twilightmoon
When There's So Much Light, Why Do I Feel So Dark?
Tag, You're It.
dreams Good Morning Self.
I love that. I love that even though it's been months since I've written anything here, or weeks since I've dropped by to check my messages, I love that when I click the little Login button, it still comes up with my information all filled out, as if the site is waving and wrapping an arm around my shoulders and saying, "Hey. How you been? It's been a while, hasn't it. Come on in, out of the cold, let's get you warm." It's a feeling I haven't felt in a while, that feeling of complete welcome. It's good to be writing again. Note to self: Never stop writing, no matter what is going on. It's just healthier this way. Besides, have you forgotten? You have a talent for this stuff. No one else really thinks so, no one else seems to realize it, but you're a good writer . You've got something here. Don't just let it go because you get busy. Maybe this is what you are going to do with your life. Maybe this is what you are going to pursue. Maybe you'll go to college and live in an apartment with people you know and heat up a quick bowl of oatmeal and take it to your room and clutch at it for the heat and try to read the text books where the words will just jumble in your head and in your mouth because you're trying so hard to understand but you work all night and you sleep all morning and you go to school to learn things that you don't want to learn to try to get to the career you want so you can make a small, meager pay check and try desperately to make yourself happy, and the only moments of goodness you can find are when she calls and you smile and lay back on your air mattress because that's what life is all about.
And there you are, on the inside with your artsy intelligent Village people friends, and I am on the outside wiping away at the frost on the window and staring at you with a longing in my soul as I've never felt before, and we both smile and nod and there are tears in my eyes and on my cheeks and I know that we love each other, but we're just too different, you and your Uma Thurman ways. Someday, someone will read through these, and think "What a genius" and I will smile and think to myself, I told you so.
We were in my car the other day, at a red light, the one by Glade's on Main and I was telling you about how someday, somehow, I was going to be wealthy. You looked at me and asked, "Why?" and I didn't have an answer for you. It doesn't matter who you are, or where you come from, you always want what you don't have. It's human nature, which is why the Buddhists are so famous for their bliss and their great content with themselves, because they have obviously been able to fight something that every single other person in the world has inside of themselves which makes someone question.
If they can fight want, which everyone has inside of themselves and is thought to be unavoidable, can I fight the cancer within me?
And the little boy with the scrawny arms and the small sunken eyes on the bed next to her says that she's talking out loud again and that the cancer is just as bad as his AIDs and that they all die in the end so why not just accept it and the thought of that kind of cynacism in such a young boy makes the watchers around the world cry because it's emotion, and the irony that you don't understand that makes audiences cry. Can you believe that?
Can you believe me?
No one really cares but you about what I think, and these are the things I think. These are the streams of thought that weave together to make themselves something worth thinking about. But will I ever make anything of myself? That's a question. I want to develop scripts for video games, I want to stir emotions in people with pictures and words and make people cry just like Uma Thurman and Peter Jackson, I want to give people those little lumps in their throats because it's so damn beautiful. I want to be a beautiful people. But I graduate soon and really I want to write but I can never create a story worth reading. I can never make a plot worth listening to or when I do it doesn't have enough twists and turns to be engaging. That's why I love classical literature, it had just the right amount of twists, not like these new Dan Brown books, with so many twists and turns they get old and it's not even the same novel after so many twists, that half way through it's like you're reading an entirely different book and maybe you think to yourself that you saved money by buying two books in one, or maybe you think to yourself that this isn't what you paid for at all. Like a rollercoaster with too many twists it doesn't have time to build up speed and so all it accomplishes is making you sick in the brain.
Everyone makes movies about couples who are in love, and the boy loves the girl and the girl loves the boy but there is a trial of some kind that they go through and then they're stronger for it. No one makes movies about Uma Thurman and her love for the younger man but even though they love each other, they just know it's not right. No one makes movies about lesbian couples that have to stay hidden but everyone knows anyways but one of them can never get enough, never get enough of the other and when she texts to tell her she's with him she wonders if they are together and if they were both just mixed up all along and are really in love with each other... no one makes movies about that because desperate housewives in the midwest and mothers in the mid east would never go and see it.
Did you know I'm ashamed of how I bite my nails? And there's no reason for it either. I feel like Frank McCourt, trapped in the drink, not wanting it, not having any reason to drink it except that it's in his blood, and that's how I feel. No reason to do it except that there's nothing better to do. I like to make art and I wish I could do things and draw them right out of my head but I just can't get the synapses to fire like that, can't get them to connect from the pictures in my head to the lines on the paper. I can copy pictures pretty damn well, and it's satisfying to do at least that and I wish I could find something that would let me do that for a living, taking my own pictures and then copying them in graphite but who would want to buy a drawing of something when the picture is right there, just as ready and looking far better than what I produced? Someday I'm going to do something incredible and worth doing and people who know me now will sit and say to themselves, "I knew her. Always a bit mussed in the head, but I knew her." And they'll make up stories about how they were my friend, or about how I was mean, or something, any kind of interaction with someone famous that they once went to school with because that's what housewives do, fat housewives with their bellies spilling out from beneath the shirts filled with children, and they'll say that to themselves until they believe it, until they believe whate'er stories they make up about them and I. You and I want different things out of life, and I wonder if we aren't like them. Nothing is worth doing, nothing is worth having if you're not somehow involved in it, but we both want different things and if I give up what I want for you at least I'll have you and I'll have some semblence of happiness but I'll never be at peace whenever I hear about someone on the news or watch a movie with successful actresses and successful screenwrites and successful directors, and what kind of a life would that be? Would I be able to handle it, always being happy but never at peace because I let myself go, I let my dreams go so that I could have my everything? I'm going to do something great with this world, I just wish as hell I knew what it was, so I could get on with it and be at peace and then have you.
Some children wrote letters to God. Some children wrote letters to Santa.
Me?
I wrote letters to Bette Midler.
~Alisa
I love that. I love that even though it's been months since I've written anything here, or weeks since I've dropped by to check my messages, I love that when I click the little Login button, it still comes up with my information all filled out, as if the site is waving and wrapping an arm around my shoulders and saying, "Hey. How you been? It's been a while, hasn't it. Come on in, out of the cold, let's get you warm." It's a feeling I haven't felt in a while, that feeling of complete welcome. It's good to be writing again. Note to self: Never stop writing, no matter what is going on. It's just healthier this way. Besides, have you forgotten? You have a talent for this stuff. No one else really thinks so, no one else seems to realize it, but you're a good writer . You've got something here. Don't just let it go because you get busy. Maybe this is what you are going to do with your life. Maybe this is what you are going to pursue. Maybe you'll go to college and live in an apartment with people you know and heat up a quick bowl of oatmeal and take it to your room and clutch at it for the heat and try to read the text books where the words will just jumble in your head and in your mouth because you're trying so hard to understand but you work all night and you sleep all morning and you go to school to learn things that you don't want to learn to try to get to the career you want so you can make a small, meager pay check and try desperately to make yourself happy, and the only moments of goodness you can find are when she calls and you smile and lay back on your air mattress because that's what life is all about.
And there you are, on the inside with your artsy intelligent Village people friends, and I am on the outside wiping away at the frost on the window and staring at you with a longing in my soul as I've never felt before, and we both smile and nod and there are tears in my eyes and on my cheeks and I know that we love each other, but we're just too different, you and your Uma Thurman ways. Someday, someone will read through these, and think "What a genius" and I will smile and think to myself, I told you so.
We were in my car the other day, at a red light, the one by Glade's on Main and I was telling you about how someday, somehow, I was going to be wealthy. You looked at me and asked, "Why?" and I didn't have an answer for you. It doesn't matter who you are, or where you come from, you always want what you don't have. It's human nature, which is why the Buddhists are so famous for their bliss and their great content with themselves, because they have obviously been able to fight something that every single other person in the world has inside of themselves which makes someone question.
If they can fight want, which everyone has inside of themselves and is thought to be unavoidable, can I fight the cancer within me?
And the little boy with the scrawny arms and the small sunken eyes on the bed next to her says that she's talking out loud again and that the cancer is just as bad as his AIDs and that they all die in the end so why not just accept it and the thought of that kind of cynacism in such a young boy makes the watchers around the world cry because it's emotion, and the irony that you don't understand that makes audiences cry. Can you believe that?
Can you believe me?
No one really cares but you about what I think, and these are the things I think. These are the streams of thought that weave together to make themselves something worth thinking about. But will I ever make anything of myself? That's a question. I want to develop scripts for video games, I want to stir emotions in people with pictures and words and make people cry just like Uma Thurman and Peter Jackson, I want to give people those little lumps in their throats because it's so damn beautiful. I want to be a beautiful people. But I graduate soon and really I want to write but I can never create a story worth reading. I can never make a plot worth listening to or when I do it doesn't have enough twists and turns to be engaging. That's why I love classical literature, it had just the right amount of twists, not like these new Dan Brown books, with so many twists and turns they get old and it's not even the same novel after so many twists, that half way through it's like you're reading an entirely different book and maybe you think to yourself that you saved money by buying two books in one, or maybe you think to yourself that this isn't what you paid for at all. Like a rollercoaster with too many twists it doesn't have time to build up speed and so all it accomplishes is making you sick in the brain.
Everyone makes movies about couples who are in love, and the boy loves the girl and the girl loves the boy but there is a trial of some kind that they go through and then they're stronger for it. No one makes movies about Uma Thurman and her love for the younger man but even though they love each other, they just know it's not right. No one makes movies about lesbian couples that have to stay hidden but everyone knows anyways but one of them can never get enough, never get enough of the other and when she texts to tell her she's with him she wonders if they are together and if they were both just mixed up all along and are really in love with each other... no one makes movies about that because desperate housewives in the midwest and mothers in the mid east would never go and see it.
Did you know I'm ashamed of how I bite my nails? And there's no reason for it either. I feel like Frank McCourt, trapped in the drink, not wanting it, not having any reason to drink it except that it's in his blood, and that's how I feel. No reason to do it except that there's nothing better to do. I like to make art and I wish I could do things and draw them right out of my head but I just can't get the synapses to fire like that, can't get them to connect from the pictures in my head to the lines on the paper. I can copy pictures pretty damn well, and it's satisfying to do at least that and I wish I could find something that would let me do that for a living, taking my own pictures and then copying them in graphite but who would want to buy a drawing of something when the picture is right there, just as ready and looking far better than what I produced? Someday I'm going to do something incredible and worth doing and people who know me now will sit and say to themselves, "I knew her. Always a bit mussed in the head, but I knew her." And they'll make up stories about how they were my friend, or about how I was mean, or something, any kind of interaction with someone famous that they once went to school with because that's what housewives do, fat housewives with their bellies spilling out from beneath the shirts filled with children, and they'll say that to themselves until they believe it, until they believe whate'er stories they make up about them and I. You and I want different things out of life, and I wonder if we aren't like them. Nothing is worth doing, nothing is worth having if you're not somehow involved in it, but we both want different things and if I give up what I want for you at least I'll have you and I'll have some semblence of happiness but I'll never be at peace whenever I hear about someone on the news or watch a movie with successful actresses and successful screenwrites and successful directors, and what kind of a life would that be? Would I be able to handle it, always being happy but never at peace because I let myself go, I let my dreams go so that I could have my everything? I'm going to do something great with this world, I just wish as hell I knew what it was, so I could get on with it and be at peace and then have you.
Some children wrote letters to God. Some children wrote letters to Santa.
Me?
I wrote letters to Bette Midler.
~Alisa
The Asylum's This Way
Still Lost
Cyanide Saints
Wander The Darkness
