what is this...this consistent desire for contact? must we constantly reach out into a haze, hoping to tap someone's shoulder? ha. picture the human race, one hand covering their eyes, the other arm outstretched in front, flailing around like it's a silly game. this is the world where we are all Time's person of the year.

i say this knowing i'm part of this generation. no, i'm not knee-deep in this bullshit, but i've stepped in it more than a few times. it really is easy to follow the status quo. it's like a stream; you just buy an innertube and lay back. all this hobbling around is is giving into (which is the right term?) reptilian urges, primal emotions, and the hobbesian state of nature. what else is vanity? what else is "idle chatter" as Heidegger called it? what else is selfishness? naught but shutting your eyes and shoving off from the riverbank.

this is where "my" is born. this is where the world inverts itself and, essentially, we are all alone. i've said it before and i shall say it again:

Linking all, we have severed all. We have rendered the world an infinite archipelago of island universes.

We have birthed the times when glass protects, and spatial existence is obsolete. Yes, the wonders; yes the possibility! But what is lost when all is relative and we build ourselves out of manmade mud? Substance? Solidarity? Have we made real surreal?

What happens to identity when we write our own histories? Who are we when we control perception? Are we anything?

We sit in translucent boxes, running wires from each unto each. Every breath, every blink, every squint, smirk, or sneer is broadcasted. We are our own televisions. However, each breath, each blink, we could smudge and make gasps or gazes, screams or stares. And the truth is elusive. We see the intended truth. And so do they. Our boxes may be translucent, but we paint the inside. We are beautiful, always.

But, to become an ideal is to slaughter an ideal. And so beauty dies.

Our boxes are sealed shut. Like Schroedinger's cat we are everything inside; we are death, we are life, we are spendthrifts, we are hoards (but all in hell). Cut a peak into ourselves and we prove individual. We can't survive once we're known. We are fragile.

minor digression. but where do we go from here? dare i say i hope with all my heart that man will not fall into this spiral where even grammar is allowed to rot with the time until we, at infinity, would speak in inverted tones and hear negative pockets of air and think by forgetting and live by falling.

destroy your mirrors, save your souls from that liquid acquiescence. instead, fly, fly, fly...

...fly from yourself and into the atmosphere

fafsa = done
css = done

oh the irony of spending $150 applying for federal aid. ha.

i despise literature reviews. they take good books, separate them into words and phrases, and then engulf them in flames. sure we know them better than probably most people, but the love for them had been reduced to soot.

i should have read the chapter for government. now i officially have two days to read both 25 page chapters. i'm so stupid. so stupid. god.

i think my reading-passion may be coming back. i hope i'm right. when i read it feels like a part of me is asleep, the part of me that cries when phrases are formulated ever so eloquently, elegantly. the part of me that steals those phrases and keeps them in a little bag. the part of me that was born from illumination. i honestly think nicole krauss put him to sleep with her new york feel borrowed from her husband, his creator. he was born out of enlightenment, it seems contradictory for him to have to suffer from redundancy.

i'm sick of my so-called inspirations.

i want to be driven by the magic behind my thoughts, and not be inspired. i'm sick of living off of the world and not off of my own being. i don't want a muse. i want to be the muse of my words, not some sort of verbal middleman feigning necessity. i want to be alone.

in this way, among others, i don't know how long it will take me to get over being displaced. i wanted it more than anything, i still do, yet i'm not welcome. i'm not welcome.

Soo..

I have a Yale interview coming up. Scared, much?

i don't know.

it's amazing how little we know of the world, of each other, of ourselves. if i wanted to go deep into it, i could prove that you (we) know none of the things we think we do, really. but, ignoring that, why is this ignorance inherent? why must we constantly stutter, think back, and wonder if what we thought or said was ever accurate?

it makes my whole body shiver with curiosity.
how is it possible to live without any sense of definity(i invented that word, i hate definiteness.)?

how often during the day must i answer "i don't know" when asked how i feel? basic human emotions are easy, beyond easy, to name, but i suppose the vast vichyssoise (ha, a vendetta remark for those who care) of emotions is hard to? why must our minds be reduced to broth? why must i answer "i don't know" when asked if i love him? i suppose the aforementioned soup du jour cannot name anything let alone love.

i feel these things, do i not; these longings, these desires, these weeping homunculi; and yet my words express none. they lay victim to the duality of man; to the bombardment of my hatreds, my reluctancies, my winged homunculi. there is a war in heaven inside of me and my words are of the third who do not pick sides.

therefore they, too, go to hell.

ah, the comedy of the tragedy we're in. when will anything mean anything?

i hate to say it, but i don't know.

IT WAS SO NOT WORTH IT STAYING UP READING THAT FUCKING BOOK WHEN I ONLY GOT A 3 ON THE FUCKING ANNOTATIONS.

IT WAS SO NOT WORTH BEING IN AP LIT.

IT WAS SO NOT WORTH SAVING MY PASSES OR GETTING THOSE 20 FUCKING ALLFORDOLLARS.

GOD I HATE THIS SCHOOL.

Gaze past the air, into loss, into loss
Never again, I’m sure, will you be she
For fated mistakes, innocence the cost

The blood-red sight and memory, you toss
While in hell you watch for eternity
Gaze past the air, into loss, into loss

Poor girl, you stood still while the stars did cross
Virgin ripped from the earth; seeds into seed
For fated mistakes, innocence the cost

In escape, temptation bid you to pause
And I weep for your eyes that cannot weep
Gaze past the air, into loss, into loss

And when your skin, raked by the demon’s claws
Your blood-straight arms reached for heaven to flee
For fated mistakes, innocence the cost

Your view, poignant fog, cast by Satan’s laws
The light dims as you sit, enthroned as queen
Gaze past the air, into loss, into loss
For fated mistakes, innocence the cost

Poem #1 = finished. Help me edit, though, if anything needs to be fixed.

god. what it means, what it means.

i had a conversation with mr rosenfield...on facebook. yeah on facebook. but nevertheless, a conversation about the new year...and about how january 1st means so much more this year than it ever has. of course, he and i were referring to application deadlines...but as i think about it...it's much more than that.

this is 2007. this is the year of our birth.
and death.

on may 31st, 5 whole (or short) months away, we will die. though, life, like the novel it is or tries to be, writes foreshadowing into every day, every hour. i haven't even been accepted yet. but i cried last night, because i missed sean. i missed him so much i thought i was going to faint. and then i missed anna. and anna. and jamie. god i missed jamie. i've known her so long.
and then leslie, who i've known the longest of them all.
it's like losing limbs. how can i go on without them?

i know it's an old story. it's nothing. it's nothing. it's nothing.

but it hurts like...like
i shut my eyes and all the world drops dead

except my eyes are open.
so i can't lift my lids so all is born again.

until august. then i am reborn.

just sealed the last application fee into an envelope. i'm done.
with everything. application-related. for now. haha.

SAT scores sent, apps sent, supplements sent, payments sent, fee waivers sent.

next comes CSS Profile and FAFSA. but that's later. and i've already filled them out.

college = ha.

so. a week left before school. what's left? oh...i don't know. I have to read and annotate Heart of Darkness...and write 3 poems for my 3 paintings and make a powerpoint presentation about them..hahaha...and all for AP Lit.

oh oh and what? what else do i have to do for allford? what's that? GRAD ADS? OMG REALLY?! YOU DONT SAY!

but at least anna's birthday is coming up. we better have some damn fun.

i think i'm going to go buy a 4 lb thing of licorice like the 2 i bought a certain miss jamie young. i need some.