"Last week I had the strangest dream where everything was exactly how it seemed"

If someone could just rip the knife and pen out of my two hands I'd be much obliged.

There is something counter-conventionally beautiful in this confusion, in this fantastic disaster, that makes me think it should always be this way - always wanting to get out but really wanting to stay and belonging here. But I think I've just gotten used to it.

I do remember everything that happened. But I forget that I've been living for fifteen years. Why does that seem bizarre? Why does it seem like the only tangible thing is the present? Because it feels constant? Because when I look around its the only thing I'm really feeling?

I remember...
I remember lots of things. Listening to rock with my brother and classical at symphonies and thinking music was the gateway to...everything. I remember how everything sparkled and that bubbling simmering sensation that was always just beneath my skin...the glory of living, the glory of Love, the glory of mismatched shoe laces, the glory of wearing pyjama pants out of the house. That was mine.

Now things are different. I'm fifteen, not twelve anymore. I don't play outside - or guitar - or listen to punk rock. My world is no longer in a box of pencil crayons as much as I'd like it to be. I started thinking womanhood was in a skirt or a canister of mascara. I've lost two people I loved and how was I supposed to know what that would be like? Or when. I quit piano. I use an alarm clock to wake up. And I can never go back and it makes me laugh strangely.

"And as I sit here with the blinds shut,
my breath sliding in and out of me,
the static takes over,
the tv screen stretches and fuses
with reality outside that metal frame, but its almost exactly the same."

Its not so much wishing for the past but remembering a time when I had something important.
Obsessed, with the past, because its my strongest concept of time. And death too, a close-up encounter of...something. Or something that's not there anymore. Or...
I thought it would be a dark patch in my life forever more, like a tear-bursting scene in a sad movie that will replay in my head and heart forever. But somehow I've come to peace with it; except when I think of the person him/herself...then I get confused at the memory of their eyes.

And I don't want to talk about how I feel anymore because it all sounds the same.

And stress is the only feeling I can't make into something...presentable.

When I talk about what I want, am I talking about heaven?

Maybe
Maybe
Maybe