Lost

I turn the music off and all I'm left with is to pick up my personal pieces

Bear with me (or don't, it is entirely up to you to leave, I will not make you stay, I will never make you stay)- I'm here because this is one of those times when I need a blank space, and my diary is too full of thoughts and emotions to offer me that, and because I want to think about how I am feeling, and not why, and this is where I turn to for that. I haven't written in a while, and I'm rusty, and I suppose this is what it feels like to climb onto a bike after you haven't ridden in a while- not that I would know, I never learned to ride without my training wheels. (Maybe that's why I'm so cautious and concerned about dealing with adult life- I never even mastered how to deal with childhood, and my foundations are shakier than most.) Except perhaps it is more like getting on a bicycle after years of not riding, but when drunk- because not only must I learn to ride again, but I must also, simultaneously, marshal my thoughts into some semblance of coherence. 

So open your eyes and see how our horizons meet

Can you tell I'm playing all my Ed Sheeran songs? He still gets to me, and I hope he always will, will always be able to wash me away with his voice and his words. I will never be able to write like that, but as long as someone can, I suppose I don't really need to. 

Where was I? Oh yes. Blank space- an empty page. I'm not sad/depressed and frustrated this time, like I was the last time I decided to use this blog for myself, wholly and unabashedly, without censorship or self-restraint- or at least, that isn't all I'm feeling- it is not that simple this time, the process of characterizing my thoughts and feelings. I suppose I'm lonely, and in need of a good laugh- I suppose I'm in need of a conversation, an actual, real-life conversation, which does not revolve solely around someone/me telling me/someone else what to do. I suppose I'm in need of a life.

We'd go anywhere our minds would take us

As I was saying, before I was distracted by the newspaper ("Once upon a time, there was a home." I wonder if real estate advertisers realize the impact their words might have on one sad girl sitting in a white and beige room, with clothes strewn around and books neatly piled, a girl with a propensity for embracing everything into the interpretation of her experiences? For that matter, I wonder if most of us realize what impact our words might have. Are we too self-absorbed, or do we just not give ourselves so much importance in other people's lives?), and the need to clean my room (put my shoes in a line of neat, orderly pairs, because you know which shoes belong with each other even if you don't with people), and the fact that it is too warm without a fan (suffocating- pressed down- smothered- but there is nothing holding me here, there is nothing but myself keeping me from walking into the fresh air and clean sunshine, or at least switching on the fan and drawing a blanket about myself, but then again, I'm quite the force, no mean feat to contend with) and too cold with it, as I was saying, my thoughts are a meandering mess right now, at least as entangled as my first attempt at weaving would be. 

I tried to carry the weight of the world, but I only have two hands 

I think this is, at least in part, brought on by that god-awful (beautiful, evocative, heart-wrenching) book the Marshmallow decided would be a good idea to present me with (I cannot tell you how grateful I am for it- I hate you). I think it is, in part, brought on by the fact that I was silly and careless, and that I forgot something I shouldn't have- that I am not, it may come as a surprise to learn, a perfectly functioning human. In part, it is brought on by the fact that we are not talking. In part, it is because I only have two hands. It is because I am terrified, walking the streets alone, my heart thudding at all the threats walking around. Because I use too many commas and spend too much money and eat too much junk and drink too much coffee (a recent addition, this one) and feel too irrationally. It is because I have too much time on my hands and too many thoughts in my mind, and feelings which refuse to form themselves into manageable words.  

It is because I am young, and lost, and I cannot see the road ahead, or recognize the road I'm on right now, for that matter, and because the only necklace I want to buy has pendants of an arrow and crossroads, because even my accessories must reflect, must scream quietly, elegantly, how very lost I am. 

Should this be the last thing I see, I want you to know it's enough for me

I wonder what I'll feel that way about, and when. I have before, I have been lucky enough to have had moments where I was ready to die, such was my contentment. 

(August 20th, in an auto by Infinitea, I see you sitting in the window and it is enough. I do not even need to go inside. You are enough. Waking up to open the door as you step into our room with a suitcase and a careworn smile, here at last, it is enough. Two years ago- stepping drained and battle-worn into my mother's rejuvenating arms, her life-giving smile, home, it is enough.  Your small projectile self barreling into my arms as I surprise you with my presence, it is more than I could have imagined. Collapsing on a white bed with wheels in a room where the AC does not work, your head in my lap, and you sitting behind me with your head on my shoulder- it is enough. Under a tree, my head on your shoulder, it was enough.)

What will be enough for me?

Maybe it's all part of a plan

This is my favourite Ed song- in the way that Ode to a Nightingale is my favourite poem, because it touches a place in my soul other poems and songs don't, even if my mind recognizes that they are just as lovely, even if they sway my heart just as much- and I am going to choose to stop with this one, even though there were songs and accompanying thoughts I didn't quote and write about ("It's all right to die, cause death's the only thing you haven't tried."- so melodramatic, and of course I love it.) I'm going to choose to stop because I'm okay now, my thoughts have hushed and settled down for a nap, the buzzing and the noise has quietened to listen to the songs and music, because I have comforted myself, and my hands are free again. Because dinner is getting cold, and I have friends and work to attend to. Because this is enough for me, for now. And perhaps contentment and peace, like belonging and joy, must be taken in the moments when we can find them. 

~Sam 

You have been warned.

Time will fly.
Even when it moves like a slug,
You will look back
And realize it has flown.
You will look back
At the years you missed,
The life you skipped
In the blink of an eye.
At the moments
Which felt like they'd last
Forever.
And you will realize,
Forever's come and gone
In the blink of an eye.
You will look at old chats,
Conversations and pictures,
Memories and moments,
And feel twinges of old tsunamis.
And you will realize
Time really does fly.
In the blink of an eye.


~Sam

Safety and Surrender

I fidget. I look at my phone, tap my foot, play with my hair, smile, scowl, stretch, examine my nails, check out your profile, check my phone, throw it away and stare uncomprehendingly at the work I'm supposed to be doing.

I wait. I wait for you to text, whatsapp, message. I wait for you to ask for my number, wait for you to look up, to look at me, wait for you to ask me to look at you.

I soar and I drown and I bite the skin near my nails and I think and talk- I think and talk, and I talk and think, to you, about you, and to you about you and me.

I smile at my phone, my beautiful cracked phone which shows me your beautiful words, to crack my happy safe heart with, melt my armour and leave the soft flesh for you to love and cherish- and wound and pinch, to leave me wracking with tearless sobs from the softest of cuts.

And I write. I write things like- "I'm scared" and "I like him too much" and "I don't know" and "I want." And I write about this boy, who makes me smile, and eats up all my time, and I cannot explain why. For the love of god, I cannot explain why. It's too much, but it isn't enough, and it turns out all the cliches are true after all.

~Sam 

Cuts

You know what I'm terrified of?
Cockroaches, lizards and sundry insects aside,
Love aside, loneliness and loss and death aside,
Failure aside,
You know what I'm truly afraid of?
Those sharp cuts, that slice straight through,
Deep and true,
So swift and sharp and sure,
You don't even know they're there.
Not until years later,
When you're bloodless and lifeless and dried out-
When you've slowly lost every bit of your essence,
Leaking through cuts you don't know you have.
Because you can't see them, feel them,
Because you can't see or feel emptiness.
Not until you're empty,
Not until it's too late.
I guess what I'm truly terrified of,
Is finding my cuts too late.

~Sam

What Am I Doing?

What am I doing?
I open up your chat window
And stare at it quietly
Praying, craving, wishing, hoping
You'll say something
(SAY SOMETHING)
I scream at you internally
Not a flicker of emotion crossing my face.

What am I doing?
I eat a slice of pizza
I really don't need
While I flick through your pictures
Again- nothing new, but old is still gold
There's the funny one, the cute one, the hot one
Same things, same place, same order
Nothing has changed.

What am I doing?
I chat with your friend,
Your mom, your dad, your girlfriend
All the while glowering at your picture
Waiting for you to say something
A link, a rant, a picture, a hi
I'll take anything
Just say something.


~Emo Sam Part III

The Culvert

I spanned across a little stream, carrying people from one place in life to another, from joy to sorrow, or sorrow to ecstasy, births to funerals to airports and planes, or simply from home to work and work to home again. Footsteps stumbled by all day, never stopping, never seeing--but sometimes the crowds thinned, the walking slowed and the eyes met. That was when the stories were made.

There was the brown-haired man who walked with a Lily in the mornings and a Rose in the evenings, who kissed both and loved neither, but who stood in the afternoons with his mother, feeding pigeons and sharing smiles. There was the mother, who looked back every time they parted, who knew exactly what her son was - and who he was capable of being.

There was the man with the stained shirt and the happy heart, whose wife ran after him daily, infallibly, for she had forgotten to give him his lunch, and he had forgotten to take it. He turned around, remembering, just as she came panting behind him- both pairs of eyes rolling in exasperation, both pairs of lips upturned in secret delight. A more synchronized dance I had never seen.

There was the white-toothed woman who was more capricious than a diamond in the sparkling sunlight. Never was there a more vivacious imp than her in company, but she seemed dulled to coal whenever she came to me alone. Her clothes fully covered her body, but they hid more than just her modesty. Behind closed doors, behind closed doors.

There was the young butcher's apprentice, who, it seemed, had his existential crisis scheduled for the Thursday evenings he visited me. Head down, frown up, he'd amble over, staring at his feet and his bloodstained nails, throwing pebbles in the water and glaring at the sky as though it had caused him personal affront. It was the bloody sunset he had special attention for, though, and he devoured it hungrily, all the ugly shades of red he was so familiar with, made so beautiful. It was when he came to me on a Wednesday, or a Monday, though, that I worried, and then I made sure to push my finest pebbles up for him to flick to the water; to push my railings a little higher, so he wouldn't fall over- accidentally, of course.

There were the workmen who came by once in a while to give me a touch-up, the ones who called out to women and the ones who didn't; the ones who meant harm and the ones who just didn't know any better. Some of them, I made sure, left with pebbles in their shoes that would stick in the tiniest corner, and bother them for days to come; some I made sure even the mud didn't touch.

And then, once in a blessed blue moon, was the gentle old lady in white, my love if only she'd been a bridge and not a widow bride, who came by for no other reason, it seemed, than to sit with me, and watch with me. She'd sit there the whole day, one of my pebbles in her hands, rubbing its smooth edge, smiling at the happy forgetful couple as I smiled, glancing with gentle concern at the apprentice as I did, exchanging nods with the cheat and his mother as I never could. Once, I thought, as she put back the pebble in its place and gathered herself to leave, she even whispered a goodbye to me.



~Sam

Not About You

Tell me you love me.
Tell me you choose me.
Tell me you'll change your mind for me.
Tell me you'll trust me.
Tell me you'll make me trust you.
Tell me I'm important.
Tell me I'm right.
Tell me I'm enough.
Tell me sometimes, I'm everything.
Tell me you won't leave me.
Tell me everything.
And listen to me, and maybe I'll tell you, too. 

Maybe I already have. 


~Emo Sam

Too many people I know, know about this blog. Bah. 

Star-addicted

Virtual reality-
The stars above you,
Two inches from your face,
Turn left and they're so much closer-
You can see the crystals, the sharp edges-
Right, and they're distant lights again.
Is that how life is?
(This is where this gets pretentious.)
Look up close at the sharp angles and mistakes,
Or far away at the general joy
(General Joy, salute, mandatory reference made)
and sadness, regrets and nostalgia.
Who makes this choice, are we born with it?
Do we decide how to see the glass,
Half-full or half-empty, beer or wine?
(I don't know what I'm saying.)
Oh yes- the stars-
They're beautiful, are they not?
So pretty, so romantic,
Those burning balls of fire,
Consuming gas, imploding, exploding-
Whatever it is that stars do.
Whatever it is that lovers do.


~Sam 

I wonder.

I don't remember when I wrote this, but I found it sitting in my drafts box and thought I'd post something apart from Monthly Favourites for a change. ^_^

_______

I wonder who talks about me, the way I talk about you.
Who looks at me across the room and forces their eyes in another direction, lest they be caught?
Who texts their friends furiously when I'm nice, when I'm mean, when I smile, when I frown,
Basically- whenever I'm around?
Who is extra-awkward, and tries extra-hard to ignore my existence (their efforts unnoticed),
Because isn't that how flirting works?
I wonder who feels about me, the way I feel about you.

~Sam 

And we danced all night, to the best song ever!

Yes, I occasionally listen to One Direction.
Best Song Ever is actually the second most listened to song on my playlist, courtesy a night of frantic working to which it provided the background music.
I even go on a Taylor Swift spree at times.
I have the posters of six famous paintings on my wall, and I couldn't tell you the name or artist of more than one.
I read young adult-and worse, I enjoy it, in a way I never enjoyed Lolita or The Fountainhead.
I make grammatical errors, while correcting others'.
I used to typ lyk dis unironically.

Go ahead, judge me on that.
But know that you are judging me on that which means nothing at all-
And I say this as a person who loves music and art and writing and reading-
That means nothing at all.

If you want to judge me,
Judge me instead on the manner in which I snap at my mother,
When I think she doesn't understand me.
Or the way in which I go, tail between legs, and hug her,
When I remember that she understood me before I even knew myself.
Judge me for being so arrogant, and having so many self-esteem issues,
All in the span of a single thought.
Judge me for what I preach and believe in, and what I continue to practice-
For those being two separate things.
For my weakness, when I go get waxed anyway-
For not being strong enough on my own.
Judge me for what affects me, what angers me, what shames me
What causes conflict, what makes me laugh and what leaves me cold.
For crying for a Titanic but averting my eyes from Iraq.
Judge me on the manner in which I judge others.
I'm a horrible person and I'm a wonderful person,
But you won't know which until you judge me on something which matters.



~Sam

Brain Surgery

I wish you could do plastic surgery on your brain.
Erase memories, add intelligence.
Maybe add some thicker skin-
Sensitivity is so much more attractive in others.
It just seems to be painful in oneself,
This ability to feel and empathize and notice and relate.
I wish you could do plastic surgery on your brain.
Add total self-awareness, or none at all,
This middle path really isn't working out for me.
And an off switch-that's the most important one of all-
The ability to just shut it off and go into auto mode.
We need an auto mode.
I wish you could do plastic surgery on your brain.
Fix things so we actually were the rational beings Economics thinks us to be.
A simple cost-benefit analysis- and all our questions answered.
Who needs feelings anyway?
All they've ever done is complicate-
And add joy and sorrow and depth and humanity,
And make the human experience human-
But who needs humanity anyway?

~Sam

Bad.

Why do bad things happen to good people?
Is it arrogant, bad to believe you're a good person,
Or but natural?
Don't challenge the universe, I tell people.
Don't ask, "What's the worst that could happen?"
I don't challenge the universe, I don't ask.
The worst happens.
Be good, be nice, don't jinx it. Touchwood.
It's jinxed anyway.

Why do bad things happen all together?
One, then another, then another-
Perhaps it will end now, maybe dawn will come now-
But no, darkness continues its reign,
Intensifies further,
Till you forget there ever was light.
Good vanquished by bad,
Like eraser on pencil-
Nay, worse, like fire on paper-
Not a trace of the beauty of the pencilled words
Left behind.


~Sam

At the end of another day

The day ends and in the blinking light of the passing cars,
You see them all. Heading home.
The men with stooped backs carrying heavy loads,
To wives whom they will beat and love.
The women, heads down and steps quick, to a cold stove,
Waiting to be heated up.
The parents, smiling bright, bickering soft,
Behind children with lips turned up as high as the balloons floating above.

~Sam

Inertia of the Mind

I was stalking myself, and I realized that we've been on blogger since 2011. 2011. It's almost 2014, now, and it's crazy how fast time has flown. Things I could've sworn I wrote last week are actually, somehow, last year's posts-my space-filling posts are now almost a year old. Yesterday's memories are last year's memories. And last year's memories, last century's. I never quite realized just how very old my old memories were. Thoughts of home now refer to a place which doesn't even really exist anymore. I've been through so much, and so little, and-everything is just so mind-boggling right now. It's like my train soundlessly moved ahead and passed a million stations while I kept my eyes shut and still thought myself at the first one.

And yes, I know three years isn't very long, but it's so very long, you know?

Time is weird.
~Sam

In flux.

Neither here, nor there,
We wait.
Wanting here, yearning there.
We wait.
Here in the waiting room,
Of life.

For life.

---

We are the tormented novelists,
Not the protagonists.
Suffering, creating brilliance,
Not guaranteed of a happy ending.


~Sam

Peace and Poignance

Things are so poignant sometimes.
Simple things, daily things.
The leaf lying on the grey road,
Unremarkable, old,
And yet I want to take a picture.
The tilted bench against the brick house,
The grown puppy teetering around the door.
Nothing new.
All routine sights,
And yet, I want to capture them all.

-----

Just a mood.
When your mind is scattered,
Unfocused, adrift,
A certain sadness hanging,
In the dusty shelves that comprise it.
Just a mood.
When you can wander every-any direction,
Direct your steps here,
Then there, at anyone's beck,
And call.
Just a mood.
When you're peaceful,
Not worried, not thinking,
Just looking and seeing.
At one with the world.
At once away from it.

-----

Why is it associated with sadness,
That peace,
That comes with calm,
That comes with acceptance,
That comes but so rarely in our existence?
Why is it associated with sadness,
That emptiness,
That connection,
Which comes with nature,
Which drains and nurtures?
Why is it associated with sadness,
That bliss,
That emotion,
That for which we have no name.
That for which we have no name.


~Sam

Be happy.

"Why won't you let yourself be happy?"

"What is there to be happy for?"

Be happy for yourself. Be happy for your life, that it has form, even if it is not perfectly moulded yet. 

It may be the peace before or after the storm, but it is still peace. Be happy for that peace. 

Be happy because things are not sad. Crave, but be content. Be happy for everything you have, even if it is not all you want. 

Be angry when things go wrong, be sad when things are bad, but be happy when things are okay. 

Let things be okay. When life is not going out of its way to be good-but it is not going out of its way to be bad-be happy then.
Things will always be wrong, things will always be right. Heal the bad, be happy for the good.
Be happy. 

~Sam

Issues

Philosophy is not distant, is not abstract. It's real, it's every day, every act.
Something I've realized as I've grown older: there are issues everywhere you look. Every single act is propelled by a philosophy, whether you realize it or not. Feminism, religion, nationalism, liberalism. Ideas, issues, philosophies. They permeate not only politics and college classrooms, but everything. The reason you're okay/not okay with the weird girl being weird. The reason your mother doesn't work. The reason it's okay/not okay for your brother to wear pink. The reason being gay is a big deal/not a big deal. The reason you can/can't get a haircut. The reason that music video is okay/not okay. The reason you follow/don't follow the rules. Every single opinion of yours.
Reflects your philosophy. 

~Sam

Why is wisdom so unfun?

The wise guy never has any fun in any book, movie or story that I know of, while it's always the dumb ones goin' all YOLO and partyin' the night away. Don't get me wrong, that isn't my idea of fun, but why are wise people always portrayed as these dudes who're over worldly pleasures and don't want to do anything but ponder over the sadness of life? Why is dumb equated with fun and happy, and wisdom with maturity (the boring kind of maturity) and permanent solemnity? Clearly there is more to life than chilling, but chilling is a part-and, I would argue, an important part-of living. And I think wisdom involves recognizing that.

~Sam

I have a dream.

I have a dream of a world where men and women walk free without the threat of mosquitoes.

I have a dream of a world where dates and romantic walks are not ruined by pesky parasites.

I have a dream of a world where my children may sleep fearlessly and where their blood will not be drunk mercilessly each night.

I have a dream of a mosquito extermination army gone defunct for lack of mosquitoes.

I have a dream of a world where no blood is shed.

~Sam and the Christmas Cookie