我打算把你推开。
客场。
客场。
我跑了。

Anonymity through Time // Should I be journaling my Life?

Am I the only one that thinks about how maybe somehow one day you might belong to some historical event that causes others to research you? I hear all these stories of people from Revolutionary America or ancient Greece and how scholars now can map out their lives.
What if you become a person who scholars research, what if they find your mysteriously marked up poetry anthology? What if they find a folder of your poetry and it becomes published after you die in a Emily Dickinson way. The people throughout time who had this happen to them never new, why would you?
When I think this way they I start to get a little bit to focused on it. I think maybe I should right more down, keep journals, record my thoughts on the pages in books. Wouldn't that make sense? SO that way if someone ever goes looking, they will have something to find.
Dear God the best way to keep track of things from this time period is Facebook...that's depressing.

So I will tell you how I started thinking about this (at least this time):
I got out my Emily Dickinson poetry anthology, one that I have had since I was a junior in Highschool and one that is also very marked up by pens and colored pencils. Looking at the color or way I marked lines and sections I can tell when I made that mark. The mark that I appreciated or found something within that line. I know that the blue colored pencil was made the beginning of my senior year of Highschool and the faint brackets just last year when I was a freshman in College. I was reading and marking new parts and I realized, that what I was doing was recording my changing thoughts, chages in the way I saw the world through words in poems. All these lines and marks tell me about my mind at different times in my life. When I was pondering all of this I began to think...wow maybe I should have a key in the beginning and say what time each ort of mark is from. The more I thought of this my mind shifted towards some grandiose future where this book would be found to have belonged to me and it woud be studied and researched and people would put forth theories about how I lived and what I was like. From that I had the idea that maybe I should right my own poetry in this book! So that when found it could be a treasure trove, as surely it would be important to someone. I ended thinking with...hm maybe I should write more.

How conceited is that, to assume that someday I will be researched and historically significant. At least I know I am human; look at history and monuments around the world. Everyone wants to be remembered, to make their mark on the walls of history. Pyramids, Statues, Gardens, Kingdoms.
Humanity is afraid of anonymity through time.

There will come a time when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed or that our species ever did anything. There will be no one left to remember Aristotle or Cleopatra, let alone you. Everything that we did and built and wrote and thought and discovered will be forgotten and all of this will have been for naught. Maybe that time is coming soon and maybe it is millions of years away, but even if we survive the collapse of our sun, we will not survive forever. There was time before organisms experienced consciousness, and there will be time after. And if the inevitability of human oblivion worries you, I encourage you to ignore it. God knows that’s what everyone else does.”- Hazel Grace Lancaster

From John Green's novel The Fault in our Stars.

I think we just want others to care. 

And Weariness

Well I've lost all my words
at least the way I used to have them
                                            and that just seems cruel and empty. I can't even write like I want to: quote poetry, live with mindfulness, have grande realizations. What is this sorry way.
I don't like it.
Take it back.
Go back.

Lost in all this worry, and regret. Filled with should-haves and maybes.
Caught between fully realizing my self OR others, and as a compromise understanding neither.

All these little pains,

these little thoughts of light
                                and weariness.

The Garden of Proserpine

We are not sure of sorrow,

         And joy was never sure;

To-day will die to-morrow;

         Time stoops to no man's lure;

And love, grown faint and fretful,

With lips but half regretful

Sighs, and with eyes forgetful

         Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,

         From hope and fear set free,

We thank with brief thanksgiving

         Whatever gods may be

That no life lives for ever;

That dead men rise up never;

That even the weariest river

         Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,

         Nor any change of light:

Nor sound of waters shaken,

         Nor any sound or sight:

Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,

Nor days nor things diurnal;

Only the sleep eternal

         In an eternal night.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE

Come not when I am dead

...

Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
I care no longer, being all unblest:
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave to where I lie:
Go by, go by.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Far-far-away

What sight so lured him thro' the fields he knew
As where earth's green stole into heaven's own hue,
Far-far-away?

What sound was dearest in his native dells?
The mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells
Far-far-away.

What vague world-whisper, mystic pain or joy,
Thro' those three words would haunt him when a boy,
Far-far-away?

A whisper from his dawn of life? a breath
From some fair dawn beyond the doors of death
Far-far-away?

Far, far, how far? from o'er the gates of birth,
The faint horizons, all the bounds of earth,
Far-far-away?

What charm in words, a charm no words could give?
O dying words, can Music make you live
Far-far-away?


Alfred Lord Tennyson

Writing here is what I do when I am putting off sleep. Then I can say I am being productive, getting work done, doing.
Really I don't want to be//do anything.

I just want to hide in something... is that so wrong. Just be lost, where it does not matter: nothing will.

Sometimes I feel bad, but mostly now I don't
and somehow that turns out to be worse.

Good little girl // Bad little boy

C Am
Good little girl,
Dm G7
Always picking a fight with me.
C Am
You know that I'm bad,
Dm G7
But you're spending the night with me.
C E7 Bb7
What do you want from my world?
A7 Dm
You're a good little girl.
G7
C Am
Bad little boy
Dm G7
That's what you're acting like
C Am
I really don't buy
Dm G7
That you're that kind of guy
C E7
And if you are
Bb7 A7 Dm
Why do you want to hang out with me?
[tell me why
Why not just say goodbye]
G7

EXTRA
[Good little girl
You've stolen my heart away
I like how you smile
And make fun of the words I say
who would have thought I could fall
It's not so bad after all]

The last two lines of each verse just don't seem to go right, maybe I'll update them if I figure out a better way.

Family

Loving someone does not give you carte blanche to treat them badly.
Loving someone is not an excuse.

It was gonna make things better
gonna help
Yet now I'm awake
With a headache
can't think

Can't get the ripping out

Look at that
Look at that

My shadow knows me better

My Floor

Cheap emotions and empty cups.

Every inch is haunted.
Faces. Thoughts
and what can't be reached
It doesn't make sense
I don't want this. Want you.

But I get those memories
Only when things really
suck
My own little prize
My consolation
My ghosts