I suppose I have an affinity for picking up Mersaults, like Anthony, and growing close to them (or so I think) and finding out that really, there's nothing there at all because emotion doesn't exist for them and the element of me in their lives is inconsequential whether it was ever there or not or whether it ever will be there in the future.

Tonight, I say goodbye to the second and hopefully the last of those. And I am alone again, only even more disillusioned. I really thought it couldn't get worse. But it can always get worse. I knew that, really. I really knew that.

I guess this proves it: when it comes to romance, I really do get over things fast. And when that happens, like right now, I just can't stop rolling my eyes at myself and the rest of the world.

I hate friggin history papers.

A Bit of the Lost Inspiration,

It was a girl who loved the blue of the sky, the deep blue that seemed to disappear the longer you stared into it, the blue that was clearer than clear, that you could see through enough all the way up so that you couldn't see it at all. And then it circled around in the clear layers and reflected in your eyes and your eyes reflected in the blue and the sky and eyes were blue and the reflection was you. Eventually time was lost in the blue, the reflection of it in the eyes, the absorption into the mind, the time was lost.

It was this blue of the sky that was her favourite because its disappearance while she stared reminded her of the beauty and the pointlessness, the sweetness and the bitterness, the dreaming and the restlessness that permeate the air, explode through her unwilling skin, into her unwilling lungs--but a girl cannot suffocate herself--and so she unwillingly allowed those essential yet blasphemous elements of life inside her.

Now we must ask why? Why this allowance of quintessential beauty and quintessential blasphemy? Why love and hate on the creation of vividity, of life; why allow all and nothing in when it intrudes upon you, committs a felony upon a person and the person committs a felony upon himself--yet we allow it. To be courageous we must reek of cowardice, to be cowardly, reek of courage, for to live we must inherently fear death despite all we might say of casting the Unknown from amongst our fears; and to die before the world will take us, to die by our own hands, and in doing so, brave that fear, plunge into the Unknown of our freewill, so I say, yes I say both living and dying are shames and honors upon a man. Both living and dying.

And the deep blue of a clear spring day that echoed eternity and emptiness in the reflections between the sky and our eyes was the girl's favourite. For this was the world in all its renewed glory, the opposite of death, so birth, the opposite of winter in thought but really on the other side of year, the world is dying and is so more alive. WIll it go on this way until the sun grows big, explodes then collapses, then sends this notion of insignificant humanity who spent its time only selfishly dreaming of himself, creating a small cacophony of disruption among the peaceful, empty, singing space of the stars to amuse himself by calling war and blood, then crying peace?

He will end in a culmination of both--violence and serenity--when the world has him destroy himself, or destroys him for him, and then enjoy silence again. The universe will take its breath, for it still has the hope to hold it. Why, then, should we act otherwise? I say: take the example of the unfathomable universe which surrounds this invisible mote of dust on which we reside amongst the stars. I say take the example, for we are only a reflection reflecting and refracting eternity back into itself until there isno eternity at all except what cannot be remembered.

I'm thinking again. Sometimes I think I do that a little too much and that runs me into hard places, but at least, then, I have something to work for.

When this year is over I'll have time to clear my head. When that happens, I know the next outpouring of words unstoppable will occur. At least I hope so. Right now I have the feeling and it scares me but excites me and you know I love it.

After all this time, I have not one-hundred-percent reconciled myself with the Madness. The feeling is mutual, I suppose, between the Madness and myself. We'll never learn to live without the other because it's air and the lungs won't breathe without it, and the soul won't carry on. So we tolerate and love and hate all in one.

That's the thing about those two opposites. I don't believe one is possible without the other in the true sense of their meanings. You can utterly despise, loath--or like intensely, be infatuated with, love--but you cannot hate and you cannot be in love with something if you don't feel the other just as strongly.

Those two most intense emotions feed off of each other and keep one another in check. And it's proven true, at least for me, that I cannot be in love with something I do not immensely hate at the same moment, and vice versa. It's a question of wu again: the perfect balance. We spend our lives striving to find it and meet it briefly, for a moment, or a fraction of a moment, and then the axis shifts and the scale tilts again. But we're still on the same spectrum, are we not?

So this is Life. I love it and hate it all in one, not wanting it to end, not wanting it to continue. Can you blame me?

Things have been a mess. With all the drama. The stupid drama of college-still-mentally-in-highschool people, Sarah having her baby (!!) and other friends getting tested for cancer (which thankfully came back negative).

I thought I was just an observer. I suppose I still am. Like I said, I'll ignore the "there's you" comment and pretend it never happened...or try to.

Last night James and I to dinner together as usual. George was there, too, which was nice. Then the three of us went Kat's to watch Big Fish which just gets better and better each time I see it. I really think it's Tim Burton's best. He didn't overdo the freakishness and it all fit beautifully. George had to leave in the middle of the movie because his *wonderful* girlfriend was arriving. I still feel like slapping her.

Becca went home for the weekend to "think things out" and see her friends from home. I haven't talked to or seen Shawn since yesterday morning when I was talking to James in the Bistro and there was so much awkwardness and the two of them were so overly obvious that James turned to Shawn out of the blue and said "So, you're wearing the same shirt as yesterday." Becca and I looked at each other and died. *Sigh* I love James, Mr. Genius perceptive man.

Meanwhile, after the movie, James, Kat, Randa, John and I all went to Trader Joe's and went dumpster diving. That was fun, only really cold. We got a lot of bread, flowers, potatoes, fruit and cheese. It's really amazing what people throw out. Some of the expiration dates weren't until April 25!

Jordana went with John to New Jersey for a wedding shower this morning so I have the room to myself until tomorrow afternoon. Yay!

Tonight there's a Clark Bars concert. That's exciting :-)

And that's all, I think.

I'm off to write my history paper thesis statement, etc.

Final Happy Birthday

For the first time in 13 years today, I didn't call Samantha for her birthday. Part of me wants to regret it, but the othe rpart says it's time to let go. Everything is fleeting and I lost this longer ago than even I know. It's just another example of a waste of mine, another waste of time, another waste of my heart on the very last vestige of the First Past. But even fairy tales must die in the end.

So happy birthday, Samantha Emily Straus. I can do nothing now but remember you at most, because I doubt you remember me at all. Maybe when you look through the old photo albms and come across me, you'll remember the little twiggy girl you used to call your best friend. She was allergic to your casts but grew out of it and convinced you of life from outer space. You used to catch snails from your garden with her and punch her in the stomach if you got mad. But she loved you anyway, in that pure, senseless way of children.

That's why I think I held on for so long--you knew me before...

Before.

You knew me before the end of a child's elation, before the disillusion, before the Mason-Dixon line.

So I am a fool, was a fool, will continue to be, because I thought that maybe, somehow, by latching on to a past represented by you, I could preserve the last of myself. but I lost that, too, too long ago to remember and I understand that you represent everything I could have been and never was.

I still pursue the wind. It's only me. Not anyone else. Just me. No more representation, no more false consolations.

So happy birthday, Samantha. For the very last time. But more like happy birthday to myself. Or graduation.

Three cheers for the graduate.

The Medium of Air

Eventually, when you write enough, paper becomes obsolete and we return to air, like I do now. Not too many people understand why I write in this medium, but for the people who do, I come as a flash of memory and reference; they'll say: "Oh, yes. I know a girl who writes on the air." "Why?" the others will ask, because ink doesn't show up on the air. "Because it's the only thing that's permanent. Ink is her life, the air she breathes, so she melds the two together to complete her world."

But because of the air and because of her ink, she can never become a part of anything else--at least in the individual sense. Sure, a part of the collective, and she follows her blood back like Jung. But never by herself.

I'll continue to write on the air, like I'll continue to dream of friends. Like I continue to dream of one. I think that maybe through the words on the air they can hear me, like they hear the words in the dreams.

Some things are just too extraordinary to write down, or take a picture of, or paint, or even try to explain in retrospect. This week has been one of those. I love it all. I love the people, the scenery, the air, the time. That's about all I can say. I'll have to leave it up to memory and what anyone can gather from my new gait for the rest.

Other Voices

Behind the music I hear voices--and in front. There's something about the weave of them that strikes me, moves me out beyond myself, the seat I'm in, the ground I stand on , the rolls of the ocean. There's something about them.

Maybe it's the sadness behind the notes that makes me happy--I pull joy from the juxtaposition of my own and someone else's grief. It reminds me that i'm not the only one isolated to stagnation and inner motion, that I'm not alone. For the moment, I am not alone and I don't want to hold it, because eventually my strength gives way to empty air and I am left with nothing but memory and then ghosts when the memory fades.

The music's ended, but for now, the people remain, with human voices, not musical notes. Later, when it starts again, I hope they'll be the same. Mainly because I'm tired of losing and letting it all slip away: I'm tired of disillusion. I wish I could trust because it breaks my heart, or what's left of it. It truly breaks my heart because I love them, but I can never have faith that anyone loves me anymore. Too much heartbreak and too much pain prevent too much happiness from growing and later being inevitably uprooted and gone.