Better to have loved and let go

So I left him behind for this big world.
will it swallow me whole?
I really don't know what to expect. starting fresh-you see I've done that before, and the devils of yourself never stick to the past.
 My motivation is my loss-my loss pushes me to gain,-gain all a broken heart must
 Now is the time to find the truth about my lies.
 take my mask off and look at myself straight in the eyes.
I hope in the end it's a 360, and he will still be with me,
 next time round      

                                       I won't let go.

dream on

Dreams are not real they're made up. Made up of pieces of twisted perceptions, spilled on to unprocessed feelings, churned by an ever dormant subconsciousness and spat out in REM. I've always been a dreamer. When I was a litlle girl I dreamed of flying so much, that the one day I woke up, climbed on my roof, and jumped off.
 I was plagued by this one nightmare for months on end; Captain hook swoops in and kidnapps my father. I watch helplessly as the train gets smaller and smaller untill he's completely gone. I wake up crying. I remember my dreams. I wake up in the mornings still lost in my world. Some days I can't shake it off and I confuse the people around me because I'm not myself. Or not the person I should be. Writing about it helps...

Everything is blue. Except the moon.

The sun might shine but the moon glows

 It takes the earth and illuminates;
not to wake-up.

 ... to make it beautiful.
_______

 I look at my hands.they are blue too. I wish twilight never to end.

But the birds know before we do
 A chorus of chaos warning the nocturnal ones

 reminding them of the sun
 I look behind me and see the creeping dawn.

Soon this achromatic haven will be gone.

 Perhaps if I just run away from the sun. Follow the divide. So I start to humm.

No melody or sweet tune. I humm from the pit of my throat.

It reminds me what music actually is. A vibration.

 I start to run up the hill fast as I can, it gets steeper and steeper
so I crawl like an animal it feels natural

My hands in the dirt /my eyes on the ground. 

without warning the earth ends my hands are empty I'm falling.
fast with no resistance

______

I land in your boat like I always do.
I can breath again

"I cup of tea?" ......"Ay ay captain."

I follow you into the kitchen. 

Kettles boiling all over steaming steam into every corner

you pour me a cup from a kettle hanging from the cieling

"have you always preferred steam boats?"

you don't answer.

you never answer my questions (But I still hover.)

We sit on the deck and watch as the dawn dwindles

"time for my nap" you slap your thighs and leave me be
 eyes spilling over the sea
my mind races to the horizon.
my tea is cold
                               

A cranium filled with Bullshit

Relationships  are tricky cunts. Beautiful tricky cunts.

But that’s not the point. The other part of life I struggle with is decisions. I make them because I have to. I never feel like they are the right ones. And of course; hindsight is the best foresight. So what pray tell should a godless girl like me, look to for some sense of fucking direction?? I know what Daddy wants, what society expects, what my mother hopes for, and that most people don’t care what the fuck I do with my life. Me? I have ideas, I have fantasies, and I make little plans…but not in the least do I know what to make of myself. As of yet I am a 23 year old college graduate with little less than a clue how i will make my way in this capitalistic world. It just sucks so hard that I have to think about money...another decision of a more moral nature, but that also affects my bigger choice_how important is being wealthy to me? How much is enough? How to make this money? Another little rut I'm stuck in. Everything is either too boring, too risky, out of my reach, can't afford it, won’t stomach it, don’t know about it, or it’s too late (they say it’s never too late but I grossly disagree with that optimistic gimmick)….I have also come to realize that I am an escapist. Every situation I find myself in, I inevitably seem to try and get out of… the idea being that the next place is the right place.(where I will miraculously just start being more awesome) Bullshit Susan. BULLSHIT

I’m starting to notice it’s the small things that count. Dream big. But don’t forget the detail….and most of all enjoy the ride.But hey, this seems to be the motion of my ocean today, but tomorrow I might realize, once again—that everything I figured out is all BULLSHIT .

So actually fuck this whole post. I just really don’t want to watch TV or go to bed and my boyfriend, my beautiful boyfriend, is busy. Sigh…

Ce La VIE right?

Bullshit=        Danish  →lort→Estonian→ lollus→Finnish→Paskapuhe French→connerie→Turkish→Sacmalik

Meshwork,You and I

My sunflower wilts behind a glass pane     Do you remember how we used to sit?                     

pitcher in hand , I can't reach you             your legs wrapped around me

please understand                                    nothing between us                  

I don't want to watch you die                  Where did you go?

these hands are cut off                             lingering memory 

my thoughts they trail off                          I know your heart is mine darling                  

A man so consumed....                            But not your body, not your mind

I love you                                                 Not anymore

The simple truth is hard to swallow.

 we are at the end.

O gats

just found out I am the biggest tit faced asshole humanity has yet faced. So selfish i did not even realize what I was. what I was doing. Who I had become.


Change is so pivotal, it is the only possibility. I have no idea how yet, but God knows it, it has to happen.

Its past 2 AM in the morning and I am really high

ever wonder what to wonder about?


thats why the internet is so addictive. you sit, and you absorb. We are all little Spongebobs-and boobs soaking up that pooool of awsome that is the internet. My boyfriend goes on browse binges. Like as in he doesn't get up unless he has to shit/pee or eat. the Latter only if the food is readily available, or a.k.a when I make him a sandwich. the Look on his face is the most relaxed, but concentrated paradox of an expression actually. The two face contortions clash and their inertias cancel each other out or something. you all know the look, and you all have your very own blankbrowser face. I do this really strange pout thing with my lips, definatley not a sexy pout-more like your 80 year old  toohless granpa pout. I got that from my mother by the way. Don't you just hate that you turn into your parents.


If you are all out of  ideas...here is an image that might get you wondering. This piture inspired my whole post. Thanks Brad you sexy little fag.

happy browsin' y'all.

What?

what makes me happy?
Why?
Does what I think makes me happy--really make me happy?
What would ME  proud of ME?
Was I ever proud of anything I've ever done?
Why take pride in what I do?
What do I do? why?
My existence is temporary. like clean sheets.
Can we really change our own mood? Who is in control of my body, of my mind? Do I run the show? what about those pesky hormones? what about those ADD pills? What about that joint? ...what about it?
will I ever bask in the glory of I dream realized? Or will the moment pass me by?
 Do dreams ever become reality? Or does the appeal lie in their nonexistence?

I need my fellow man to recognize me.
...to fuck off and leave me be.
...to pave my way in this world.
...to stop standing in my way.

Why do I feel the need to write down all this crap.

Indifference. boredom.

SURF

 A youthful mind is seldom totally free from ambition; to curb that, is the first step to contentment, since to diminish expectation is to increase enjoyment. 

Frances Burney 

Ever since I was old enough to fantasize about my own future I dreamed of surfing. Years on end I pictured myself jumping into the ocean as if it were my back yard; ducking underneath the foamy waves, the salty water washing over my face as I open my eyes to the next oncoming wave, then effortlessly launching myself into a liquid turquiose barrel of bliss. The sun shining. My body bare. The water warm. My countenance a reflection joyous ease. It was my escape, the greener grass on the other side of my beachless inland existence. I promised myself that one day I would make this fantasy my reality.


Well, at fucking last, here I am. 23. Making it happen. What's happening is not the fantasy, but the  brutal reality of this captivatingly invigourating experience of taking on the ocean. She's not your friend. She owns you, and she will beat you, and spit you out. You must gain her respect, visit her often, and take all her bullshit. Only then, will this divine diva allow you moments of synergy between your puny form and her almighty gusto.  


This week I've been wiped out by a tiny shore break, stung silly by blue bottels, and had my leash ripped off my leg by waves that plant panic into every nook and cranny of your body.  


This week I stood up for the time on my board, saw a sunset so beautiful, it is a shame to try and put it into words, and I watched from the shore perfect waves barreling, churning wih power and grace, while people who have deserved the honour, rode them, and I felt myself elated in their moment. Waiting for mine.


Surfing is not for pussys. I did not know I was a pussy until I started surfing. I plan on rectifying this pussyness....one reason for this....

 I. want. to. be. in. a. fucking. barrel.

What a Cracker!

Passing the night in our usual careless manner of drinks, smokes, and jumping conversation, my friends and I start to dabble in religious talk. Just as our banter kicks off in its all too well known trend of Jesus jokes and the newest apocalypse conspiracy theories, my friend Francois cuts into the gab with a new line no one has heard; “I know there’s a God” He sternly gazes passed his audience as if back into the birth of reason, brandy in hand naturally. Now he’s looking us in the eye, “because the things we have to do…are the best.” we all stare at him in anticipation for the coup de grace of his little epiphany.

“To eat. To shit. And to fuck” he victoriously counts the three pleasures off with his fingers.Now he’s looking at us, grinning and nodding his head slowly as if waiting for us to snap the sheer brilliance of it. We don’t, and tell him to go take a holy shit.

Today, a good few months after this episode, I snapped it. All thanks to a cracker…

This morning a woke to a pleasurable breakfast of rice cakes with tahini spread, cottage cheese, tomato, spinach leaves, and some garlic for garnish. It tastes good. No doubt. I make another one and wonder why these crackers are so damn tiny. The day takes it course. Later that night my man and I smoke a fatty on our way home. I get stoned. Efficiently & effectively baked. All I can think is ‘Polly want a fuckin’ cracker!’ It seems the munchies have kicked in. When we finally reach our destination I’m drooling in anticipation. Like a homing missile I launch myself into the kitchen and start to recreate my breakfast. But it all seems a little different. The crackers actually seem larger, the tomato redder, and the garlic smells more potent. As I take the first bite, my face contorts in amazement. Crunching through the rice cake I feel the tahini scrubbing my tongue while the juicy tomato pours over my taste buds,the garlic electrifying my palate.I groan with pleasure as the flavors combine more beautifully with every mouthful . I find myself revisiting the words of my friend François with a new sense of appreciation. Maybe there is a God. Or alternatively I am God of all crackers and they worship me by have orgies in my mouth. I deem both hypotheses equally plausible.

So three cheers for the combo of chronic and crackers for almost getting me to believe in a higher power! 

dear diary I embrace thee lame nature

I get up around twelve. Mornings don't exist anymore. My head empty from any sure fire actions for the day. Aimlessly I loaf out of bed, look at myself in the mirror and eveluate the intensity of my hangover. This mornings' was suprisingly on the light side. So need for overdosing on myprodol or a visit to doctor Doobie. After a very satisfying trip to the bathroom (definitely one of the better moments of my lazy-ass days) I usually end up in front of the computer for my morning rounds of facebook snooping. There after i spemnd a few minutes on my blog, staring at it mostly, think a bit about changing the title, and then eventually just look  at my own self indulgent posts. I've tried to think of ways to make it more interesting and less about myself-but its kind of impossible. Unfortunatly all I can write about is the muddled up mess that manifests inside my mind. So while I'm waiting on inspiration to kapoof! into my life I've decided  fuck it.This is is my diary.The last time I hade one was in the fifth grade. I found it a few years back and cringed at the content. I'm sure, infact I hope, in few years time I will be cringing at my 23 year old self as well. It's the beauty of growing up.

C.S lewis quotes the Bible/Jesus- 'something cannot truly live until it has died' or somethin like that. I find so much truth in that. My grandmother is close to the end and you can see it in her eyes. She's waiting for death. It's already part of her life-tugging at her aching bones and unraveling her fragile thoughts. All of a sudden I want to ask her so many questions... who was her first love? What was it like going out in the 1950's? Did she wear gloves? My grandad, what type of man was he? How the hell did you raise five kids on a teachers salary? I realized that I really don't know my own gandma all that well. I know I love her. I know my mom loves her mom.I know she was both father and mother to five kids. I don't know if I will cry at her funeral. I've only been to one funeral I can recall. My grand fathers-on my fathers side. It's strange how I've heard more about him after his death than I did while he was I alive. I didn't know him at all.I didnt cry at his funeral. Ouma kinky (my grans name-sweet huh!) though... has a place in my heart. She used to take me and my brother to the park. She was a avid gardner and always let me help plant her flowers. Her back yard was a favorite playground of mine. She kept her bread crumbs for us so that when we came to visit we each would get a bag full to fling away and watch in delight how countless pigeons and other birds flocked eagerly around our feet. She never buys  birthday presents for her grandkids-but gives us money instead. She made the best biscuts ever. Simply put, all I know about my grandma is that she was, and still is a great grandma.

Sleeping beauty

My little brother fast asleep. Still holding his flashlight-or rather his lazer gun. It always bewilders me how such a little tyrant can look so angelic. kids.got to love the energy.