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Friday, March 6th, 2015

Subject:And it crumbles
Time:10:23 pm.
You never know until you take a shot. That's how I got to where I am. Just, going for it. Why change now? You do what you've always done and you'll get what you've always gotten. In a world full of Meant to Be's and predestination...it's a hell of a time to strike. The wounds will scab over now. Maybe this is that fantasy. Or one step toward.
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Subject:water torture (the old kind)
Time:10:16 pm.
This is a maelstrom of hurt.

A last refuge of where very few ears listen.

I've become more intertwined than I could have imagined. Thank you, 21st century.

But I'm taking a step back and wondering...

Where is the worth? This is the equivalent of old nights until 3 AM.

In my own smell, for once.
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Subject:Nowhere (boys boys be my)
Time:10:09 pm.
Memory is a mechanism
A locked box of 1's and 0's

More than I could have ever imagined
I became ordinary

you stole and you risked and you
climbed on shoulders in our self imposed quicksand

I remember
the perfect attack

there's no one
mapped route

fantasies are just wishes
dreams are actionable items

and then you peer into the box
holding a light

and you see the same broken mechanism
the clanking machinery

that you call home
Comments: Add Your Own.

Saturday, February 2nd, 2013

Subject:15 years later, same result
Time:2:16 am.
I need to write in plain language.

I am sad, but for what is not and not for what is.

...I thought that I might have a chance. I knew that against the odds and the inclinations, it wasn't realistic. But I had muddled hope.

I gathered so much of my courage. My resolve. I am this better version of myself. But still. Short.

I'm just hurt because it's something that I want a lot. To just be in her arms. To love her. And I can't. my arms are too short.

you laid me down very gently and for that I appreciate it. I hope it doesn't change our friendship. I love talking to you and would never want to make it weird. I get it. I won't bring it up again.
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Tuesday, December 18th, 2012

Subject:and maybe this is a cry for help
Time:10:54 pm.
I'm writing Christmas cards while reading Nicole Blackman poetry. Something is fucking wrong.
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Wednesday, November 14th, 2012

Subject:deshi basara
Time:8:07 pm.
It's funny how time passes and you cease to recognize yourself. That period can be as little as a few days or weeks.

I've become this charming little magnet that people are attracted to. Who'll talk to me for hours. I've gotten more phone numbers in a few weeks, unsolicited than maybe ever in the last few years.

It's funny how you think you are so far along. And then, one comment from one person steps on your progress. A stranger.

I've become used to people not asking me about my. . .disfigurement. I am fixing it. Then one girl brings it up and I silently unravel. Enraged at her indirect mocking of my progress, part of me wants to prove her wrong. I am simultaneously attracted and repulsed.

It's funny how suddenly you are consumed by perfection. Almost two thirds is no longer good enough. I see every flaw. I want and I want and I want.
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Tuesday, September 11th, 2012

Subject:A link to the past
Time:11:04 pm.
And now I'm chasing ghosts. This strange second degree that took me, ironically, to where I stand today. A curious chain of events that caused my very actions of this weekend. It's the same situation, but with different players.

Now, we're separated by culture. Not one of ethnicity or tradition. But of electrons. Binary information.

I never knew how important it was to me until I met someone who lives without. These keys are an extension of my hands. What is the value of this culture of images and memes?

. . .no church in the wild.

Maybe it's time to bury my hands in the earth again.
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Subject:The Adjustment Bureau
Time:10:53 pm.
I'm convinced that my fate has been adjusted.

I had a dream. A fantasy. A premonition.

The first time was a practice run. The second time was it coming true almost how I imagined it. It was more of my research being blessed by fate. Or consequence. Whoever you believe it was.

But it didn't end how it was supposed to. Purple rain.
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Subject:No Church in the Wild
Time:10:50 pm.
The problem with this is that I have to tell myself to turn it off. I start building these logical conclusions, getting ahead of myself. I wonder just by thinking if I jinx the whole thing. Like I should be knocking on wood with every wonder and every thought. The last time that it happened organically, I was under too much pressure to even think about it. I was in fight or flight, I couldn't think 28 steps ahead like I normally do.

But these days? I get so wrapped up. I pour over the details like a research paper. Cite every resource, but hide the scholarship. And I'm willing to look over the holes. For just a chance, just one chance. And then I play my cards to the best of my ability and still end up going home? Fuck LPTA.

And then there's glimpse of miracles. Blurry photos of Nessie or Sasquatch. And it's either a revolution or a man in a rubber suit. A faked moon landing. Is this supposed to keep me believing? That somewhere out there, hidden in the forest is this idea that I gave up on?
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Subject:and so they say
Time:10:02 pm.
I evaluate so fast these days. I synthesize before the touch begins to cool. Or does it cool first? We need more science.

That look. Tally your attributes. If your sum is greater than our threshold, we'll consider you for award. Just like everyone else.

A crack. Too much of this. Not enough of that. A sudden disinterest. You must construct additional pylons. Sour grapes.

And then I'm left feeling as empty as at the beginning. Nothing lost. Experience gained. And we had fun doing those experiments, didn't we?

Life at the end of a lightning bolt.
Comments: Add Your Own.

Wednesday, October 28th, 2009

Subject:Only in this light
Time:10:27 pm.
There's something very real about this 34 watt bulb
Sometimes when I'm under its glow
It's like I was never real before this moment

Like I was just going through the motions

but I'm forced to reflect in times like these

take notes down on whatever I can
and leave them for you.

These moments validate existence
because nothing else is talking
and the world is silent but for her thoughts

It's what makes your skin come alive

Nothing can hide in this moment because
there's no one to hide behind

Details are illuminated, not obscured.

There is an ugly truth to this world.
It shines at 34 watts.
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Time:10:24 pm.
I haven't updated here in over a year.

A poem woke me up.
And I woke to an echo.

Maybe this was something meant to be? I long to have an existence outside of step 5, step 6, step 7, repeat. But I'm too scared and trapped to make it for myself.
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Saturday, March 1st, 2008

Subject:Shopping Arcade
Time:2:02 pm.
I went to a shopping plaza today. A brisk, spring afternoon. 72 degrees. A perfect Saturday. Not a mall of today with countless chain stores; or kiosks selling trinkets, knock-off designer sunglasses, or cell phone plans or accessories. A quiet place built on old money; a place that never quite caught up with the times. At it's mouth is a quaint bookstore. The kind with tall wooden shelves and ladders on tracks to reach the highest shelves. No corporate name tags, no signs advertising the latest best seller. I walked among the shelves, looking at books that I wouldn't have before. Books that would normally have no character, getting lost among the fluorescent lights of Barnes and Noble.

I sat down at the cafe and ordered a gelato. The young man behind the counter, no older than high school or college, offered me samples. "If you try a car before you buy it, why shouldn't you with ice cream?" The Dark Venezuelan Chocolate, despite it's name, was flat and lacking distinction. It was piled high in the bin. I picked it's more colorful counterpart, Blueberry Butter Cookie. A group of people sitting next to me discussed politics.

Another girl, of a similar age, seemed quietly distressed as she was talking with her much older co-workers before going to lunch. "Do you want me to get you something?"

"Where are you going?" the older female employee replied.

"I don't know." They walked to the circular counter together.

I left a tip of half of the price of the dessert without blinking an eye.

Before leaving, I noticed a young man purchased a copy of The Fountainhead along with two other titles as I stood in front of a table strewn with stacked and displayed Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama titles.

The store was fairly busy. A group of college kids were in travel section, surely planning their summer programs. Or maybe dreaming of the trips that they will take, someday.

A single columned list detailed all of the stores in the plaza. Next to the store was a location number. However, listed on the individual suites on the map were the names of the stores. "I Love Sushi" was nestled on the third floor between two tech school offices. Between the ground floor and the restaurant were many empty shop windows with "For Leasing Information Call:. . ." signs. But it never felt unsafe.

A solitary woman sat outside of the sushi restaurant, eating. I couldn't tell if she noticed me. I looked through the windows into the enclosed desolate counter, noticing the prices on the menu. I stepped inside and read more, while looking at the tools of chefs sitting on the counter. Three empty place settings were in front of the counter, complete with plates and chopsticks. I stepped to the register. I studied the canned and bottled sodas in the cooler while peering around to the back for an employee. After a moment, I stepped away and stepped out of the eatery. I turned to look back at the shop and the woman finishing her food.

An employee in a worn, white apron was now behind the counter and we made eye contact, and his face made a suggestion. A raised my hand to him, and continued past some struggling businessmen and playing teenagers down the escalator.

I stopped at one of the art galleries downstairs. It was mostly the same average art work that you see at art festivals and state fairs. Pieces here and there caught my eye: winding paths, mysterious women, and hand carved sculptures and vases. I very much wanted to look at one piece, but a woman was sitting a away in front of it, looking at the booth. She said hello, and continued to write in her notebook. I later saw that she was writing the price tags of the items, hanging them.

A sadness washed over me as I looked at the works in the gallery. These pieces go for no less a few hundred dollars each. I imagined the artists, working at home in their studios, bedrooms, offices, or garages. Do they believe that someday they can "make it?" Or do they submit these pieces, put on a price tag, and forget about it until a phone call comes? If the phone call ever comes. In the meantime, do they work behind counters, sit behind desks, drive company vehicles, or have one more argument with those that take care of them? I was reminded of a section in the bookstore dedicated to writing and how to get published.

A few pieces were like things I rarely see. Beautifully hand carved tables, faces where they don't belong, figures looking at something the viewer cannot, wood-burnt nymphs on a hand-carved vase. Who were these nude women? Staring at the viewer, at the artist, or looking away. Were they even real, to begin with? What kind of stories are behind these canvases, these paints, these frames?

If I had the expendable hundreds, I would want to purchase one of these works. Maybe I could meet the creator. I wonder how things would change. Eventually, it'd sit and just become something else that I pass everyday. The special moments would come when it catches my eye one day and I spent thirty minutes marveling at how beautiful it is and why I am glad that I had purchased it. That item that I "had to have", however, was not in that store on that day.

Each store was riddled with no less than two out of the way alcoves or secluded rooms. However, the stores continued on, filling these rooms, hungry for every square foot that was afforded to them. Random sinks and counters were also in these places. Not a single other soul were in these alcoves. There was barely even more than three people in each gallery at a time. In the second gallery, each item was red-tagged, 75% off.

Also in the second gallery was a girl with whom you couldn't tell was a little rounded or completely normal sized. She was sitting at a table in the middle of the gallery, studying a PowerPoint on her silver laptop. She wore a short green wrap, showing her long, tan legs. Her face was the kind that looks like someone else's. She looked up from her studies all of one time that I was in the gallery.

Hidden in the front of the gallery, with it's back to the window, among other pieces and without a price tag was a printed copy of "Desiderata" by Max Ehrmann. Printed on the framed, faded yellow sheet was a statement that it was hung in Old Saint Luke's Church.

I walked through the bookstore one last time before leaving. The still distressed employee had returned from lunch and was talking to a tall boy with curly red hair. As I passed them, he looked at me before the weather enveloped me again.

The weather was beautiful and my mind wandered. How does a place like that stay in business? Who pays for the lease and how can they afford it? On a peak shopping day, the plaza was amazingly empty. Many people walked around by themselves. A couple was found here and there; very, very few families. It made me wonder if someone with benevolence watched over this plaza, and enjoyed its retreat as much as I had.

It was a place that belonged to another place and another time. Before life was too complicated. Before things happened so quickly and there was so much to catch up with. With every year that escapes us, there is another year to remember. People can only remember so much, and world will always push something new onto your soul. Except for the people that loved it, everyone, including the troublemakers, had forgotten about the plaza.

I unlocked the door to my car and looked around. There was not a free parking spot to be found. A shopping mall across the street had embraced the future, with a proud LED marquee advertising its stores. An Olive Garden sat within a stone's throw. Before getting into my car, I looking to the sky, to see the plaza impaled by a high rise building. Quite literally, the modern era had stabbed at the heart of the plaza.


There was once a road-side cafe across the street. It had been demolished before I got to visit it. In its place will be a designer clothing store. I went to the cafe's new location and it was a modern building haunted with the ghost of the old cafe. The employees were obviously human and less than completely attentive. But, the pancakes were real. Robust, almost as good as homemade. I'll never go to IHOP again.
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Friday, January 4th, 2008

Time:9:19 pm.
There were so many thoughts that slipped through the cracks, today. I began to get upset at myself; just as soon as I thought of something, before I got to act on it, it disappeared from my thoughts. They were nothing important. . .just trivial thoughts. Pieces of information, actions that wouldn't build up to anything substantial in the future.

But, life balances itself in the funniest ways. (Doesn't it?) There is one thing that echoed in my head, today. It sounded, and I reflected. Just one of those thoughts you think walking from point A to point B. I thought of it again, just now, and researched it. And then I found it.

I just found a forgotten memory. A piece, a reflection of my own past that had disappeared. An archive such as this one. But it was greater. It had an audience, it had a purpose. It had scholarship, even. How important. . .how could I forget something so important? I want to scream it from the rooftops, I want to put it in faces and say, "This is what I mean." But that would compromise it's holiness. So, I can't leave any hints. A document so hidden, that even its creator had forsaken it. I cannot allow.

I have to find that piece of myself, again. Hearts that bleed in silence, cannot be reflected upon and remembered later. Death without a witness.
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Sunday, November 25th, 2007

Subject:The past month can be summed up in four words
Time:8:09 pm.
Time and time again
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Tuesday, September 11th, 2007

Subject:A winter's tale
Time:5:31 pm.
Today truly feels like fall. Or, more like, a winter that you don't need a coat for. It feels as cold without a coat, as winter does with one. The weather makes me think of you. Is this because we are having a fight, or is it because of the countless fond memories in cold weather we have? It makes me think of memories of you in the ice, around my graduation. (Cute snowmen. Go figure.) It makes me think of huddling together on Christmas morning. (Waiting for Santa. Again, go figure.) Happy memories all the same, though. And not because I'm a dork. There's plenty of memories for that. These memories are special because of you. Not for anything or anyone else. And these are among the kinds of things, the kinds of times that I would miss. Our love for this time of year binds us. The holidays would just seem that much more empty with out you. What would become of all of our things? What would become of us?
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Sunday, May 13th, 2007

Time:1:20 am.
Age brings me here, today. Current events make the passing of time more acute than normal.

This is the best metaphor that I could produce for it. Let's say this is an MMO. You get all of the new, cool, exciting shit at Level 21. You can cast new spells, get into new dungeons, wear new armor, all that rot. Level 23, well, you're stronger than 21s, but, you're just thinking about the cool things you get at 25 or 30. You're just mindlessly leveling. Or trying to distribute skill points to make your character worth a damn in the mean time. I'm a level 23 right now, and it kind of sucks. I'm watching friends go into level 21, and I'm so excited for them to be gaining that level. But. . .I miss that excitement. I'm watching some go into Level 25 with fucked up attribute points, and can't wait 'till I can do it better.

But I got id.
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Saturday, May 5th, 2007

Subject:Made in Heaven
Time:2:08 pm.
Just a jumble of thoughts.  Thoughts wrapped up in memories.  The archives remind me of who I was, where I've been, and how far I've become.  As always, the past is that for a reason.

Memory lane is always a difficult one to walk down.  Short, acute, bursts of memory.
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Subject:Penance stare
Time:1:32 pm.
Do I have things to pay for?  I don't know who "all I can be" is.  There are no clear cut, well defined answers.

If who I was can be, well, certainly a little embarrassing, my vintage isn't certainly better at all.  The heaviest of hand, the sloppiest of fervent emotion, the lack of social grace.  

I've come to realize more, and with, came greater maturity, and greater insight.  Perhaps, greater distance. 
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Time:1:28 pm.
Just looking at the user icons of this journal, and it seems like it was designed to be emo.  A concept that didn't even exist, as we know it today, when I established this journal.  If it did exist, it certainly did not have the prevalence that it does today.  Talking about changing times.

Reading back, it does seem like a long time ago.  A lot of things that I've said (here and elsewhere) have been very. . .self-indulgent.  I didn't even realize it at the time.  I guess three years ago is three years ago for a reason.  A peculiar evolution that's going.  Going where, I'm not sure.  From day to day, the more things change, the more things stay the same.
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