And there it is.

The time. Has gone. I'm starting to understand the overly condescending parents.
I don't have much to say, it's all somewhere else, but I can give you another shit-pile of a poem, written somewhere around Portland, I believe.

pretty little thing she was
humming invitations
trapping creatures in the pain
of her fascination

tangled locks of pitch-black hair
pure grey were her eyes
her perfect ears had never once
heard the word "goodbye"

no one could resist her voice
try, and you will fail
but you might just make her smile
if yours was other than a wail

i had come in for a song
she asked for me to stay
enquired where my brother was
i said he'd gone away

although power was her own
i knew she had a heart
naíve enough was she to think
that love was more like art

her sorrow entered melodies
our voices came entwined
feeding hungry souls alike
the darkest, richest wine

even as she pulled me in
i thought i might escape
her fingers traced my trembling lips
t'was already too late.

Idonwannaleaaaave!

A whole frickin' month. It's not fair. I want to take all my friends with me, so I don't have to miss them. Damn, I miss them already.

(The Little Flames - "Isobella")

I can't walk away, either. I'm too sentimental. Can I cry now, please?

Poetry.

Now, I conflict with myself again. How do I learn from the world without being like it?

I give you an example - two different sides of myself:

This I do like, and it's not completely unoriginal, but it's nothing new for experienced minds.

For me. 

Give me a kiss, my love, 

Sending shivers down my spine,

Your arms around my waist.

Let me know you're forever mine. 

Pick me a leaf, my love,

Trace the veins with your fingers.

Then leave it to the wind

To keep it safe until it withers.

Tell me your dreams, my love,

And the meaning that they hold.

What corners of your mind

Do I have yet to explore?

Sing me a song, my love,

Close your eyes in that way of yours.

I'll drink the sound of your voice

And I'll always ask for more.

Now take my hand, my love,

Pull me down and hold me close.

Your love has become my drug,

So let me have my overdose.

And the ending was a tad out of place. Myah. 

Compare with this - 

The vain.

This is one of the caps that doesn't fit on the back of the pen. 

(How unusual.)

And yet, that is but a trivial matter since the important are questioning where? and when?

(I'm musical.)

You probably already noticed, as I was humming some subtle, yet intelligent and classy tune.

(The obvious.)

The cap is on the table, on the floor, the arm of the armchair, perhaps this nonsense will be art, soon?

(Aren't I devious?)

But no, I must not be less than tasteful, although my curves can't help but be more. 

(This isn't boring.)

And taste has no tolerance for melodrama, and only slight clichés, scrubbing breadcrumbs off the shore. 

(My mother is snoring.)

My mother? Oh, yes, of course - I love and respect and care for her, yet am independent and strong.

(*sniff* Not mule-headed.)

The money comes tinkling in, and is gone with the trickster colours, 

but what would sheep do without them? Baa along?

(I shall be wedded.)

If it is trendy at the time, naturally, you wouldn't expect anything less from me. 

(She preens.)

Signed, Jolene. 

Very experimental. Also to be taken rather seriously, and if you try, you can actually make sense of it. 

You see the predicament I'm in? (:

Passive

Man liekas, ka visi zin to sajūtu, kad uznāk tas pasīvias, tas īpatnējais, kad ļoti gribas izdarīt kaut ko radošu, bet viena vai vairāku (neviena) iemeslu dēļ tas nenotiek, un tu paliec tepat, pie datora, vai grāmatas, vai loga, ik pa laikam nopūšoties un jūtoties visnotaļ depresīvi.
Then come the rest of the thoughts - fuck it, I'm going to be an individual, no one can tell me what to do, etc... (What is the point??) Of what? I don't know. No one does.
Un tad tu skaties cilvēkos. Atmiņās. Gremdējies nostalģijā, ieskaidro sev, ka tas nav labi, ka tev ir jāceļas un jāsāk kaut kas darīt, tad gremdējies tālāk.
What have I done so far? What good is it all? (What is the point of existence?)
Tad tu pārbaudi, vai cilvēks vēl joprojām tur ir (tevi gaida?) un turpini klusēt.
Shivers run down your spine, agitating, but pleasant.
Tu pamani, ka neskan mūzika. Bet neieslēdz, jo tad pazustu moments, un tu negribi, lai ta pazūd, jo tā nav prieka sajūta, bet vilinošās skumjas..
You feel the world is ignoring you, but you're hiding from it, damn it, you fool.
Un vēl tu izdomā pasmaidīt. Tas vienmēr ir to vērts. Vai ne?
Un kas esi tu? In the end, who are you? Really?

Words in my head.

And they are there. Constantly. I've been told that I think too much, and, well, it's true. I do. I analyze the thoughts and sentence construction of others, trying to get into their head. How heartless of me, no? But it's endlessly fascinating. I don't think I really "know" a person until I can predict their train of thought to at least some extent. I have no idea what this says about me.

See, questions like "what was I thinking?" dominate so much of our lives, and it's so mundane, as is every deep truth. As hard as it is to find out what the real cause of whatever went right or wrong is, once we do, we have a right to feel pompously proud of ourselves for a moment. This kind of indulgence is candy for my brain.

I guess it's up to you to decide whether my desire to get into your head is a good motivation for a future psychologist or further proof of my insanity. 

It does not make sense!!!

It does not make sense! It doesn't make sense! It doesn't make sense in any comprehensible way! It does not make sense! It doesn't!! IT DOES NOT MAKE SENSE!! It does not make sense! Why? Why doesn't it make sense?? Why does it refuse to be understood?! It does not make sense! It does not make any sense at all!! Is there any more cruel way to agonize the minds of the confused? There shouldn't be such a thing, it has no right not to make sense in such a way!! It does not make sense! IT DOES NOT!! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not make sense! It does not....

I am having way to much fun with this.

Can we all go crazy, please?

I'm actually kind of attracted to the idea of being insane.. And I do describe myself like that whenever the opportunity arises, because it's just so damn FUN. I mean, there are those days when you've got this little, yet very persistent ball of energy inside you and you're day is filled with random screams of exhilaration over nothing and general spazz. I don't feel very sane at those moments. This song gives me a feeling of something like that..

(Shiny Toy Guns - "Ricochet")

And GODDAMNIT I can't put the right video here . Way to ruin the effect. Blah.

There's this one person who keeps telling me to "Kill my darlings". Because I'm so sentimental and cannot let go of things. Or people, for that matter. I'm also told that this is a good way of attracting a lot of pain. Yay for nostalgia.  And during one of my rampages through all the stuff containing memories in my room, I realized how much I've changed over the past few years, and that I don't really like that person I was before. She's still me, and I do like me, but nyaahh.. "rather pathetic" is the phrase that comes to mind. Is this kind of thinking healthy? Again with the insanity.

here we go again..

Imagine, I was running around barefoot in a summer dress. Summer is approaching too fast. I might be the only one who will miss the cold. I'm trying so hard not to go around in circles, but it's so fucking hard sometimes. Also, I change so much around people that I don't know what to think. Are they my thoughts, or "my" thoughts. Too many questions, yet not enough. I'm getting philosophical again. Again.
I spent three and a half hours on a bus, which resulted in this song.. Less shitty this time, I think. I don't have a melody yet, but It'll come to me.

I'm staring at these red curtains on the bus,

Wondering why there would ever be a "me" in an "us",

Seeing people in their thoughts, dreaming of places, 

Thankful for the unexpected, always faces

Can I look into eyes when I try to speak? 

Why are stares so meaningful, otherwise bleak?

Rhythm gets repetitive, like all the rest

Of the world and minds of strangers who jest

In every way you've seen, yet no one knows

How a word of defense can feel like a blow

Of ice-cold wind between my lungs, slightly left,

Leaving me to scrutinize the depths of myself

I'm addicted to sorrow,

I think it's quite nice,

But I'll smile tomorrow

At the raucousness

Of the beautiful crow

I cannot erase, so I scribble my mistakes,

Trying to fool myself with the sounds art makes

I must warn the others, it's already too late

For me to try to wash my words off the slate,

These things are mine,  but I don't know them;

Familiar, but below the surface is mayhem

I'm still a new soul, but already missing memories 

Of laughing at the world, swinging in the trees.

I wouldn't cross a bridge without looking below,

But I can take pleasure in moving so slow..

Shining through my confidence is this fear

Of what I will do when you are so near

I'm addicted to sorrow,

I think it's quite nice,

But I'll smile tomorrow

At the raucousness

Of the beautiful crow

I'm staring at these red curtains on the bus,

Wondering why there would be a "me" in an "us"

And yet, I wouldn't know how to be free,

'Cause I can't find a someone who truly knows me.

My image of beauty changes every time

I see fascinating ugliness, and stupid rhymes

I'm addicted to sorrow,

I think it's quite nice,

But I'll smile tomorrow

At the raucousness 

Of the beautiful crow. 

These days..

..were quite wonderful. Music, fear, laughing again, and meetings, unexpected, yet waited for, forgotten books, sitting in the garden, smoke, never failing to come my way, soap bubbles in the wind and falling asleep with uncertainty. (Why do I get the feeling that something's wrong? Nothing of great importance, I think, but it won't leave.) So many tired people...

Oh. Searching for sleepy people causes severe yawning. 

I'm practically bursting with song these days, I need to sing, or I'll probably go mad. Only now my throat refuses to cooperate, what, with me using it mercilessly during midnight bike-rides. That probably won't stop me from torturing it some more. (:

And it's so hard to actually know someone. To trust someone. To belong.

Wanting to isn't enough. And then I want to be trusted, to be known, to be loved. 

Waiting takes so long.. And being ready for what you want takes practice. Too many people have made my mistakes, and I want them back. 

Uncertainty uncertainty uncertainty uncertainty uncertainty uncertainty uncertainty uncertainty..
I was considering the possibility that I might be slightly bipolar. No one wants to be alone..

My my my - my my my - my my my - my my..

Lost memories..

..are the ones most preeeeeciiouuuss.. myyyy preeeciiiouus..

There was this song that I heard on the radio, when I was being driven back home from a concert with my school choir. I didn't catch the name, or the singer, the only thing I could remember was the melody of the chorus.. I ravaged the internet, and asked a few people, but couldn't find it.
I'd partially forgotten about it, until two years later, when whalaa!

(Maria Mena - "Just Hold Me")

It was a bit different then I remembered, but t'was a wonderful find nonetheless.

The known and unknown

We know nothing. Not for sure. Proof doesn't exist, and neither does fact. Which means that neither noes fiction. And now, after I've been a good girl and given you a brilliant beginning, I can through in questions like "Do you believe in ghosts?" and "What is impossible?" for the benefit of your pondering.
Boowaah. Hey, I know, I can bore you with this!

"Lord Combermere died in 1891, having been struck and killed by a horse-drawn carriage. At the time Sybell Corbet took the above photo, Combermere's funeral was taking place some four miles away. The photographic exposure, Corbet recorded, took about an hour. It is thought by some that during that time a servant might have come into the room and sat briefly in the chair, creating the transparent image. This idea was refuted by members of the household, however, testifying that all were attending Lord Combermere's funeral." Duh-duh-duh-duh-duuuuh!

Personally, I think not believing in ghosts is just as silly as believing in them, because so little is known about death. No one really knows what happens, right? I mean, you can poke around in a body with a muddy stick and mumble something to yourself about heart failure, but the how and why we are ALIVE remains a mystery, Just for now, I hope.

Another thing I find very interesting is auras. The spiritual energy surrounding us? Sounds very fictional, I know, but ha! we came to the conclusion that there is no fiction, and since I'm writing this you can't argue with me, so I'm ploughing on. Looky here -

Some say that seeing auras should be a natural human function, and why not? I makes sense, if you think about it. We all radiate heat, and emotion, it's not really a surprise for it to be visible. And I want to learn, so I can feed my little ego and feel special.

On a slightly different note, these days it seems that knowledge is very selective. One thing I can pride(?) myself with is that I know one band that no one else seems to know, except the people that revealed it to me. I like their style, although it can be.. interesting. Pleased to introduce you to.. *drumroll*  ...The 3!

(soul to sell & bramfatura)

3

Aren't they wonderful?

Cries of frustration.

Supposedly, the universe fulfills our every wish, actually, every thought we have. We create our lives. The only problem is, we don't realize this, and keep making our own problems. So, how about believing all of this and living with a euphoric mindset for a few months? Trust me, your life will change. Probably not the way you expected it to, but it will. It always does.

Perspective.

You know how the covers of your favourite songs are usually shit? That's because we all like the original. "Our" original, meaning, the version we heard first. It's exactly the same with pictures, designs, even people. This is how I first saw David Bowie, by the way - (Yayayaaay Goblin Kiiing!!)

What I mean is, the ideas we have had drilled into us in our childhood is mostly what we believe today.  We are all such damn conservatists, even the liberals. Everything, the systems we have designed for this world, program us to think in the same way, shouldn't we try to differ, at least a little? Shouldn't we try to accept all the stuff beyond the norm? That's where the epic stuff comes from. ^.^ For example, we should all consider going crazy..

(My AWESOME Girlfriend)

And just you dare tell me that you didn't thoroughly enjoy that.