reinvent (ion)

reminder, this will serve as one.
i am taking it for the last time.
today is the time to reverse the clocks and make big wishes into realities.

i am starting small.
no one ever built rome (or their own interpretation of it, at the very least) in twenty four hours.
expecting too much.
high hopes (and velvet ropes)
that will be my life now.
one short day at a time.

i am taking a stand.
for you, for me, for this whole wide world.
i am not a simple, silly girl.
no, i am rather a stanza written for all to see.
and i won't fade and smudge with lead.
write me over and over in the darkest ink.

so here's to this.
to taking chances on impossibilities you thought you knew.
to make your live a living novel of sorts.
when the final chapter envelops your gaze,
shine that brilliant mega watt smile as you close on the page.

"bring me the head of the disco king"

"We charm the night by climbing rooftops, photographing illuminated chandeliers, resuscitating desolate swingsets and darting our eyes away from every shadow. We are the vampires of dormant Downtowns and the inhabitants of empty streets. Drenched in monotone black, we neither aim to creep nor seek to harm – we simply want more of the night."


...Not my words, but oh, how I wish they were.
This is perfection.
This is me, but written through the hands of someone else.

I just want to charm the night.

he said it, i meant it, but where is it now?

"I've found that the only person that can't see how amazing you are, is often yourself."

He said this to me.
He said I was "captivating".
I don't think anyone could ever say anything as meaningful to me again.
Ever.

I'm slightly ashamed to admit I miss him.
Yet.
Here it is, written down and raw.
Exposed like the very same bare flesh of yesterday.

He was ideal, while he lasted.

He showed me that there is no write or wrong.
Black or white.
Doubting never hurt so much but it instantly evaporated in his wake.

It was the one time I truly felt beautiful.
The one moment where I didn't care what external appearance meant anymore, the one instance where the words were finally complete.

Now he's gone.
And I wonder, constantly, how it might have been different.
But, above all else, I have my sense of self worth.
And I know that, whatever happens,
I will still feel beautiful.

my head belongs to a musician.

I just realized that I can add pictures to this.
We'll see how that goes...

Like the title suggests, my head belongs to a musician.
Nameless, faceless, just the right sized hands and heart.
I don't care what shape or frame he comes to me in.
Just, that he gets here real quick.

Singing songs to the midnight sky,
He knows expressions through the keys and tune.
Love in a true way,
Of no other.
I am always second best to the song;
And to me, this is more than perfectly okay.

Memories linger in his lines.
Slightly erratic and frantic.
So many workings inside his mind,
It's hard to keep track where I fit in.
But he knows how to keep himself just the right amount
of disorganized.
And I know how to keep him right under my eyes.

...
Sitting, waiting, wishing, I guess.
Class beckons, where dreams of haughty musicians have no place.
My veins in my hands are starting to show.
I am prominent.
Long day. Meet Happy Ending.

here we go, here we go, here we go again.

prelude : i literally just wrote my last entry and twenty seconds late found my fingers working their keyboard tap dance again. why is my head spinning so damn fast?

i am terrified of growing up.
not simply just afraid.
oh no,
it is so, so much worse than that.
i am literally dreading every second of time and what it's bringing with the turning of the clocks.

seriously?
doesn't everyone wish they were me, right now?
eighteen, bright-eyes and ready for everything?
yeah, that's what i thought.
i'm living but i haven't completely lived yet.
and i like it just this way.
"it's the best time of your life"
yeah.
i realize that.
you're only making it worse, you know.

it's not like i can do anything though,
which is perhaps the worst part of it all.
i could handle boogie men and all that jazz -
one swift look under the bedframe and my fears evaporated.
no so with this stupid new fear i've developed.
time ticks on.
no one, especially me, will change that.
so how do you accept that in which you cannot change?

i guess that's what i am trying to figure out right now.
i already feel like my youth is slowly dying.
i have responsibilities now. i don't want them, but there here.
i have a future to think about it (why do they call it the future, when you have to decide it n-o-w?)
i have a whole list of things i need to do in a very short time span : next month, next year, five years from now...twenty.
when i was seventeen, this "life" thing seemed a whole lot simpler, easier.
it was all about doing anything you want, limitless possibilities.
one year later and i feel like it's the end of the world.

and maybe it is.
maybe my personal world as i know it, is ending.
not completely.
just...this stage.

and all i know is...i'm fucking terrified.

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.