i've got the gift of one liners.

my collection is growing.
i (L) the idea behind it.
it let's my be vain and nonsensical : these are a few of my favourite things.

here is a sampling, so far :
"no more full sentences, ever. seventeen, and i want to be in new york city."
and -
"just once, i would like someone to stage me a fucking intervention, okay?"
and -
"it's time to flee the country (if only temporarily and just inside my own head)"
and -
"effervescent dreams that just won't slow and it's all going to my head at 80mph...i just barely started the engine."
and -
"collecting notions and re-inventions today."
and -
"dark night, late flight, books and babes who read. dig it?"
and -
"non-existent love story with a man i dreamed alive."


okay, so.
here's the plot synopsis thus far.
a) it is all going to my head and b)i don't even care.
i am writing down every and anything that passes through these walls inside.
i think it's because i want to have something to show for my time.
so, when i'm old and withered, i can look back.
personal fountain of youth, or, some shit like that.

i just wish i all these little pieces would create the puzzle already.
1,000 parts to go and i can't find any to fit.
whatever.
i'm already over it.
...or, at least that's what i'm telling myself today.

and it's not so conventional...

not the typical whiny stuff, i usually pull.
more of a stream of consciousness today.
for, i'm feeling...well, sort of conscious, which helps.

i want a "bookish" type.
holed up in a library, classic novels piled high.
who wears fancy shoes and a proper wool coat with buttons.
hair is disheveled completely, from running hands through it at the good parts.
has a real name, like william or edaward, none of this moses or pilot bullshit that seems ever so popular now a days.
reads to me.
realizes punctuation is important.
has a cat, whom he loves more than anything (well, except his mom, of course).

i don't know why, but i've been thinking about him a lot lately.
he isn't anyone.
at least, not anyone i know.
but he seems very real to me.
like i've met him before and just didn't realize.
or maybe, i dreamed him alive.

whichever the case (real or reality),
i'm starting to think this perfect world happiness doesn't exist.
it's made up my chick-flick movie producers who want to make a buck.
i know love is out there, don't get me wrong.
but it's not like everyone thinks.
it's not easy and it's not forever.
i'm also starting to think i may have really high expectations.
edward cullen doesn't exist but i can't stop wishing that someone just like him does.
settling never sounded so sweet.
the dust is settling too, though.

so.
dear bookish type boy, with your wide eyed stare and penchant for beautiful words, i'm sorry i am beginning to doubt you. i'm sorry i'm losing faith in everything that has ever inspired me. i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry.
actually.
if i'm being perfectly honest (oh no)
then i'm truly sorry that i just haven't found the reflection of myself.
it doesn't come down to other people being right.
it comes down to me being totally wrong.



**edit : on second thought, someone just build me a library. i will be perfectly content then. no edwards or williams or chuck bass' would be better than that. my social life would suffer immensely, but, i think i am okay with that.

words, my faithful background noise.

today, not even they can save me.
bitter cold and watering eyes.
and, it's coming closer.
i'm stranded.
there is no mercy in this place.
destitute, it's waiting to die.
they blink at me.
eyes wide (shut).
tracing patterns in the walls.
and, it's coming closer.
i will wait this out.
poorly written, poorly sought.
my lungs are breaking.
and where am i now?
this is too good to get old.
singled out in the shrinking crowd.
everywhere, it is coming for me.
or so i say.
today, the message lingers.
too far gone to come back written.
do you think of me?
or my crackling bones?
take my heart.
(i think) he took my soul.
and, it's coming so much closer.
finally, finally.
it has arrived.
the storm has bubbled up from the sea.

head games, it's all the same.

i am perpetually boring.
my life is made up of me, just over-analyzing absolutely everything.
most days, i wish the drama would find me, just so i could have something to write about.
i need the inspiration.
i need the attention.
(baby, give me a break)
i want to be able to write like him.
i am so jealous of his work, his thoughts, his words.
what i wouldn't give to get inside his head.
to see it through his eyes.
to interpret things in such a way.
maybe then, i would feel it all?
doubtful, i am already who i am supposed to be.
...i think.
i need the template.
there is nothing else like it.

i can't wait for the summer.
for lazy, hazy days, when nothing seems to matter.
bring on the (body) heat.
bring on perfect times.
i don't really feel like growing up.
this may be my last chance to hold onto my youth.
sometimes, i feel so much older.
like an elderly man, caught in this body.
i just want my bowler hat and newspapers?
is that so un-ordinary?
time is ticking by and i just can't hold it anymore.
i am giving in to the real me.

my life is just full of questions.
this or that or which or what?
the television just asked me,
"...why is there always a fruitstand?"
and now i'm wondering it myself.
perhaps it's all one comedy of errors.
actually.
i think that is exactly what it is.

sleepless in sea(attle).

i am made of angels and kings.
star-light, delicacy and broken things.
eyes look to the sky;
but all i see are the skyscrapers.
the dirty city is callin' my name.
it's all i can do to keep on keeping on.
the sidewalks are cracked with the sighs of your voice.
like the cracks in my lips, so sore and swollen.
from smiling at the images in my brain.
play like a movie, spinning the reel, around and around.
fall leaves swirl around my feet.
i dance, i dance, i dance toward your beat.
where are you?
i wonder, if to naught but myself.
you are made of the simplest thoughts.
precisely why it all works.
the long division is really quite easy,
when you look at me like that.
tapping my toes along the street.
i am coming to find you.
i am twirling in the wind.
you may be impossible.
met with the gaze of strangers.
you are not them and they not you.
until then, the soundtrack keeps playing.
and all i am saying,
is that it's you and me and me and you,
this whole little city is our whole little muse.

dear gravity, you held me down (in this starless city)

my life was not made to be a simple one.
carefree effervescence looks not upon me with those kind eyes and helpful smile.
i realized this years ago.
to accept it is another feat.
i wait and wonder when my day is coming; the one where everything will magically fall into place.
it hasn't happened yet.
nor will it.
things are much easier when they are upside down and broken.
that is when i feel at home.
everything that was ever right is wrong here.
looking back at me, taunting.
you, will the charming tale, i envy.
i think to myself "how luck must seem to him"
but even you must have your problems.
perhaps i am selfish to think i am alone in my misery.
perhaps we are all just miserable together.
i will keep waiting for my day.
i am going to break out.
you will regret everything you've put me through.
then you will know what it is like...
then you will know my story.