Regardless

because when you're really sad, you make the people you love art. even when they are sad and do not want to talk to you. because they're their own person, and that's all that matters. and you can say, "ich liebe dich" as much as you want, but that's not how it works. so sometimes all you can do is make art. and listen to the birds. and think about other things. and love that person regardless.

June

There's a familiar story someone told me about you. It involved nothing that was true, but rhymed ever so slightly, and had a good moral. It reminded me of the big window in my living room that is so big that we could not find blinds that fit it. Just a perfect window, because the sun would come in and light up the whole house. And when it would rain, the sun would shine through the rain drops left on the glass. And you could see everything from that window. You could see the skyscrapers downtown, and even the house next door with a cat sitting on the roof who would hide under the awning when it would rain–such a curious cat. But that window, with all it's grandeur and beauty, scared me sometimes too. I worried the glass would break in a storm, and then nothing would fix it. How do you fix glass? You can't, you have to replace it. And that thought terrified me even more. My roommates have lived here longer, though. They said it's been broken before, but it just has been miraculously fixed. Not sure I believe them. But I like that window. A lot.

Curls

It's like being replaced, but when the wire is broken and the numbers won't punch in–it'll be like you never knew they were gone. UNTRUE! but she was pretty, I guess. not conventionally, at least. the curls were soft, but the static was out of control. but it's not like you can say anything, because, like, individuality and stuff. but it was nice that she tried. she tried to show it. she tried. but being replaced is hard, and no one should have to eat carrots alone.

O'Keefe

There are no rules–there is no point. WE made the rules so there would be a point. You feel loved, but it's not. It's not. No way. It's not.
I saw you in a dream...it wasn't a dream, was it.
Maybe I imagined you–like a water colour painting, so beautiful created. The lines and strokes, so perfect; so genius.
but even that isn't true. what lies I created in my head to hide. to find. to invoke. BUT WHY? To hide? To hide from what? To laugh? To cry? Already did those. check check and check. maybe it wasn't a good idea–maybe it was the best idea. I like it. I like you.

LIFE?

I don't know what to call you, post. Maybe it's called Life, because I hate it, too. Whatever. I was reading the newest post from the Hyperbole and A Half blog (Ya know, the ALL THE THINGS cartoon). Ya, well, pretty funny...also, too real. The author has a segment about her depression, and how life can sometimes feel like it is hopeless bullshit. "what if...the entire future," the comic begins, "is full of only horrible, boring things?" "That would be too many," she decides.

But I guess that's where I am struggling. I am seeking to find meaning in my work, writing, and other various activities to little or no avail. And, I mean, the only comfort I can find after a long day of being yelled at, is my bed. And maybe parks and rec.

But then I see other people doing so well. Being happy and enjoying life. I wonder if my life will ever be like that.

Someone I love dearly–just recently, actually–said to me that people had to be the reason for life...the reason we're alive. It just blew my mind. Here I am, trying to figure out what I'm doing with my life. Why I can't make a million dollars?! or write a damn article worth reading! Or even get one damn upvote on Reddit. But it's not about me. It's about other people. I love so many people. And I hurt a lot of people. I wish I didn't. I'm struggling today. And all this week, actually. Well, stay tuned. Maybe I'll figure something else out real soon. :)

Thursday

....the woman reached through the gate and threw her a one dollar bill.
the bill was wrinkled up, as though it had been through more pockets than its worth.
"Thanks," the girl said, in a calm manner and gave the woman a rare smile.
The woman looked at the girl, and smiled back.
"What's your favourite colour?"
The girl smiled and slowly pointed at the bright sunflower in her hair.
"Yellow!" She said.

For those in Boston–my heart is there

I sat down today, my mind brimming with hope and excitement for the future–I have many ideas and outlets that I want to have a go at! But as I read about the bombings at the Boston marathon, my heart began to sink further and further. The videos and messages that people were uploading and sending put my heart into a tail spin. The picture is still unclear of why anyone would think to harm people while they were trying to achieve the goal of finishing a marathon–for some, maybe even a bucket list item. Now, it will forever be shrouded by the memories of smoke, blood, and terror. My heart goes out to all those effected. My runner's heart beats for you; you are not alone.