A Day

A good day in general. Cranked out an essay first period--no pre-writing, and managed to scrape a C on the maths test I was pretty sure I'd flat out failed. Then, I spent lunch hanging with Kathleen, but not Kevin, though I did almost say "Hi", but then I remembered that he'd put me off again. I supposed it to mean we needed space. Speaking of space, I just deactivated my facebook account, and plan to keep it deactivated until Thanksgiving, just so I don't fuck up my grades going into vacation. Also, in music, I brought my violin, and didn't fuck up to badly. It's a world of difference playing on my violin versus playing the crappy little school violin that I'm totally lucky to be allowed to play when I forget my violin like an irresponsible child (9 out of 10 times). In English we were talking Realism, and I always love talking everyone's head off in English. Good books we'll be reading next year; I know because I've already read them all. I hate to sound like a show-off when I'm talking about what I've read, but I hate even more to sound clueless when pressed for details which I can't remember for some of the books. But, good convo anyway. Then, Blake and Daniel gave me half of the credit for suggesting that they Unionize the Jazz Band, in order to form a resistance to their much hated Band Instructor; rather than count on the bravery of the general class population--to officially bring them together for negotiation, or mass class-dropping. They really hate that Band Director. He doesn't seem so awful to me, but I'd believe it, since so many have said horrible things about him. Esteban told the guy to fuck off some time ago, and was subsequently kicked out of the class-- I wonder why?!
He gave me his broken sunglasses as I was leaving, and for some reason I was still holding on to them when my dad and I were discussing my summer medical school thing that I was "nominated" for. He says it could mean a whole lot to colleges, so no matter the price, it's worth it. But, I have my doubts. Dad crashed into the curb, and busted a tire on my baby (the Prius) and I saw it too, I said "WATCH OUT FOR THE--" He didn't stop. Crunch. My baby! Then, we all freaked as the air quickly squeezed out of our tire. Dad didn't see the curb or the flat tire, but I did! So, we stopped and got a lift from Gretchen's Auto. Nice guy too. And, it was sort of fun being in a big truck. While we were waiting, I somehow managed to cut open my knuckle. A boy in a car that was passing by looked at me with frightened eyes when we made eye contact, for some reason, and there was the rear view mirror ornament's shadow over one of his eyes, and then in the middle of his forehead and on his mouth--a Christian Cross. It was a strange sight to see. I wonder what about me he found so frightening. The Auto man, Todd, I think his name was, said he was sort of glad his son wasn't too bright, cause it meant he'd have someone to boat with, and needn't waste money on college. I like his mentality. His son is in my year and goes to Milikan, where many of my friends go, so my Dad so naively said "He must know some of your friends." and Todd said, "Not if they're smart." And he laughed. Boy wouldn't that be an awesome life? To just boat and work on cars--things you enjoyed, and not have to worry about money or school. It makes me wonder. Then, I got home and wasted time on the banjitar. Esteban asked out my freshman friend Emily, and a bunch of other girls since me, apparently. I'm not surprised by this.

Oh yeah, and back on planet people...

Meghan got played by the devil. Her boyfriend cheated on her, she cried, but still took it better than I'd ever have been able to have.

Esteban seemed quite the man, rather protective, he even told me to give her his number just in case she needed someone to talk to---which she doesn't---aside from me, her multitudes of female friends, and her close family-- Meghan has a tight network of hopeful lads who were waiting for just such a chance to comfort her in her time of need. Meghan is drop-dead gorgeous, so I'm not surprised. I'm not even that stung by jealousy, Meghan is too much of a funny amazing friend to feel jealousy for, even when I suspect no act of manly heroism on Esteban's part would go without ulterior motives. But, at least it seems a kindly gesture, and we're on positive friend-like terms. It's great. You can't hope for more in men.

Nia and I are going to start an Indie Duet. Indie, because we know nothing else and because it's what we love and it's were we'd draw inspiration, and because though Nia is an amazing singer and guitarist, I hate a voice that was meant for showers and my guitar playing is clumsy at best. Lo-fi it is then!

I can substitute talent with passion, she can make up for my voice with her own talent. Things are good. I may even have something to look forward to! (O-m-g!)

Priorities

Get Decent Grades-

• Stop Checking Facebook
• Keep a To-Do List
• Stick to Schedule
• Work Now, Play Later
• Check Schoolloop Before Facebook
• Stop All Work at 10:00
• Don't Miss School

Stop Being A Whiny Dramatic Little Shit-

• If you have a problem, find out a way to solve it before you whine about it!
• If you haven't tried EVERYTHING then don't act like it's beyond your power
• If it is beyond your power seek quiet help, or forget about it
• Friends/Strangers/Acquaintances/Relativesfromoutofstate are not there to be your mother, your therapist, or your punching bag
• If you feel sick, go home, don't whine about it to everyone in the area. Nobody gives a fuck.
• Ask first how someone is doing before you launch into how you are feeling.
• Spend more time listening that talking

Clean Up Your Act-

• Start with your personal space, and work outward from there
• If you drink from a cup or plate, clean it up afterwards. Be responsible for what you've used.
• Fold clothes before the school week has started.
• Showers should last as long as you would be willing to wait for someone to shower before you.
• Keep your workspace organized
• Keep your backpack organized
• Recycle Unneeded Papers

Be The Better Person-

• Don't complain when you've been wronged, let others know that they can not harm you by moving on with your life.
• Do not put down anyone who is not there to defend themselves
• Don't assume that everyone is against you
• Don't take the defensive stance; don't argue or justify--just explain when asked. Don't assume you are being judged or persecuted. Don't play the guilty part. Don't play the victim. Say it as you see it, be sweet and open, not indignant.
• Don't cuss. If you must express anger, find a constructive way to express it.
• Don't regret what has been done, or what can not be fixed
• Don't look for the flaws in people and things, look for the highlights, and make it a point to bring them out, don't even put yourself down, because you may be putting down something in you that others have in common with you.

This Must Stop

Kitty Kendricks hey fern,guesswhathappened today?
ivegot anessay duetomorrowandmy stupid spacebarbroke......
17 hours ago · Comment · Like · See friendship
Nick Heiderman and Cassie Donahue like this.
Fern Siri Wilson Woahh. that actually looks kinda cool! I'm supposed to be doing a science lab I was supposed to do a week ago, but I can't face life atm. Or most of the time to be honest.
17 hours ago · Like
Kitty Kendricks lol,mostppl_cant....this.is.a.painintheASS....oh nd.im.finaly.going.tothe.counselor.tomorrow.
17 hours ago · Like
Fern Siri Wilson good.to.hear. :)
17 hours ago · Like
Kitty Kendricks haha.dont.mock.me.
its.cuz.i.need.new.meds.and.i.cannever.seethe.doc.so.idk.someof.myfriends.wantme.to.start.taking.antidepressants.cuzsomebody.triedto.commitsuicide.last.week.they.took.him.away.....
17 hours ago · Like
Fern Siri Wilson Shit, I've been on suicide watch at school all year, and all they do is call me in to talk to a bunch of different adults, and holy fucking shit the bookshelf was just bouncing up and down... I should go to sleep.
16 hours ago · Like
Fern Siri Wilson Yes, you should be on meds. No, they don't take you away if they can help it. They just talk to you until you regret the whole ordeal, and just want to go to sleep. My case has been classified as an "on campus suicide attempt". How ridiculous is that? But, no, they don't take you away. They'll just talk about wanting to help you until it hurts and you're willing to accept anything for a little peace and quiet in your head.
16 hours ago · Like
Kitty Kendricks suicide attempt???when??? why was i not informed?!?!?!?
all i want to do is sleep anyway. too many migraines and acid
3 hours ago · Like

Life just got Liveable

He spoke to me.
I had one of the shittiest days on record; academic failure, social failure, people told me that my new hair colour made me look like a witch, my friends were honest with me about it and said it looked pretty crappy, but as if to lessen the burden of my lack of visual appeal, they said "You'll be fine, because you're Fern."
Apparently, it is okay for me to look like shit, because I can handle it. Nice try, but no cigar.
Yesterday, Erika, Nia, Kitty, and I spent Halloween on second street. At Powell's Candy Shop we bought a surplus of candy cigarettes, and got a good laugh from inside The Coffee Bean, when Erika walked outside, stood by a man who was loitering in a similarly shady manner, and said "Nice night, eh?" to which the man replied with an equally farinaceous nod.
Then, having received his peripheral attention, she then proceeded to take out one of the candy cigarettes, from the shadow of the side which wasn't facing her audience, and produce a very disturbingly convincing puff of smoke; to which the observer's eyes widened.
Erika, now unable to keep a straight face, laughed, explained, shook hands, returned to her raucous viewers. We laughed until the sugar acid began to re-climb our throats, and then we stopped, "lit up", and laughed again-- a marvellous mixture of sugar, freedom, and adolescence created this euphoric geniality, that I've scarce seen with so many friends from such far corners of my life thrown together.
Nia's diplomatic and broad spectrum personality was really just about right for Kitty's dynamic bipolar personality, and Erika's eccentricity and love-of-life truly added to the congenial effect of the perfect magnum of characters they formed. I've never seen a meeting of friends of mine go so well.

So, here's the plan

10-21-2011
That's the end. Elliott's day. The day I intend to join him. Unless grandma is still around. That is the day that I'll be half his age on his death day.
I've decided that hanging is not my favourite method, because if you do survive that then you're even more brainfucked then you were before; for life.
Sleeping pills aren't such a bad idea; relatively painless, relaxing more or less. Melatonin won't do the job, so I'll have to steal some of Dad's pills. I know it'll be a few seconds of panic, right as I'm going under, and I'll be praying for someone to find me. But, it won't happen. It'll be for the best in the end.
Shooting, obviously, isn't an option, as I haven't even got a gun.
Stabbing as a tribute to Elliott could be one little addition. I ought to memorize that autopsy sketch, so I know right where to do it. I could practice.
Jumping is an option, but not a pretty one. I want to be presentable in death if I can help it.
Cutting my wrists open is another one too, but it's not even a 50-50 chance of succeeding then. Not too clean (unless done in a bath of warm water to speed up/clean up. It's just not very efficient, if you ask me.
Swallowing poison of other sorts, other kinds of od's, just aren't really as practical or atractive for me.

*************************

A change of plans.

Get sleep, take your meds, grow up, stop being a drama queen, think of things in perspective, don't follow in his footsteps, you can love him without being him, be yourself, alive, happy, and free. He chose is way (probably) and you have nothing to do with it. Don't obsess. Let tired souls rest. Don't join them just yet, not until you're sure you've seen the best that this life has to offer in return for all that you've been through, and cherish what you've learned.

Impulse

So, I bleached my hair. I feel like getting a tattoo, I made connections in detention, so I could get one for twenty bucks if I really wanted to. I don't want tb, so I'll wait on that one. I want to dye my hair pink. I want to get multiple peircings. I want to start smoking, start cutting (again), start sleeping around, and riding a motorcycle. I want to get a job and drop out of school. I want to have babies, ride with the hells angels, get addicted to heroin, and fuck up my life in general. I want to shoot a man for the sake of killing. I want to blow out my brains on the lockerroom walls. I want to fuck with the system. I want to get fucked by the system even worse than now. I want to get high.
And why? Because that's the antithesis of everything Esteban, my dear ex-boyflake, liked and knew about me. I want to show him something, teach him something, or just make him notice me again. I don't want to give a fuck about anyone or anything---especially me! I just want to fall like an angel, and fly like the damned. I can't decide I want and can't fucking decide who I am.

So, obviously I'm going to get nothing done today. Even if I try I'll get; distracted, thoughtful, inspired, burnt-out, etc...and generally nowhere! So, why bother freaking out about the fact that I have so much to do, and so little desire to do anything? It's best just to accept the fact that I am getting nowhere today. All-right. Now what?

TO DO

1.) Math Project
2.) History Chapter 10
3.) Potato Lab Averages
4.) Fix Enzyme Lab Intro
5.) Read more of Huckleberry Finn
6.) Math Assignment # 15
7.) Study Assignment # 14

Help!

So depressing. Reading depressing book. Song fits in perfectly. Poor Connie. Freedom is great.

Some Music

Banjitar

Daddy surprised me with the beautiful banjo-guitar... my life is complete, can't wait to get home and feel the caress of those strings.

Just Thinking

There has got to be more to life than sitting in this school caf. There has got to be more to life than homework, and service learning, and 4.0's.
There has got to be something.

2days ago

Laugh your ass off. Mum, you there, in a third world country. Aren't you pretty? Look at your baby. You are without your husband what a pity you seem. That's such a tragic picture, you're an expert on that scene.

Where is the Songbird?

Chorus, but where is Kathleen? She lost her voice, and yesterday it hurt her so greatly. If we could trade voices, right here, right now, I would give her my own (and hope it serve her well).

People

People can be such a bitch. It is so easy for some of those talented talkers to find something about you to needle at. No shoes. Yep. No fucking shoes, and it's raining. There is no sympathy in that statement. It is just that, a statement, and no more. Life has no sympathy, rain is what you asked for, but not in your slippers. Footprints that follow my step, mud, conforming to the contours of the pedestrian vehicle. That's my mark. I am the girl without shoes. Life can be such a bitch.

This morning I had no time to be living, to sleep, to breathe, to find my converse, and kick out the door. Instead, I was sluggish, and shoeless, self concious. Obsessed with mistakes of the past, things that nobody could fix. Perhaps it is as they say. Things happen as they are meant to happen, all of this to teach me a lesson; the significance of which I can't even fathom until all is dead and gone, and I, ragged. Shoeless, cold, shivering in my own rage, self pity, and human humilliation.

Read me a symphony, sing my life backwards. I want nothing more than any needy human; to feel loved and understood.

I want to overcome my jealousy, overcome my obsessiveness. I want to triumph over evil. I hate fearing it is myself. I fall into submission, to life, to all worth living, all that makes it so hard to justify continuing sometimes. I want to get past this feeble minded phase, to awake into myself, to feel I'm in the right place.

It isn't like I'm the only one who feels this way, who fears these things, who gives in to hate-- hatred of self and people less than hatred of the situation.

I need to get situated in this skin of mine, that still doesn't fit me after 16 years. I can't stretch and be satisfied. I need more room, I need a safe place to hide. But, I can't.

Chorus in the Morning

There is power there. The violins, the viola, the cello--- the singers. This beauty. This power. I'm so tired. This is bliss. This is life. This is love. This is pain and joy all at once and carried in slow eras of change. Eric and Dylan would be changed. I read their journals with an obsessive rush. Rammstein, Marilyn Manson, NIN, we have that much in common. I'm obsessed with Suicide. I wish to go back in time to prevent it. Elliott Smith, those poor school shooters, bullied girls and boys of every colour and creed.
This is my obsession. Humans are my weakness. Boys and Girls, here we are philosophising, and making ourselves sick over much of nothing. I wonder who keeps journals anymore.
Dylan, Eric, why?
Why, why, why? That's the question you wanted me to ask isn't it? Or how, or how could everyone have been so stupid. But, you already knew. I've read the doctrine, I've cried the stuff of humanity. I've hated, I've loved, I've done both so vehemently as to make a nobel comparison.
I've fantasized about lovers, killers, life and death. I've done that. Dylan, I wish you'd let yourself live for her. I know how it feels to be lost to your own best friend. I know isolation. Externally connected, almost externally connected. But, I feel these walls of silence. I don't belong here, where I belong, I don't belong anywhere, not in my own skin.
Skin, haha, I realize now. Your doctrine made us impossible. You would have hated me.
Kathleen's beautiful wasian, human, angel voice, the harmonics on the violin. The sonoros voices of the basses. Build, build, build it.
The power of music. It keeps me on this Earth. I am too small to live without it. I used to feel big. I still feel awkward.
Trill, strings, that frenzied movement. The voices building so cataclyzmic a force I've never known. Devistation.
Break, break, break, slowly. Aural orgazims.
That is music, that is the substance of life, that is the sustanance of humanity, all that is, all I know.
Dylan, did you listen to music the way I do?
Halleigh-looo-yeh. Had to say it. Someone had to say it.
Hebrew Love Songs.
The accented voice of the singer. Kathleen, I could listen to this choir forever. I really could.
Eric, beautiful boy, angry boy, godly boy, that's what you wanted, now isn't it?
Dylan, intelligent, passionate, beautiful boy. Beautiful from the inside out. I am perfectly convinced that you were murdered, whereas Eric was a killer angel, Lucifer, a fallen angel.
Fallen from her grace, Dylan, why?
I wish I could trade places with you.
I was alive, you know, just pretty young. I was a thinking, breathing, wanting being when you still hoped for a reason to believe in something.
Music. Music.
Dylan, you make my soul ache. I've known your pain now. I understand you.
Eric, I understand so little, yet so much of your mind. You were god, the devil, now that's what you want me to think, isn't it?
Dylan, you can't make me think anything but the truth. You were wounded early. I've been injured too. I can't imagine I'll ever meet anyone like you, anyone who kept journals.

Whatshisname

This morning I thought I saw him riding his bike past my house. Funny, how things work out, I thought I was so past this "seeing him everywhere" when I don't see him at all thing. Ashley says I should simply read Yaoi, watch something that pleases me like that, she's probably right. The sooner I grow attatched to another, the sooner I stop suffering and forget him...or actually, forgetting him is the end to all suffering.
I don't feel things the same way anymore.
My mother is moving to another country...and the choir is singing this Bach Choral in a beautiful sad key. Oh, Bach, you knew this pain, didn't you? It is a divine wrath, is love. Dissonance, oh great breaking of voices. That is my heart. Opened up on the surgeon's silver table.
She's taking Ben too. She wants him to grow up in a 3rd world country.

Somebody that I Used to Know

We broke up yesterday. Elliott Smith spoke for me, when emotions screamed obscenities, and my friends, his friends were telling me to say something really nasty while I had this one oppertunity to get him with his gaurd down. In stead I said this "I guess you're just somebody that I used to know".

What is this fear?

What is this fear? Unknown? Nay, but it is known-- it is failure. Fear of failure. The failure is fear, and fear of failing. I fear failure.

Every moment spent thinking of something other than you, is a moment well spent.

So, He doesn't want to hear it

Well, I guess that makes sense...
My estranged twin-sister's estranged older brother no longer wants to hear me whine about how much I miss Esteban.
That makes sense.

In Choir

A hungry heart grows fat on the swelling fruits of their labour. The music...ahh, the music. I am stationed in the back of the class, by the basses, but on the Soprano's side of the room. It's my morning Eulogy that makes my heart surge with the love of life, death (which is as much a part of life as birth), oh music, dissonant, beautiful, layers of the delighful derge. I wish I wish I wish.
Esteban, what mistakes do you speak of?
Oh, music, completing me with this most perfect exaltation and pain, deliverance from the evils that are born in a silence of mind. This is my religeon.
Music, beauty, worship the wind, give thanks to the music.
Pray to the power of nature and little people.
Music, music, my drug, my escape.
My only understanding of the incomprehensible thing that is life, substance, and subtle chord changes.

Choral Warm Ups

Shh shh shh shh.
Shh t ck t ch.
Rrah rr rah.
"Some of you are going asian rllr rllr rllr rllr." Laughter
Clap-Clap clapclapclap.
1&2&3&4&
This awesome asian choir director is great :)

Grandma's Anniversary

75 years ago, Grandma and Grandpa eloped.

For Sam, with Love and Squalor

Fuck, I'm an idiot.

I guess it really was all my fault. Never should have told you that I was thinking of terminating my life. Nope, you can't stand me now. Let's see if you show up on Saturday.

Me

I am Failure's self fulfilling prophesy

If You Really Knew Me

If you really knew me, you'd know that I learned to care for myself and one small child at the age of 6, because I had no choice. If you really knew me, you'd know how much it hurt to call Grammy on the phone and tell her that Mum was gone, for good. You'd know how hard it has been to listen to Mum speak of Grammy now, ten years later, with that spiteful tone I've come to know so well. You'd know that I've thought good an hard about life, and most of the time, I've managed to come out alive. You'd know that it isn't easy to be tired, because you are stressed, and depressed, and an insomniac, and then to get to school and have all of your friends treat you like that "lovable slacker" the class idiot-- when you've worked your whole life from dusk to dawn just to stay alive, to get to where you are--- or at least if you knew that I felt that way, you might at least pretend to understand, "...alright, okay, I get it...". If you knew me, you'd know that I feel like a stranger in my own skin, and that it isn't easy, but it can be beautiful at times to be when you've gone through those moments of nearly not-being. If you really knew me, you'd stop looking at me that way, with that too-knowing-to-get-it face. I think I can read that expression, at least. I fear failure, I fear it more than death, and I hate loneliness, and I fear people to death.

If you really knew me, would you still want to know me?

Chorus

only in chorus can a grown male sing the soprano part without making things rather awkward. i love it here. i could stay all day. their voices, rising, falling, the singing... like no joy to be known.

esteban is on new meds, so am i. we are both just two headcases, trying to survive this life. boots is my savior, the big brother i never had. every girl needs a big brother to fill that frightening space in her arms, where no father or little brother could ever go.

i do believe i love esteban, but in a teenaged way with my half developed brain.

My Musings

Depression is my muse. Music is my oxygen. You are my narcotic blood, you are my substance.

Romeo and Juliet live to regret it

thats what happens when it goes that fast.

a couple days of silence, the positive impressions fade fast. i dont mean to bitch, and i dont want to be clingy, i just want to know so bad what happened, but what good would that do me? oh, love is such a flighty thing. i was still in the infatuation phase, but he grew out of me as fast as i feared it would be, and now i dont know if im overreacting or standing over a dead horse in the middle of the desert. god that was quick and sweet but not painless by any stretch of the imagination. im pretty sure im not overreacting. he met someone today, and he hasnt ever felt this way before apparently, but neither did i. oh well, call it a learning expirience or something mockingly mild. heres to the first of a million heartbreaks. i dont even dare to hope that it isnt over, because it is, hes never felt as he did meeting whoever she is today, and now im obsolete, used, and dissatisfied. oh woe is me. we didnt die i guess. it isnt pleasent even so. god, i cant hate him, i cant hate her, whoever she is for making him feel this way. i can only miss the way it feels to be the one to make him feel that way, if i ever really did.

Oh, to be Remembered

last saturday night

couldnt turn out the light,

well i physically could,

but it shon in my mind

until the first of morning.

i read each word with a smile

feeling too great to consider

that minds change all the time

but, oh that is bitter.

but its probably right,

because thats the way it went

now it pains me, the silence,

just one friday later.

hormones have control,

its not that you are evil

its just how it feels, naturally incapable

mother nature is a whore

and try as i might

i cant take being ignored

its flight, fuck, and fight

and then its all over

but try as i might

i cant seem to get over this.

congratulations,

you got me good,

dont fuck with my head

tell me just how you feel

help me stop loving you.

oh how i hate your guts

infatuation

oh, i dont hate you estranged love,

i just hate the situation.

we dont need to fight,

maybe i was demanding

i dont want to stay up tonight,

thinking, so tell me,

we are just short on understanding.

trying to figure you out

without your help

trying to live through my doubt

but now theyre confirmed

i am hating

Things Fall Apart

That's just what happens.

Angst Blog...needs a break.

time to think positive. the choir is amazing. their broken chords resonating off of these high walls, they make me feel religeous, uplifted. im an athiest. typing here on my cell phone, i must look like i am texting, how rude. how could anyone. they stand up and face each other, basses and sopranos, boys and girls, making music. this is life, this is love, this is power, this is music. life is good.

If I am going to do nothing, I might as well do it right

Lalalalalalalala.

Homework is a pain in the butt.

I can't focus on anything. No, it's not facebook. Even when the computer is off I stare unproductively into space.

Lost all creativity? Perhaps, perhaps. Feeling like shit randomly? It's to be expected of me. One moment, all is well. I am the happiest young empty-head in all of SmogVille. Then, suddenly, I am here, being an "emo douche bag" and telling the world that I am unhappy, all of a sudden, for no apparent reason.

Get a life.

Get a life.

Get a life.

Get a life.. Fuck.

The Good Stuff

Esteban.

Stan is in college, and it doesn't suck.

Sam isn't talking to me, but she didn't manage to hit an artery, so everything's okay.

Mum said she is considering beginning to forgive my grandmother for whatever injustices she feels were done, all because of Church. I been without faith since the age of seven, but if anything can move my mother to forgive, it is good in my book. I go to church on Sunday with her and pretend to sense a spirit, and then try to telepathically send my "positive" vibes and well-wishing brainwaves to everyone around me, because they are praying for me, and I know that they must feel something.

Grandma cried for joy, having lived to be 95 and here to present me with the gifts she set aside for me, as an infant, to have on my 16th birthday.

Dylan is taking me to the premier of his movie tomorrow.

I am going to see Esteban tomorrow.

Esteban kissed me today, and I licked his fingers, and loved the taste of salt and living, and I loved the smell of his breath, it was minty and yet different from your average minty gum scent, it was beautiful, and he was gorgeous, and he was going Vampire on my neck, and if that was the joy of just having him touch my skin there, then I can't imagine what it is like to have sex.

He is heaven. I don't know what he sees in me. I will probably bore him in a week, I'm not that interesting, but for now I just want to trace the intricacies of his beautiful living face, and I was to taste the salt on his skin, and I want to go insane with my adolescent hormones raging through every blood vessel and the charge that explodes through every neuron, neurotransmitter, and synapse.

Today was perfect in every way.

I got two hours of sleep last night, wide awake with excitement, then I woke up already tingling with energy and momentum, and then I was at school, and it seemed like ages waiting for him. Then, he was there. It wasn't my wild imagination, he was there, and I wanted to cave into him.

I'm just as dramatic as ever.

But, I am finally beginning to understand Romeo and Juliet. I was their #1 critic last year, I argued "infatuation, it's only this, and nothing near to love they are feeling", but now my teen-aged brain understands the exact sort of throb they were feeling. We really met last week, but already it feels like we've always been, and it's completely right.

I doubt we will last, I mean-- look at poor Juliet. If I don't get over myself and learn to slow-the-fuck-down I'll end up just like her; dead or worse.

I don't want to slow down. Every fibre of my being calls me on, and I am a slave to that. I love the feeling I feel for him right now. I love every moment of his presence. Now I understand that hollow feeling of alone that for all these years I never understood. I never knew loneliness was the meaning, but now I feel the tug of future loneliness, but more than that, I feel the gravity of all I feel with him, and Esteban alone, at this very moment.

It's almost like it was written in the stars. I feel for Romeo,

"I fear, too early: for my mind misgives

Some consequence yet hanging in the stars

Shall bitterly begin his fearful date

With this night's revels and expire the term

Of a despised life closed in my breast

By some vile forfeit of untimely death.

But He, that hath the steerage of my course,

Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen."

Do those stars that shine so bright tonight, hidden behind their shroud of smog truly wink of knowing fate, or do they wink in the wake of this "love", as they would have it.

Good god, I hope it means something, it really does feel that way. My first. My first.

I love to put my hand in his, so that we are palm to palm, and I secretly recite my lines in my head:

"Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,

Which mannerly devotion shows in this;

For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,

And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."

First the Bad News (Good Riddance)

On the last night of my fifteenth year, I planned my suicide. I feared what was to come, or maybe I just didn't even want to stick around to see it get any worse... so I wrote this note to my best friend Sam. Sam, if you are reading this (which I sort of doubt)-- I'm sorry. I needed to post this here to get it off my conscience, and I suppose this would seem counter productive, but it really does help to expose myself from the inside out sometimes. It'll help me get over myself.

So, here it is, word for word, from that stupid suicidal message I sent you. I hope you don't hate me for this, but I think you do, and I know I deserve it.

Fern James Sirius Wilson 12 September at 19:07

Well, I suppose it's time to start over again. Funny, this is a probable end. It's been a while since we've really spoken. I hope all has been well since then. Actually, that's a sort of empty phrase, now isn't it. I'm sorry, but I couldn't think or anything better to say. I miss you Sammy. I miss a lot of things. Tomorrow is my Birthday, everything went wrong today. Isn't it pathetic, how I come to you when I am at my lowest point, when there have been so many better days I could have chosen to have spoken of. Sadly, I'm that type of attention needing parasites. Don't mind me, please. I only wanted to say "I tried", and I failed. Like I always have seemed to. This isn't the end of the world... far from it. One end is the start of so many things. Funny, as I come to the end, all I want to do is start over again...so I will.
It draws to the end, to start over again.
It draws to the end, to start over again.
All things considered, I picked a good time to try. Start again, or die trying. Try dying, or start again. I have options, options, a million options. This is not my last resort, this is just a small comfort in knowing. I need never go without having given my soul to somebody. Hopefully it isn't too heavy.
I never forgot what it was to be a twin, I swear I didn't I never considered such a thing. I never forgot that there was hope, or love, or so much more in the world. I just was too tired to think of them any more.
I'm sorry for everything, except I'm not sorry for you. You were the best twin any friend could have asked for.
I'm not dying, I'm not ending a life. I'm just looking for the beginning, at the 16th circle, on the other side of the final verse.

Yesterday a child came out to wander
Caught a dragonfly insider a jar
Fearful when the skies are full of thunder
And tearful at the falling of a star.

And the seasons, they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captive on a carousel of time.
We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came
And go round and round and round in the circle game.

Now the child's grown 10 times round the seasons
Skated over 10 clear frozen streams
Words like "when you're older" must appease him
And promises of someday make his dreams

And the seasons, they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captive on a carousel of time.
We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came
And go round and round and round in the circle game.

Sixteen springs and sixteen summers gone now
Cartwheels turn to car wheels through the town
And they tell him "take your time it wont be long now"
Till you drag your feet to slow that circle down

And the seasons, they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captive on a carousel of time.
We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came
And go round and round and round in the circle game.

Now the child of yesterday's grown twenty
although some dreams are lost, some grandures coming true
there'll be new dreams, maybe better dreams and plenty
before the last revolving year is through

And the seasons, they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down.
We're captive on a carousel of time.
We can't return, we can only look behind from where we came
And go round and round and round in the circle game.


Sixteen Springs and Sixteen Summers
Gone Now.

Strange isn't it?

Sixteen Winters of regret for a young mother, and Sixteen Falls for me.

Sixteen years of the reds and yellows. Sixteen, and yet; I am a child.

I don't expect anyone to read all of this. It is not ready, I am not ready for life. Stupid, isn't it. I've spun in circles and I can't seem to find any balance, after all this time.

No, I'm not dying.

At the beginning of this message I died, and by the end I'd circled back around to the child with the captured dragonfly.

Actually, again, you've made me better. Without even speaking to me, I think of you, and I remember--- I've got to be around until we are old wasian ladies trying to count back the circles together.


It hurts so much right now, when everything is wrong, and I'm not ready to spin circles in my new phase of life--- I'm not, I'm not ready at all.

I'm crying, for what reason? Plenty of reasons. I can't even narrow them down to 3.

I've been living a figure 8. Today I went to Church, and it was Sunday. Tonight, I have more homework than I can dream of doing.

Tomorrow my alarm will go off at 4:30. I will silently stumble about in an attempt to get collected for school. I'll shower, and feel almost better, but then I'll get to school, and in AP US History I will probably just try not to cry when they do "Today in History". Happy Birthday Justine, Happy Birthday Fiona Apple.

Make no mention of me, I am bruised, I am rattled.

I am lame, I am childish. Yet, I want nothing at all but not to finish this last stage in life with stale tears in my eyes.

I hate being dramatic.

No, I am dramatic. I hate me.

But, your likeness to me softens the hatred I see in my mirrored eyes.

I can hardly wait to see what tonight will bring. Whether it is the 16th year, or if it will come for me--- I don't know. I wont remember, either way, by morning.

Goodbye, or maybe Farewell.

Either see you later, or I hope all stays well.

Either don't bother responding, there will be nobody to receive another letter of interaction. Or, maybe we will speak again, I hope, some day.

I hate feeling like we've fallen out or something.

I hate feeling though, in general, fucking beautiful substance of being--- torture, truth, lies, and believing.

Goodnight, Sam. This isn't goodbye, I think. Maybe it is, I suppose my mind and body will decide that. I don't know. I just don't know.

Well, there it is. There I am, from the inside out.

My Weakness - Requiem For A Dream

This song is rather depressing and uplifting all at once. Put it into any number of contexts-- it is versatile.


He says he's off drugs now. For good. Good god, I hope I can believe him. I hope she keeps him off of them.

Losing out isn't what is so acutely painful; it was seeing him turn into someone I didn't know, from afar. I only caught little glimpses of him, and what I saw scared me.

He told me not to abuse drugs, now didn't he? He said, don't OD. Right?

Well, that was some example.

Good god, I hope he means it when he says he's done with them.

Turning 16

I'm scared.

Don't ask me what for, but I am.

Of turning 16 in nine days, being dead, being older.

They are all the same thing.

I wanted to stop aging when I was ten years old. I stood in the breakfast room on my thirteenth birthday and said "Oh, Man, before I know it, I'll be fifteen years old. I can hardly think about it." Too scary. It still is, and I'm 15. And I'll be 16 before I even get used to being 15. I wish I was 13 again. I wish I was 14.

I remember, the day of my 13th birthday, I took a quiz in Biology, and would have gotten 100% if I hadn't missed #13. Then, I knew that it would be a shitty transition, that all of the transitions afterward would be respectively shitty and missing, and too fast, too confusing, and quickly fired from point blank.

I should have known, but I did know. I still do know.

Here's to being 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.

I see you too, Miss 21 year old me.

Shit, that was fast, what the hell happened? How did you get so old so fast?

Take a lesson from the past, and a word of caution.

DON'T LET IT PASS YOU BY!

Good luck with aging, wrinkles, and sagging tits.

Love,

You.

Reasons To Hate Me

1. I whine, like this, a lot.
2. I am pretty damn ugly.
3. I am getting pretty chunky.
4. I am pretty stupid.
5. I pulled down our class average with my stupidity.
6. I can't dress like a human being.
7. I am a subconscious attention whore; I think I am depressed and suicidal, and ugly, and stupid, when I probably just want attention or something.
8. I still have urges to cut, two years after I realized that being stupid and branding myself for life wasn't going to solve any of my problems, or make me any friends.
9. I am a leech, I pull down lab groups with my uselessness and the fact that I am incapable of doing anything right, even if I try.
10. I waste time like this.
11. I want to be a good student, I admire the good students, I thumb my nose at Marijuana and Ecstasy and the Parties that I'm not invited to, while I secretly envy those who at least get to feel for a moment like they are a part of something cool and big.
12. I want and want and want.
13. I hate aging, with a passion.
14. I hate being patronized.
15. I hate feeling old.
16. I hate the fact that I will be Sixteen Years Old in less than ten days.
17. I hate the fact that school starts on Wednesday.
18. I already feel like I have forgotten something, and that I will fail, start off on the wrong foot, and prove what am idiot I am to the world again (not that they needed further evidence of my idiocy).
19. I plan to kill myself after my Grandmother, the one person who truly loves me for who I am, completely, and who has always loved me, is gone. She is 95.
20. I am the root of all evil.
21. My friends all know I am stupid, I make it clear that I am stupid, and yet I still feel hurt, secretly, when I am made to feel even stupider by one of their statements of the obvious.
22. My friends are all wonderful, talented, hard working, and perfect.
23. I work hard, achieve nothing, and want everything.
24. I am a nobody with few to no reasons to live.
25. I am a fat-ass who consumes her weight in an attempt to fill her vacuous soul.
26. I am empty headed, uncreative, and unoriginal.
27. I am a whiny, melodramatic, and short sighted teenager.
28. I am not in love.
29. Not many love me.
30. A few hate me, maybe more.
31. I feel like I have no meaning, no significance, like if I was gone nobody would notice, and those who did would not think of it for long.
32. I always feel inadequate.
33. I always feel ugly.
34. I always feel unprepared, even when I have prepared and rehearsed my lines.
35. I am selfish.
36. I feel victimized, even though I have not been victimized as much as some people who have done many great things without whining about their lousy upbringing.
37. I have no discipline.
38. I want to identify with the academic elite, but I envy my partying friends who have "lives".
39. I don't fit in with the academic elite.
40. I am not rich enough to be invited to their parties.
41. I am not cool enough to be invited to "real" parties.
42. I am not talented enough to give my parents anything to brag about to other parents.
43. I would be embarrassed and ashamed if my parents ever did brag about me.
44. I am never satisfied with what I've got.
45. I always envy others with other lives.
46. I don't remember who I am, or who I want to be.
47. I don't know anything good about me.
48. I don't know what it is, exactly, but there is something that I just generally hate about me.
49. I hate school.
50. I am jealous of people who seem to be comfortable in almost any situation, and who seem to drift through any social medium.
51. I am jealous of people who have better things to do than mingle with others.
52. I am jealous of the beautiful and skinny girls.
53. I am jealous of the rich boys.
54. I am jealous of the happy people.
55. I am jealous of the successful people.
56. I want to be more like all of them, and less like this amorphous brainless mass of nothing I have become.
57. I want to be more like who I was before I was nothing.
58. I want to be myself, an individual, and someone.
59. I don't want to be singled out and shunned any-more.
60. I don't want to have to deal with the guys who just want to mess around with me, just for the fun of it, the ones who just want to make me look stupid to make them look funny.
61. I don't want to hate.
62. I don't want to love.
63. I don't want to be numb.
64. I don't like Peanut Butter.
65. I don't like meat.
66. I don't like leather.
67. I am sometimes tempted to look at leather book binding.
68. I want to revert to skinny and anorexic like I used to be.
69. I don't want to revert, because of my brain, which I want more than anything to be growing.
70. I should be asleep.
71. I've accomplished nothing.
72. There are two days left before school starts.
73. I want to cry when I think of returning to the nest of my growing insecurities.
74. I want to die, and want to live, and want to be loved and noticed and ignored and invisible all at once.
75. I am Bi-polar.
76. I should have been born a boy, but instead I was born a girl, too assertive and argumentative for any man's taste.
77. When I cooled down and became quiet, and depressed, and empty they didn't care for me any more than they did before I was stupid.
78. I can't seem to stop being stupid now.
79. I should be asleep.
80. I can't sleep.
81. I'm wasting time here.
82. I'm stupid.
83. Time is running out.
84. I hate myself and I want to die.
85. I hate myself
86. I hate myself
87. I hate myself
88. I hate myself
89. I hate myself.
90. I want to change my name, but then I'd feel like a changeling.
91. I feel rather stupid and depressed and then I'm suddenly happy.
92. I'm not worth anything.
93. I have no money.
94. My ambitions lead me to disappointment.
95. I can't do anything.
96. I am slow.
97. I am melodramatic.
98. I must crave attention.
99. I must somehow want to be dramatic.
100. I am a lonely piece of shit.

乃尺丹⼯れ 刀丹爪丹ムモ?

Yesterday, I took a blow to the head.
How came the shoe to be air-born, I can not tell in right. The essence remains; Or rather, what remains is without essence: my brain shattered? Perhaps splicéd in deux?
Lately, which of the two, I know not, having been of late, a dead minded fool, not of two which I know.
Half of me is missing; my left side, I presume...well, that is the two my hearing just went optimal. What the hell was that?
Haha, my neck is sore.

匚尺丹乙ㄚ ち卄⼯匕. モ卄?

Now my brain feels cleaved it half.

The sad part is, the only organ I care for is the brain--the others are just intermediate goods, good for nothing but sustaining it.

What a pity, and my hearing too?
The only sense I could care for.

If I were to lose my senses, I would rather lose these:
1st- Lose my Sense of Taste- Taste is a trivial matter, devised by the gods and their buddies; the sugar pushing corporations; to only confound the mind into thinking that what is good for you is not, and what will give you diabetes is good. I would not miss much without my sense of taste-- and without my tongue having any predilection towards any evil--say Nutella--and no bias against salad and high-fiber cereal-- I'd probably gain a few years, and loose a few pounds. Now, I'm not advocating the loss of taste-- I suppose it would be tragic not to be able to salivate over a piece of foil-wrapped death every so often-- but that would only be a small scale catastrophe.

Whereas, if I were to lose my second least important sense: 2nd- my sense of smell-- some harm could come of the mild solace one must have knowing that; the next time your one of thirteen year old brother's compatriots leaves you something to remember him by, when you were intending to take a shower, on a hot summer's day--; you needn't remember a thing. The down side I mention, of course, being on the off-chance that one of those violent half-pints does manage to make something that would effectively destroy all enemy units; you could walk in there, oblivious to this odious invention, and would unknowingly have walked into a deathtrap, and you would likely asphyxiate on the fumes.

The next sense I'd loose would be that of tactile awareness---to some extent my 3rd choice would be lovely, even now; my head hurts after having come into contact with a heavy projectile just yesterday, I itch all over from my house's bone-dry air, and so much more; all of that would no longer be a problem. To lose my sense of touch would certainly be a determent to my health, at least on a superficial level-- perhaps even putting me at risk for infection; but it isn't high on my priorities, when placed beside the last two senses I'd part with.

The 4th sense I would part with would be my vision; this would be tragic-- no reading, no seeing, no describing the colors, or the shapes, and lights-- this would probably destroy me.

The 5th, however, would be my hearing-- who's inevitable loss saddens and frightens me intensely. I have very acute hearing-- this I suppose makes me hard to live with; and despite the fact that my super-hearing makes me an incredibly light sleeper, and pains me whenever there is noise; often perceived as moderately loud by other people; to which I have been subjected-- I still love my hearing. My hearing is the medium through which one soul flows into me-- via the magic of music. My ability to hear those notes in there, that other people have to strain to detect; that is my love. It is not about a talent, or a smug "Do you hear what I hear?... Didn't think so!", it isn't even a talent; it's a gift; but it's not about being gifted, or lucky, or special, or different; hell if I had it my way, other people would not be able to destroy my precious hearing on a daily basis. I am greedy about my hearing, I cherish it. I snap at those who yell in my ears-- and when people are doing that unutterably loud construction outside my window, when I am hoping to be able to hear the music I love until the day I die, I could kill! I love my hearing, because it is the divine medium through which music is transferred; I keep my speakers on low volume, to reduce the risk of the musical equivalent to STD's--hearing loss that comes from enjoying your loud music with too much of that wave generating passion. I love my life only when I am surrounded by music-- which speaks to me in ways that are impossible to convey through words-- it shows me pictures that are impossible to create in the minimalistic color pallet provided by the human spectrum of vision. I can't hardly bring myself to imagine that this privilege of hearing is so very temporary granted; a privilege of youth that is so prematurely snatched in old age.

Anyway, my ADHD has taken down another road; and with Finals Week looming like an impenetrable cloud of sulfurous shit crystals and CO2; I've haven't the time to see where it leads me, so it's time to backtrack again, and do what I am supposed to be doing.

Pretty sure I failed the Geometry Final-- which nearly destroyed my vision in those late study hours-- which was the reason for my long blogging hiatus; and speaking of Failure, I'd better do my homework now. Otherwise, I might end up failing every class, and that would be a bummer.
I'm being paranoid about brain damage-- just another form of work avoidance; it's probably just a tension headache and sore shoulders.

Let's forget it happened, and see if I still feel like I've had a hemorrhage after my work is all done.

Never heard anyone say, "I Love You", so Coldly.

So, she sounded okay on the phone. But, then she got here. Never heard it so coldly.

What I didn't turn in:

Why I Didn't Write A Concert Report

I was sick to the stomach in 7th period, today. I was nervous, but there were no tests to fear, so it didn't make sense at the time. But, now it does. As it did, at 5:00. My mother called, at said time– she insisted that she was coming over, and that she was going to bring my sick brother some soup. Funny, how she didn't know that I had been sick; sicker than my brother; before he even contracted a mild cough and high fever, until after the fact, when my father suggested– by phone of course, and through an interpreter– that my brother had come down with whatever I'd had.
It took a moment, I imagine, for my existence to register again, with my mother. It was interesting talking to her on the phone, again, today. She used to call pretty often– sometimes twice in only one week– before our great falling-out; and it was almost like old times again, tonight. Back then, however; conversations consisted of “Has your brother eaten?” “Yes. How are you?” “-Click-” and by click, I do not mean that my mother clicked in any way – but I am rather, referring to the audible snub that followed any further attempts at conversation. I don't know exactly know how to recreate the sound of the silence that followed such calls, but I suppose you could compare it to a flat-line, on an EKG. Tonight's conversation, however, featured a all new addition– she actually waited to hear my responses– to questions pertaining to my brother, of course, but she listened, nonetheless .
I haven't even considered inquiring about the fate of the flowers; I haven't asked my brother, as to whether or not my mother ever looked at her Mother's Day present– not quite wishing to know the answer. While I have my suspicions, my brother would know first hand, having been there with my mother since mothers day. It had been longer for me, since she wasn't in the mood to grace me with her presence, on Mother's Day. In all honesty, I'm too tired to write now.
I would have related something to each of the pieces at the concert, maybe I would have even written something intelligent and heartfelt. But, I've lost my muse, and now the only piece, in that entire concert, I can think of is Northern Lights. Northern Lights, the song that I read was about the angst the composer endured after the death of his mother. Well, I've lost something, and a mother has something to do with it, but isn't quite the same as a dead mother. It's more like the angst of one who has been disowned and then expected to smile for a picture. I got her to say “I love you.”, funny; I've never actually heard anyone say “I love you.” so coldly. It was like she was saying one thing, and implying the contrary. Funny woman. I guess I'm ranting, and getting nowhere. Oh-well, my thoughts are all written in that pamphlet – my original impressions, that is, from the night of the concert, during the experience itself.
Just snapped at my father for no reason. Feel stupid and ungrateful. Should go to bed, before I think anything else.

A Fond Farewell - Elliott Smith

The Litebrite's now Black and White
Cause you took apart a picture that wasn't right
Pitch burning on a shining sheet
The only maker that you want to meet
A dying man in a living room
Who's shadow paces the floor
Who'll take you out in the open door
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what i'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
Fond farewell to a friend
He said Really, I just wanna dance
Good and Evil matched perfect, it's a great romance
I can deal with some psychic pain
If it'll slow down my higher brain
Veins full of disappearing ink
Vomiting in the kitchen sink
Disconnecting from the missing link
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
Fond farewell to a friend
I see you're leaving me and taking up with the enemy
The cold comfort of the in between
A little less than a human being
A little less than a happy high
A little less than a suicide
The only things that you really tried
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
It's not what I'm like
It's just a fond farewell to a friend
Who couldn't get things right
Fond farewell to a friend
This is not my life
It's just a fond farewell to a friend

Figure 8 Elliott Smith

I am not going to music camp this summer.
I managed to complicate things for myself, thereby screwing things up for the entire summer.
I am working on geometry, but no matter how hard I try, I always end up circling back to the same place in Math..and everything else.

Memoir Draft .75

Memoir (for English class) Draft .75, idea 4...
Yes, I'm aware of the mistakes-- they were deliberate (the majority of the time). I need some constructive criticism..

Yellow is Mama's favret colour for flowers. Trouble know this becus Trouble have alwas known this. Trouble have alwas known everthing there is to know about her. Becus that is what family is for. Renembring things like favret colours. To renembr her flowers. Mama is grownup so Trouble can count on her favrets never to change. Favrets change like clothing for kids. One minet is red. Then was red. Sometimes they dont even know what is or was anymore. Grownups are forever to remane in their ways. Mothers must never change. For a kid's sake. So it is alwas easy to renembr wich flowers to take her, when you find some peeking their blonde petels out of park grass.

This is how Trouble came to be standing before one closed end of a shut door, basket awkwardly held out in Trouble's reddening hands, and in basket, yellow flowers, partially smothered. All for she; she who would not receive them. She who would never receive Trouble. Sunday, May 9th, twenty-ten; a bright-enough day, if bright you awaited. One ghost of Helios, burnt through grey masque overcast, at one-noon, when she; for whom trouble waited; came only in the form of ghostly absence at an absent end of a table. A spectre stayed in for her, never removed her own masque of absence. Helios retired, at three-noon, to his golden palace; but left tracks, like letters to those you leave; in downy virgin-sky marks, left before lingered, blinding-chariot wheels, burnt still; as in an afterthought. Still with sufficient fury-divine to bake Trouble; to bake flowers, until they leaned over, smothered on top of their sisters and brothers; in the tire scented confines of a whale-belly van.

She never showed. Masques had resigned their spectral forms to lower elevations. Mystified still, not only mental mist, common babble, there was the unfortunate date to add to the list; fog lingered too. When Trouble was younger Trouble used to pretend that Trouble was a messenger, Hermes bridging the chasm; restraints of verbal language; communicating with small-world inhabitants. Trouble used to send messages, warnings, peace-offerings; from she, queen of household (to whom Trouble was born, bound to serve) and queen of multitudes-- ants, shifters, shakers of Earth herself. They built palaces from nothing, plain clay Earth, and moulded and maintained their tunnels, from a hole in the back-yard fence, to she-- Earth's-- molten core. Trouble the importance of maintaining good relations. If not maintaining face with Trouble's own monarch, how insignificant Trouble's role in their world truly seemed, how they could, on she— queen of ants whim, devour all, Trouble's queen and yellow flowers Trouble picked for her, wipe our race from she-Earth's own clay face-- just like Trouble's queen did with her moist blue cloth. The cloth removed smudges from Trouble's brother's baby face, and went on to kill half of the queen's race. And Trouble had only just begun to feed them some of her lunch.

Mama. She made a big mistake with Trouble. She was a Mama. Before she ever wanted to be. That is when Trouble came. Trouble came and took without giving. Came to take what she was giving. She made Trouble living. With tears in her child eyes. Trouble used to think all kids were born for a reason. Used to believe that god gave Mamas' a gift. Now Trouble knows that Trouble was one. A gift of living, shitting, high-pitched singing, slip lipped, being. Trouble used to believe in god, then she hit Trouble, while Trouble was still kneeling, praying for forgiveness in tongues-- from anyone, dear god, dear pity, dear mother. What happened was de-nerving, breath knocking, heart throbbing in Trouble's head slow, eyes screaming. Then numb. To be honest, Trouble found Trouble received no acceptance from anyone else.

Trouble's brother can walk, can baby talk, speaking in a language that adults can not. Trouble understand every slippery word he says, half slobber, half angels still reluctant to leave him in peace. A cricket is dead. Therefore, Trouble must offer it to her queen, queen Earth herself, friendly ant queen; it is all her work here that Trouble'm seeing, her labours for Trouble's living sin. Her disciples cleanse Earth and feed their masses; taking anyone dirty or clean. Some day they will take Trouble, and Trouble will belong to Earth, Trouble will belong to someone, something, accepted-full for Trouble, at length's last. In yellow Earth, she forgives Trouble, beneath yellow flowers in park grass. While beneath Trouble's baby brother's baby butt, beyond reach of his baby talking, beneath the linoleum pattern, tread light, by Mama's delicate skirted waist; beneath Trouble's own Earth-stained fingers and grass dyed knees; there are creatures greater than myself, shifting she-Earth, under her feet. Mama loves Trouble's brother. So she said. So she lied. Trouble became surrogate mother. So she left Trouble; two worries behind. Yellow flowers burn Trouble's eyes. Mama's gone for find her second childhood. So, Trouble pretends, Trouble've got things figured fine. For the sake of a kid.

Mama told Trouble; love god, child. Then, love your mother. She told Trouble how now she wished, she could start again at an earlier time, to do as she said, as she expected of Trouble. She said, how could you do this. She cited all she could have been before “you”, all “I couldn't do” but for you. Trouble said, “Trouble'm sorry too.” But, remember, it wasn't Trouble's decision to be born just when Trouble did to existence. She hit Trouble hard, and all spun, and Trouble fell through. Earth caved in, flowers too. Trouble fell into cavernous caves of hell, all made ready for Trouble, by Trouble's beloved queen. As Trouble's eyes spun into zeros, in Trouble's greyish sockets; she watched as they took Trouble back to the perfect state Trouble began in, one atom at a time, in tiny grey pieces. Trouble's brother loves Trouble's mother. Trouble's mother loves her son. Trouble's mother never had a daughter. As concerns a mother, Trouble believes she might have had one. But, like Father Christmas, like god of sin forgiveness, like the myth of kinship, the good of self; Trouble added Mama to her collection of those things she once believed, that were falsely delivered.

The flowers wilted, the sky shed a million shades of grey-blue; the variances of one inconsistent moon remained an iridescent reminder of how time passes, in silence. In time, Trouble grew into Trouble's own shoes, it compelled her to attempt making peace with mother, for once. After being called Monster, and other things she deliberately forgot; she invited mother over to mother's day brunch. Mother of Trouble never showed. Trouble made the journey to mother's house; though she knew already her mother had gone, the moment she heard of Trouble's coming. This is how Trouble came to be waiting the closed end of a long shut door, with flower's she knew to be of Mama's favourite colour. If Mama did forgive Trouble, she never made it known. Some mystery remains, rooted somewhere in whale-belly confines of Trouble's troubled mind; wonders, as to whether or not she ever did see those yellow flowers. Wonders--- as to whether Mama ever knew my favourite colour.