until I thought of my Granny, which I decidedly named the collection of dresses Shirley Joy. I thought of her because somehow I had forgotten how encouragable she was. If you wanted to be a playwright she would demand that you write her a play. If you said you wanted to be an actress she would demand that your playwright cousins cast you as the lead role and perform the play in the living room. If you wanted to be a notable high-end fahsion designer she would drag you along with her to Jo-Anns and have you select fabric. If you absolutely loved singing, she would sit down in her rocking chair crocheting, listening to your barely tolerable high pitched mouse voice sing "The Colors of the Wind" for the 50th time.

All those things were initially what I had passionately enjoyed doing with my time, and it pains me to no longer see myself pursuing any of the above. So I got out of bed, whipped open my sketchbook that I haven't touched in months and scribbled away. When my grandmother had died I had mentioned something about her being a happy and peaceful woman. Now that I think of it; I chose those words for lack of a better word. My grandmother was brave. She was brave because she had every reason to sit in her room and cry from day to day. She had every reason to see the glass half empty and throw it straight out the window. She was brave because stood above complete solitude and sulking in self pity and she sprung back almost every time. I sat there drawing while holding that strange feeling in my throat when I'm about to cry, and wished that I could rise above my pessimism. Emiliana Torrini was right. It takes a lot of courage to be happy, and definitely a lot of heart. I don't want to spend anymore time philosophisizing about why I'm not doing anything. I just want to damn well do it, and do it well.

Thank you Granny.

Tick Tock, goes the Clock.

Those two words always bring back a fond memory from the 9th grade when I decidedly joined my high school's debate team with aspirations to readily sculpt a career in law. I ended up far from pursuing any career along the lines. That story we can save for another night.

Sirena and I, who was my "debate buddy" stuck by me throughout a tournament that we had at Schurr High School in Montebello. As fourteen year old girls we ran around the high school not caring about debates or the subject matters, but took interest in the competitors and whether or not they were attractive at all. Considering it was debate team, it was a rare occasion that we found anyone the slightest bit decent. In hindsight I shudder at my own superficial and shallow habits as a teenager. In disappointment we stocked up on loads of junk food from the school's vending machines and made way to one of the rooms in which debate team members perform a specific event. The particular room we chose consisted of basic monologues and speeches, possibly poems performed by enthusiastic writers (we had no clue, or maybe it was just me.) We sat down in some empty desks that were available in the front and watched as a short Hispanic boy straighted himself in the center of the classroom.

Sisss. The room was silent and anticipating his performance, and in that silence Sirena had freshly opened a bottle of Pepsi and took a swig of the drink. "Tick tock goes the Clock" said the short Hispanic boy, as he rocked himself back and forth. At that very moment Sirena had almost choked on her soda and we had both started laughing hysterically. The embarassed looked on the boy's face was visible to the audience and he paused for a moment and proceeded with his speech. I can't really pin why exactly that very phrase had Sirena and I clenching our stomaches in that classroom. Maybe it had to do with the awkwardness of the short Hispanic boy as he rocked himself saying the words "Tick Tock" simultaneously. Or it could have had something to do with the thought of Gwen Stefani's new song that introduced with the words "Tick Tock" with Harujuku Lovers along with the thought that the Hispanic boy oddly resembled them and could have possibly been a fantastic candidate for a dancer in the video. I really don't know what exactly brought us to such outrageous laughter, but I do vividly remember the look on that boy's face as he gathered his courage back together and cleared his throat to utter the next words repeatedly "Tick Tick goes the Clock..."

I feel as if I'm running out of time.