yeah i'm double-blogging it.

so i did some research (read: freaked out and texted my therapist) and apparently not being able to focus is a symptom of depression.

cuz i don't have enough of those already. woo! everything feels like shit! i can't sleep! i want to die! and i can't even do my homework!

woo fucking hoo.

anywho, my psycho therapist thinks i'm hallucinating. more specifically, she thinks i'm hallucinating due to combined lack of sleep and high anxiety.

i'm not hallucinating.

i know that other people can't normally see what i see or hear what i hear, but i'm not hallucinating. nobody sees the world through the same pair of eyes, everything is different. some see more some see less some see things other people can't some people refuse to see anything beyond their noses. i'm not hallucinating. i'm not fucking crazy.

today i was talking about anger and rage and somebody spoke up and said

what are you even raging against?

but that's not the point. sometimes you don't need anything to rage against, you just need to rage. you need to riot, you need to make a scene, and you need to find your passion(s). and you need to scream something, even if it's just "i have something to say."
yell
scream
swear
punch shit
rage.
and never say it's not your problem. because the future is always going to be there and somebody you love is gonna be right there with it.

so fucking rage while you're still angry.

i feel... weird. it's like my head is full of static. everything's jumping from one thing to the next and i just can't focus. i'm tired and i'm jittery and i keep getting distracted. everything is everywhere and i feel both panicky and deathly calm. i just don't know.

i don't know i don't know i don't know and it's really freaking me out.

i know i made a post really recently, but i'm making another one. it's 9:45 pm and i went to bed an hour ago out of pure boredom. i've got my window open because it's been raining and i can't stand not hearing the rain when it's happening. it smells like... i don't even know what. rain and dirt and that smell that asphalt gives off when it's wet and green growing things. it's dark outside. but anyway, it's one of those nights that keeps reminding me of things out of the blue. books i've read and poetry and the way the smell of cigarette smoke lingers in your nostrils and clings to clothing. i know i shouldn't romanticize cigarettes so much, but i like the way they smell, okay? and it's not like i can actually smoke them anyway. my shitty fucking lungs would pitch a fit. and i wish somebody was here. not just over the internet or on the phone, but a person i can look at and talk with and tell all the things that pop into my head that make no sense. i just want a friend.

daffodils, Lyn-Z, the void, reversal of fortune

sooooooooo...

hi. not dead. sick, tired, not dead.

went to England! and Scotland!

here is what i learned:

• i have a really really bad sense of direction
• traveling is a great lesson in how not to give a shit what others think of you
• always pack extra meds
• make sure to get a roommate whom you don't loathe.
• Doc Martins are excellent shoes for traveling (provided you have sufficient sock coverage)
• be prepared for 80% of the people you meet to hate you on sight
• the British love daffodils.

the daffodil thing is really amazing, though. seriously, they just grow everywhere. in parks, by statue, at the side of the road, these bright yellow splotches of color, stark against the somewhat muted background caused by years of stormy weather and smog.

on a different note, i want to be Lyn-Z Way when i grow up. (holyfuckshe'ssofuckingcoollikehawdoesanybodylikeheractuallyexistgaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh)

on a different different note, i am really, really sick. again. fuck. i feel like my brownie is about to mutiny. stay down, you delicious bastard.

it's recently occurred to me that there has never been anybody i could completely share with. well, except here, but i can only say as much as i do here because i can pretend nobody's listening. it sounds bad, i know, but this doesn't feel like talking to anyone. this is just a shout into the void, 1's and 0's that get hurled into the ever-expanding network of people all trying to shout their bit the loudest. someone could hear me, but most people look right past. it's like screaming off a rooftop. your average passerby is just too used to the noise to notice one little addition.

oh fuck.

the brownie mutinied.

not nearly as good the second time around.

fuck this.

i'm going to bed.

it's raining again. i don't know if you have figured it out by now, but i love the rain. i love how every color stands bright and new in stark contrast to the sky, and how the clouds lay low and thick like a big blanket, closing off the world. i've missed it.

in my room in The Old House, i could hear every drop of rain on the roof. it would pitter-patter against my window and slap onto the concrete outside, plinking into deep puddles with floating islands of leaves and wisteria flowers. at night i could close my eyes and hear the gurgle of water in the rain pipes. now everything is insulated and i can barely hear anything over the tick-tocking of the clocks in my room. the only way i can sleep is if i open the window and listen to the staccato of the rain beyond the overhang of the roof.

i used to be neighbors with my best friend, and every day we would walk our dogs to a park about a half mile away. one time in particular stands out in my memory. it was a few weeks before i moved away, and we were trying to make the best of the time. we walked to the park like any other day, and when we got there we ate carrots that my friend had brought in a sandwich bag and hid out in the play structure. it was one of those days when summer is just around the corner and a promise of rain makes the air muggy and muted. we traded stories and whispered secrets and just talked for hours about nothing and everything and nothing again. when the sky started to darken and the time came to leave, it started to rain. just a soft drizzle at first, but it quickly grew into a raging storm with winds that made leaves dance in the air and our hair whip in and out of our faces. we ran down the streets laughing and screaming and dancing like lunatics, like wild women, drunk and elated. people always say that teenagers think they are invincible, but that was the only time i ever thought that was true. skipping down the street with wet hair throwing itself about like a living thing and my laughter being snatched away by the wind, that was the only time i felt like the world could do what it wanted and it still couldn't break me.

there are about 500 things i should be doing right now, but i just can't. i have spent today in various states of hysteria ranging from mild to having to frantically root through my backpack to get to my inhaler because i cried so hard i got an asthma attack and my hands are shaking too hard to hold a pen and i can't stop crying and i am freaking out like freaked out fucking freak and i really really don't want to be alive.

so i'm drinking cocoa while craving coffee and wanting something one hell of a whole lot stronger than the both of them. ladies and gentlemen of the school board, i present to you the product of all your hard work. see? you are making a difference.

once upon a time, there was a man who felt nothing.

this man's name is not important, you do not need to know what he looked like or how his voice sounded, just that he felt nothing.

he did not feel the wind that whipped against his cheeks or the sun that beat down on his back or the blisters that bloomed on his hands and feet, only to be hardened into callouses. he did not feel the happiness of the salty smell of the air, or the exquisite sadness of the sea. he did not feel a thing. the touch of another hand was foreign, the gaze of someone's eye was but a distant memory. he was alone. and he felt nothing.

one day, he met another man who was alone. he met a man with golden eyes and a wide smile, and something inside him changed. he started to feel the rough wood against his skin, and the way the water would sting. his cheeks would hurt from smiles that would never end, and his chest would fill up, as if the sea itself was flooding into his heart. he did not have words to give names to what he was feeling, but his golden-eyed man gave him one that he accepted with glee.

Love.

this word fit like a glove on everything that strummed over the man's heartstrings. the feel of someone's hand in his was Love. the shrill cry of the gulls was Love. the clouds and the sun and the wood and the pain and the smiles and the stars were all Love.

and he was Love.

and they were Love.

and days would pass and nights would pass and the golden-eyed man changed every day. his hair grew white, and fine lines appeared and grew around his eyes and his smile. and then he was gone.

and the man was alone.

and the man still felt the wind and the sun and the sea and the sand, but the world was no longer Love. and the man wanted more and the man wanted nothing and the man wanted his golden eyes and the man wished they had never been there at all.

but he got none of these.

and time grew, and the man tried to feel nothing again. and he succeeded.

and the man felt nothing.

nothing except for his dreams of golden eyes and wide smiles and memories of when the world was made of Love.