, HOW TO FEEL LIKE A CHILD AGAIN

I crave the kind of vulnerability that only fooling with another heart can make me feel. I cannot find this sensation in an unfamiliar city, neither at the bottom of a cold Swedish lake, neither in my morning commute, or my second cup of coffee, or in not using a map, neither in the highlighted raw sentences from books I feel could have been my own. I cannot find any folly nearly foolishly satisfying enough as is trying to convince another heart and be convinced by another heart.

I have searched on Division Street in Wicker Park; I thought maybe I could freeze myself to vulnerability. Surprise that that did not suffice.

I have thought long and hard about how I could feel if the ceiling became the floor; if everything changed, and life rearranged, and sea creatures painted the world.  Yet again, I feel too comfortable.

I have explored every nook and uncanny cranny and I cannot shake the tactlessness.

In order to rediscover the beauty, I need to resort back to basic human qualities. reconsider how to breathe, how to piece an intelligent thought together, this touch is okay, don't look for too long...don't think so hard, okay, that was too hard. DON'T think about fucking, definitely don't do that, it will consume you. stop analyzing every movement, stop thinking about voices and jawlines. This is the kind of vulnerability I need. The kind I could never get used to.

, how to move like a child again
teaching pronunciation like i'm reading on my grandma's basement steps again
feeling something again that i am more than just myself
that love can extend vastly, and that love comes easily, without the smallest flicker of a doubt, and generally without wanting it or without a purpose to fulfill. isn't that beautiful? how powerful it is? it is always there and i haven't even wanted it, to be truthful.

that it's okay to just be. to just be with you.
because i think that the important things can be felt and i don't even have to say it (and especially when my heart is jumping up my throat)

you make me feel feelings that tell me i really exist, i really am existing, and i think that is why i feel so at home.
(i am so tired of finding a home in another person)
because now nothing and nowhere else can feel like home

vulnerability human qualities
makeme think about my movements and my voice
make me reconsider hwo to breathe

I DON'T NEED YOU TO CATCH MY WANDERING MIND,

I WILL DO MY BEST TO MEET YOU THERE.

my bones tonight can rest until seven in the morning. today i got by with ignoring the pile on my floor once more. incense is burning for the fourth time today; perhaps my room is too small for something so strong. it's wednesday so pine street is a bit more loud than normal. i feel exhausted. i've been brushing my hair every day. i can't find the right kind of quiet here. always on edge; feeling like i'm waiting to start living.

WRITES WITH EYES CLOSED

I don't see you there anymore, or then anymore, or around anymore anywhere. And especially not here. which brings me to something a bit more exciting, perhaps a bit more telling of what IS seen inside of this 'thing' (me being the 'thing')
i am certainly being chased quite quickly, but from what, i've never been sure. here, there are staircases that seem to go on for miles, so i am ascending them at such a velocity i have to stop to breathe on the second to last set. i pause there and can see into my windows from the ledge. you see, my apartment isn't much for walls, but windows rather. so this way i can absorb all the natural light, drink my morning coffee while my small slice of the world wakes up.
i can see from the ledge to the inside and i can see that my apartment is out of sorts. once inside, i have found that there are ripped letters, cabinets thrown open and contents poured out, tables and chair legs strewn about the living room, the tv's glass smashed to pieces, the appliances beaten and detached from their assigned spaces amongst the framework.  and my money is gone.
and i have no context for what has just happened to me. i run out to the ledge again. i look below onto the dismal street. i see a former friend telling me to fucking jump. i look back into my apartment and see it is fully aflame now, who has been inside of there? the heat is so much i can feel my skin dissolving. so he's screaming to jump. i throw myself from the ledge and i soar above the fifteen flights of stairs, suspended forever. i've never felt so free. i wish i would have jumped years ago. and i wish he wouldn't have had to tell me to jump.

PERTAINING TO NONVERBALS: PT 1

it is impossible to maintain a relationship with someone whose first language is not your language. (i overheard a conversation like this the other day, saying that it can be okay, but it gets so difficult, because too much ends up being left unsaid; and much is met in the middle rather than finally determined...so goes this, however small, everlasting language barrier.)

i absolutely believe this not to be true. i have formed some of the strongest friendships of my life with people who are not even from the united states, therefore, neither whose first language is english. whether speaking from a swedish-english standpoint, or a spanish-english standpoint, or a french-english standpoint, or an english-english standpoint, all of the love still feels the same. i feel more close with them than almost everyone, and i have never felt that this closeness or this love has been threatened by language; if anything, perhaps enhanced. to let something like my language or my country hold me back from opening my life or my heart to those outside of that makes me scared that we are all living in the comfort of our own pre-packaged lives.

that said, i believe in the power of words more than anyone. i sit and think about words and their shapes and their sounds and their sequences and semantics more than i think of anything else because of how much they fascinate me. one misarticulated sound, a change in pitch, inflection, stress, or rate, these minor nuances in language can prove so much in relation to the thought as a whole, can tell so much about the person as a human. but there exists so much more than words within the realm of nonverbal communication. there exists a means of communicating and demonstrating compassion for others which cannot and should not be limited by language, or country, or culture, or gender, or anything. the kindest things are not said, but are shown. the most bold moves are more bold than the most bold words.

Det verkar så enkelt vännen, ändå är det så obegripligt svårt. Men ingenting i denna världen var väl någonsin lätt att förstå.

i'm trying to get comfortable with life here. i'm going to try to live as numbly as possible next semester otherwise i am going to lose it. welcome to the new year. i have to say that 2013 was more of a transition year than anything; spending most of my time wishing to be somewhere else. i'm trying to continue to grow into the person i can become being here, but i don't absorb anything from my surroundings or the people. i'm just going to try to make it out of 2014 without going insane. i realize how negative this is, and i'm typically not so overwhelmingly negative, but the thought of being here another entire year doing nothing but intense studying and working as much as possible makes me a bit sick, and i am quite scared of the looming year. i need some new escape to make its way to me. i need to be around people who and places that inspire me and i have never found that here. i'm going to make 2014 about growing inside of my own head and then get the hell out in december. i'm going to try to get the hell over sweden and move on with my life. i'm really really going to consciously try to get over it, even if that means cutting myself off.  i'm going to try to grow despite missing everything and everyone at every moment of every day. i'm going to try to stop living in the memory of the past and focus on what could be in less than a year's time. i'm going to try to avoid name dropping my friends far away and the word 'stockholm' with every conversation i have. it makes it too impossible to live here in the present when my heart and my head aren't here. and cheers to falling off the social map (virtually and otherwise). 

ISOLA

grass grows from the alarm clock. it's astounding, the sounds of five sets of eyes that could never understand why a ship is referred to as a 'she' just as well as i cannot put my finger quite on the outcome of the next year. i keep searching for you only to find that you are hiding underneath my skirts again, then falling into an inescapable bathtub of public enemies. shame on throwing your wallet into the fireplace but...forgiven, i suppose, if it is that that keeps you bleeding. and with the most enticing voice i've ever seen, you misplace your vowels and drag out your consonants at a rate which isn't decipherable. is it possible all the cheap vodka has gone to your head? is it possible that the portuguese pavement stifled your willingness to brave the storm without an umbrella? left filling the evenings with old music and miscalculated kissing makes me restless. whelmed. hammer to heart and enclosed in a glass case, the wait. everything intrigued us and thrilled us, alas together remain unmutually unenamoured. as i remove you from the pedestal, tangled nerves dangling from the moon sharpen our vision and carve an exit. the alarm clock needs trimming.

THE SPACES AMID LOVE

you have ghosts?
of course i have ghosts.
what are your ghosts like?
they are on the insides of the lids of my eyes.
this is also where my ghosts reside.
you have ghosts?
of course i have ghosts.
but you are a child.
i am not a child.
but you have not known love.
these are my ghosts, the spaces amid love.

EPENTHESIS

Please don’t make me feel anything right now; I don’t have the time for that bullshit. I just heard someone scream outside the window. I hope you didn’t make them feel something. I hope they are just screaming for feeling alive. I would like to do the same but I’m conscientious of my neighbors (ellipses) Does this fact make me more alive, or less alive? Are we all being too conscientious and not screaming enough?

I have noticed -thanks to a long sit in a warm bath -to keep feeling the warmth it’s necessary to stir around a bit. Feet out, then under. Water is warm again. Water is wet again. I think that water is the softest discovery. Sit in it for a moment and it becomes you. Am I even sitting in water anymore? Because I feel nothing? And does it feel warm or cold now? And how long have I been in the bath now? I have to keep moving to feel anything at all.  Generally speaking, I think that I knew this, but the bathtub has since confirmed it.

I cut a chunk out of my hair this week. Was touching it just now; it’s all irregular and obnoxious. I told myself it’ll grow back. It’s just hair.

I know someone who died this week. People are dying constantly I suppose, but usually it ends up being someone I’ve never known. I don’t know how to react to death. I guess the only thing is to learn to grow despite the loss, to grow because of the loss. I’ve really no idea though. I’m very scared of death. Of people I love dying. Of feeling too much, or feeling too little, or feeling nothing at all, when I do eventually lose someone. Of not spending the right amount of time with them, or not telling them how I love them enough. Most of all, I wish that death didn’t happen, well at least not totally, and I could just pour out my loved one's presence into my morning coffee day in, day out. Still greet you in the morning, have you after dinner.

I’m hooping again. It feels good to move like that again. I paid the rent and the electric bill this week. Passed four finals. Sat in cold coffee shops and scribbled away about human anatomy.  Remembered, once, to make my bed. Avoiding most things because I get too distracted by distraction’s distractions.

Another harrowing goodbye will come this week. This seems to be the recurring event the past couple of years. Change is good right? I still think of the profuse tears I’ve shed on buses each time I’ve left someone. It’s really underrated how painful goodbyes are. It’s always worth it; to have such good times, despite the difficult separations. Maybe it makes true connections a bit stronger, even. (what does it remember like?) 

I need to start packing for Chicago. I need to eat something for dinner besides an apple. To do over Christmas break: Jacob’s coffee. Books. Countdown: 2 days.

11. sleeping pills and damien rice

LIFE EXISTS IN FIVE CIRCLES

life exists in five circles and you are telling me thesethingsthatdon'thappen and then you are telling me thesethings that i pROBABLY alreadydetermined and imtryingtobe modestandok, trying to be ok, but i think it comes off--flakes shakes takes breaks away from me what idontwanttoknowthatialreadyknow

that none of these noneofyou--none are how i imagine thatorthis orthoseorthatorwho and im notsure, buti used a comma, wow, can i concentrate on that, or how im listening to wordless music, how ihatethaticanremember these things; cold accompanied by NO NOTION of time (which is exactly how i like it) and thinking: i think this ends by walking out the door

ok well i cant care becasue there is this cold, actually freezing wind harsh against my arms, against my forehead, i check if my window got opened, well no, hereanothercomma, it's closed. but okay, these blinds, they are not keeping me warm. this skin, these muscles, bones, costumes, songs, loves, they are not keeping me warm.
this touch
neither.

violent delights have violent ends

THE SKY PULSING

the sky pulsing 11/29/13

iamsoafraidofdying

iamsoafraid it will be OK

do something

dosomething

dosomething

it will be OK

it will beOK

dosomething

I am soafraidofdying

I am soafraid

I am I am iam iami?

249-252

I KNEW IT, I WAS FREE, I WAS THERE.

five minutes of dreams and i'm resting my head in your lap on the couch. the one that i burned with a hairdryer when it was first new, sorry. you're reading me that scary story about the witch with twigs for hair and a cave for a home who sold marmalade. or maybe you're explaining shakespeare to me.  i knew it, i was free, i was there.

i liked the way you impulsively painted the bathroom with periwinkle stripes. the way you crush your christmas candy cane and eat its crumbs with a spoon out of a bowl. the way you seem to consistently finish the last piece of other people's puzzles, despite angering them, you find it funny, and so do i. not to mention the passion with which you built my history project, quilt me beautiful warmth, and paint my life with such scenery.

and i especially love the contrast between you telling me if anyone ever hurt me, to punch them, yet you watch almost every television show with tissues in hand to wipe clean your crying eyes. there is such beauty in your range of emotions, and how they are subtle and sound when i need someone strong, yet the most mundane things can create such feeling in you. there is such beauty in your ability to let the world fully take hold of you, and how you can find yourself in any story.

there is such beauty in how you're so delicate, but so tough, and i love you.

besides i love you

we are in poland, it is your birthday. you are drunk, and so am i. it is terribly cold, and everything is terribly polish. i forgot my gloves at the hostel. we walk together to a bar somewhere. all of us. but i walk nearest to you. my hands are frozen. i probably say this aloud. i put my hand in your coat pocket where your hand was. so i hold it. and i say i feel better this way. and we walk holding hands in your pocket. and later you'll be crying about being old and i'll kiss your face.

i'll say everything's going to be ok.

FEELINGS FROM THIS NOVEMBER

the harshness of the final fight because it really does not get easier.  i've held onto empty bottles of european products for the mere sake of something tangible.  i really did live this, and it really was. (but my conscious self, it cannot believe it anymore.)  all of these meaningless spanish and swedish beauty products are just nonsense taking up space under my bathroom sink, but i can't bring myself to throw them out.  it all feels like a dream that i can't remember any details of. "and now you can't even recall any of the names, faces, or lines, it's more the feeling of it all." i'll read the fine swedish print on the bottle. i read this for six fucking months. these combinations of characters that i didn't even take notice of after some time, which i'm now clinging to as if it is a vital organ.

EVERY DAMN GOOD THING IN THIS WORLD IS SOMETHING WHICH ISN'T TANGIBLE.
and that's what makes it so difficult
to feel,
see,
to understand,
so hard to love,
appreciate,
and to scream about
anything of importance

these important things, well, they cannot be contained in glass jars, neither pressed into an overflowing suitcase, neither plastered to a wall, neither preserved in paint, nor written in a journal.  they have to be felt, seen, understood. loved, appreciated, and screamed about in the moment they occur.  because now they are over.  smells of smiles so faded, dumb photographs on my wall, drunken signatures sprinkled across a world map, forgotten voices and dispositions of people i love. there's nothing left besides paralysis from empty feelings and empty bottles.