Scrim

Today was so surreal. School was fast paced and I felt like I had a scrim in front of my face the entire time. Like as if every single person who walked by me was hiding something HUGE, and I would strain my corneas to see passed the netting, but no luck.

When I got home, I watched an episode of 24 where Jack Bauer got kidnapped by Russian mobsters. He was purposefully putting himself in danger's way, so he could get to the conspiracy behind the nuclear rods. (Have I mentioned that I love 24? So much?) At the end, I fell asleep and dreamt of prom. Prom was [logically] being held in a shopping mall, and Mr. Bronson was there DPing it up. All of the sudden, I was being held captive by Russian mobsters, and I wasn't blessed with badass escape skills like Jack. As you can probably imagine.. this was terrifyingly realistic.

I awoke to the shake of my house's structure, as the basement door was slammed closed. My heart was booming with confusion to as why I was no longer being tortured by Russians. I remained sloth-like on the couch, realizing the consequences to sleeping with plastic in your eyes. The fire was blasting heat and my face was pressed and marked with couch texture. The scrim had just gotten twice as dark, and my entire house was soaked with silence. I urged myself to get up to make sure I was in fact conscious. Proceeding to pace around the house, I noticed my mom, book in hand, eyelids shut. It had started to snow, so silently. I ate a peanut m&m and winced with the echoing bang when the second one hit the floor. Damn scrim, I couldn't see anything. Why was it that my dreams were so much clearer and detailed and filled than my reality ? I softly fell back down into my imprint on the couch and decided that if this wasn't peace, there is no chance of it actually existing. I sneezed 3 times, read one page of my history text book, and then couldn't help but to surrender to the weight of my eyelids. Back into my scrim-less world I went.

Physical Aching for Spring

Kid, i miss you. Lets frolic and eat pesto and sit on the steps to a concert stage together, while the sun sets on Comet pond. Please relentlessly blast that summer mix, just like we did on those purest days of my life.

A Cold Weekend

One hour ago, my heart was whizzing. I was feeling alive and vivacious and I was ready for something to happen. I had reached a revelation and I was all set to blog this catharsis of a blog and tie one huge knot as an acceptance to all the events that happened this weekend. I read Emily's blog and she made me want to run and scream and hug and agree, all the time. Well no, not really run because my body doesn't like doing that very much, despite how satisfactory the concept sounds. How tempting, to let the combination of internal drive and the power engines of your legs carry you from point A to point B. I imagine the knowledge of your self-success is pleasing. Maybe I will try running sometime.

I have found two pillars. They came to the rescue this weekend, and held up my foundation, preventing it from crumbling into a pit of worthless sorrow. They are tall and strong and have goals in life. Together we ventured out into the land of vulnerability, and relapsed back into the fetal position deep within the crevices of my bed sheets. I don't think they realize how impossible these days would have been without them. Impossible to the point where I was subconsciously accepting the fact that I was going to go numb. I was going to stay in that state of denial, and refuse to sink my fingers into the flesh of this utter desperation. Staring into blank space, concentrating solely on the rhythmic rasp of my breaths. All because this is what I am good at, it is how I cope without letting anxiety overcome me with irrational fears and worries. But you know what?! Times like these the only justified answer is mounds and mounds of anxiety. Sobs, clenched bodies, sickened stomachs, headaches, dizziness, hyperventilation. Every single bit of it at the time sucks. I can't count how many times I moved the trash can just a little bit closer to me, as assurance that my potential throw up would not land on my carpet.

This weekend brought the coldest weather we have had during this winter. Doing what I always do, I couldn't help but relate this directly to the events of this weekend. Funerals are cold, no matter what the season. Bodies are cold when their blood is swapped with formaldehyde. Our lungs were cold when the frigid air entered through desperate gasps.

The cold, the tears, the formaldehyde. Crisp cracks in your hands. Waxy skin and red-skinned face, ruffles on your shirt and a pat of the back. Tears trickled down your cleavage and a used tissue was left in my pocket. The pizza was burnt, and your teacher arrived. Heavy hearted, fine eyed and ready, mascara streaked with anger to the brim. Questions of 'how?' escaped, interrupted with laugh like sobs. Ruuuuush. I feel so alive.

while i'm alive i'll feel alive

and what's next?

i guess i'll know when i've gotten there.

am i careful, until past dull,

will be is or has been.

hope i'm waxing as in half full.

Nausea

on the floor, at the great divide

with my shirt tucked in, and my shoes untied

i am crying in the bathroom

Have you ever had an injury, one that has the capability to hinder your performance in all ways? And you do nothing but dream of days when said ailment ceased to exist? Over and over again, scenarios are screeching by. Saying what could have or should have changed, how the itching, pulling, tearing, torture of your muscles is a constant reality in your nervous system. Denial, acceptance, cover-up; they will not alter the reality, they will merely form a 'new normal.' An adjustment to a prerogative, regardless of what could have or should have been done. And that is the way injury sinks in.

I sat at your knees today, crying into the hardness of your jeans. We locked the doors, and increased the volume knob on the radio to drown out the sobs. From there I went searching for safety. And a safe island, that it was. A haven for the torn, the shredded, the hollow. I rested there, with my face pressed into the plush forgiveness of the pillow. All around me were entangling alliances, entangled limbs. Bearing dead weight down upon me, sinking pressure into my shell of a body. Or maybe it was just that weight of the air, so filled with emotions. I wanted to push it all off with every bit of strength I possessed. I wanted to fight back; as if I wasn't helpless. With my attempts, I came faced with the fact that I had none. My strength was disappearing, I was withering into a fading abyss of naivety. My stomach was empty but my heart was filled to the brim, overflowing with emotions whose existence I was unaware of. My arms felt numb. The blood had halted its flow, turning my clenched fists into something of the past. As we were driving from the red house, the one beside the red barn, I clenched your hand. We formed a fist, and found remnants of the broken strength. A deep breathe and a reluctant heart beat, we were on our way to the dangers, loneliness, stark bare 'real world'. The world where you need a defense to even fight your own body. That body who has suddenly turned against you in a whirlwind of sickness. Strength from the support of your clench, from the forgiveness of your pillow, from the overflow of my heart. Strength to discover that new normal. I hope you feel this strength.

and the cardinal hits the window.

Payne-Aldrich Treaty

Hopefully I will recall the struggles and torture this day gave to me, next time I set out to memorize every historical event that occurred within a 100 year time span.

Aside from all of that, this weekend was all nice. Friday night I came home to a dimly lit house, where my Dad was sitting wrapped in a knitted afghan. He was watching Frost/Nixon, and drinking tea (per-usual.) The safety that was encompassed in this scenario was so pleasing, I re-fell in love with my house.

Oh yeah, why am I blogging again? Silly me to think I had time to do something other than read amsco. A creative re-birth will come on Tuesday at 11:55.

like a backdrop of sails, all aglow from the light,

you stand there, your wicked blood and your curls.

Midterm Loving

I do not understand how my brain is suppose to go about retaining all this information. And why is it, that remembering 3.78L=1gal is seemingly more difficult than remembering dance steps. Or how to walk, speak, breathe, talk, write. My brain can work some miracles.. but chemistry is not one of them.

23

You give me solid 23 minutes of smiling, even though your hair is liked greased lightening.