Life as a Conjunction:

I'm sorry. I started to, and then I just stopped.



Sorry, this is coming from a weird moment of weakness. I'm not supposed to show this. Because I don't trust in myself anymore. Well, not as much as I used to. I don't know what to blame for that. Well.

It must be the way that I can hear you say this now
Don't be afraid, just know that I'll be with you somehow
All of your cries, soon they will drown in my lullabies
Just close your eyes, just close your eyes
Lullaby - All Star United



So my mind has turned to ways of being sneaky, brilliant, and have an overall sense of accomplishment that I've been dreaming of for years. Because there's always a day where you feel left out, and you feel like you missed out, and like "Oh crap, I could've been all over that. Man." Yeah, like that.
At least they gave me time to think. But that doesn't really solve my problem. Go figure. And there are moments where I just think things like
I hate phones
I hate computers
I hate parents
I hate maps
I hate months
I hate plays
I hate jobs
I hate bowling
I hate guitars
and all I can do is focus on how I've been let down. Well guess what. It was mostly me. Mostly me. So the next time I check a calendar, maybe I'll just have to shake my head in shame and tell myself that I embarrass me. Hm, some capricious kid I am.

Would you do it? Would you take a risk to kick someone's feet out from under them (metaphorically, of course)? How much are you willing to put OUT THERE before you start to think about it? Because then you'll realize that it's not just you they're judging, and it's not just what you thought. And suddenly there's more to the story that you never saw coming. And how do you react to that? With a paper and pen? I mean, is that what it's asking for?
You can't slip a pair of wings into someone's locker.


"And on that note..."
That's where it started. That and my birthdate. God.

Oh, and save me from Nickelback, because Photograph does not help me. Because I'm trying to channel the majority of the feeling through to my fingers (interrupted by the occasional tic), and before you know it, something brilliant will come out.
Please, let it be now.


If you spent two more minutes in the corner
They'd probably lose track of you
And they'd come looking for you
And they'd take you by the hand and drag you
And I'd be left watching them pull you
Away from where I was just sitting
With you
Leaving me with an air of clouds
And harmless little ambitions
And I'd add them to my conditions
Which I piled up with your permission
When you came along with your apparitions
As I walked past the street lights
In this condition
Which is to say that I really, really, really hope this works out.


This is pretty unfinished.
This is pretty unfinished.

Well that's good news -- snakes on crack

Yeah, I said something last year. This day. 365 days ago. Today.
Yeah, I said that I had finally figured something out. That I had finally diagnosed myself. That I knew what it was that turned this semi-psychopathic mind into a burning and quivering mess. It was that fear of being brand new. Those first few steps off onto the dark path, the first step towards the edge of the cliff, the first stroke of the brush. It all scares the hell out of me. Maybe the world would be better if we could just skip the beginnings. Skip the introduction and head straight to the part where we know all the characters, and we feel comfortable with what we did. Or not -- or you're stuck in a pool of regret. But you know what. I'd rather know that I was regretful than not know if I was going to be.



So all signs point towards one thing. All systems go go go forward. Right? Well, there's where the fear kicks in. And for me it's like tripping and falling at the finish line. I can see the damn thing, all I have to do is just reach for it, get up and start walking again, maybe even crawl a bit, but I just can't. I'm stuck staring at the finish line from a distance. And every second counts. And before you know it -- it'll be too late and I'll be disqualified. Wouldn't that suck? Gee, you can see the finish, you could touch it, you could paint it from memory (if you ever got the first stroke down), but you can't get there. Too bad. You're done. It's over for you. Except for the regret.

Well, I can't wait for that.



You'd better write me down
Because you'll forget who I am
Unless I'm right there
And then I'll forget who I am
You'd better draw me up
Because you'll lose track of me
Unless I can watch over you
And unless you can see me
But I can't always do that
And I don't think I would
So at least be thinking of me while you're there
Because that's pretty much all I've got to go on right now.




"You deserve better."
What if I don't want better?
"You deserve some respect."
What if I'm okay with it?
"You shouldn't have to deal with this."
What if I knew I could've stopped it, but I didn't do anything?
"Well then you're screwed."
Yep.
"Good luck."
Thanks.