Spill/Simplicity?

as if i left my sanity at home
i part with Juna's door
one hand on the handle
one on my existence
i take five steps forward
aimless steps
worthless steps
five bricks forward
that do nothing
but to deprive
me
of life
as my life
my life
falls out of my
hand
falls out of my
and fills the cracks
in the street so i go back in
to grab another one for
one dollar and
twenty-five cents

_________

First day home?

Feels like shit. I can't function today. You know what it feels like?

Okay. So think of a great big can of Dr. Pepper, all shaken up and ready to blow. And think of, instead of opening the top, suddenly the can is turned inside out and the gas dissipates ingloriously.

Oh, and simplicity? Ah, yes, the ever-so-elusive New Years resolution that's put somewhere on your list, and forgotten just as you realize that you want to keep the byproducts of life. You want to stay an incorrigible pack rat, hold on to the trash that accumulates in your house, or your computer, or your mind. It won't go away, because in reality, you don't want it to.

But I do. I want it out. Last month I remember sitting here at Juna's cafe after school, telling myself that I was scared of change. I told myself that I'd never feel the same way, that there was no way I could revert to my stagnant self. But weeks, later, I'm thinking to myself, where's the change? What have I to be scared of? What's happened to me?

On the bright side, my dreams have disappeared altogether. Sleep is a void.

Vicious cycle? Maybe. But if it's not change, then what is it? Am I complaining too much?

Am I thinking too hard?

__________

Oh, theres a change. This is odd...there's a line at Ned's Pizzeria.

And after watching this video, you can't say you don't have any respect for JT.

Come on people.

__________

“i'm convinced you're sad”

an unexpected response?

not really; predisposition is not

a crime

is it?

I want to dream beautiful thoughts.

I want to dream beautiful thoughts tonight.

I want to get rid of the tortured men and the suffering kids and the ruined school and the hopeless friendships and the unrequited love and the broken lives. I want to stop having to wake up wondering whether I had just watched a man starve to death because I couldn't help him, or if I had really permanently ruined a friendship because I talked too much, or had sex with a girl I didn't want to do it with because there was nothing I could do to feel better.

I've always been a slave to my dreams, trying to keep in touch with them as much as possible. Reality? It's a mask you put on. Your dreams are you...the real you. They are your manifestation of true art: self-expression at its most self-revealing. And they tell stories, stories that are left in the back of your mind waiting to be written.

And good dreams, like good art, are a commodity. But sin or not, sometimes one must take pleasure in bad dreams. It helps you stay in touch with reality.

But I'm sick of it. I don't want them anymore. I'm real enough. I want to go home.

Goodnight. Much love,
- Mirko

Manholes

It is daytime, but the sky is overcast. Everything is gray, even my skin. A man is trapped beneath a layer of grates under a manhole. His eyes are sewn shut. His stomach and bladder have been surgically removed. He doesn't say anything, but somehow I know it.

He is starving to death. Time elapses. There is food down there but he cannot eat it. I try to get him out, but I have no way through the grates. No matter how hard I try to get him out, I cannot reach him. All I hear is a mute whine before I realize I have failed.

- My dream, December 23, 2006

Unfamiliarity can never be good

"I want to sleep with you. But I don't want to have sex with you, I just want to sleep with you, next to you.We need to talk." She agrees. We need to talk. Given that it is a dream and nothing else...I can rationalize it myself and it will go my way no matter how selfish or immoral it may be. But there’s the advantage, the great pleasure, in fantasy. It’s no one’s but yours.

As I speak to her, there's a storm outside trying to so rudely interrupt me. The building is dark. It doesn't feel like the same ACS I always knew. It's unfriendly, cold, even a bit mysterious. Holding hands, we turn away from the commotion outside the foyer and go downstairs to my favorite part of the building with the big metal heater. But there are people all over the place, so I take her to the next room over. The old ESL room. The sunroom. We don't talk. We only stare at each other. Contrary to my request, we quietly proceed to have sex.

- My dream, December 21, 2006

__________

I cried last night. For a long time.

But it's not the tears that bother me. It's the lack of reason. I cried for nothing, but. All I can say was that it felt good. I've probably just felt worse than ever the last few days.

When did I get so temperamental?

That night I was plagued by an odd dream that took place at ACS. Occuring in recursion, I kept saying those words. I don't know if I said anything else in my dream, but that's all I remember.

I also woke up at least twice during the night, and had a case of conscious paralysis. A frightening experience, if any of you have ever experienced it before. It kind of makes you not want to go back to sleep.

I'm about to shut off my computer and try to go to sleep again, but I don't know how much help that would be.

Love,
- Mirko

___________

On another note, I fucked up my unit final essay for Facing History.

On yet another note, I found out how to add comments.