China

I feel bad that I have neglected this blog for the last month. 

Now I am soon for China and I realized I had so much I wanted to say here. Well I have a few days and I will try to leave some words here to keep the past posts company while I am gone. 

Insomnia explained through metaphors based on mythical afterlives

I know what it is. I know what it is when I can't sleep.

This insomnia, it is having to face myself. Cause these moments where I can't sleep/can't do anything, it is just me. All I have in this moment is myself. No distractions to take my mind away, only myself laid out. There is nothing here to keep my mind occupied other then it's self and it is in my mind where torments lurk. 

Night magnifies my imperfections and makes me see everything I glaze over in the day.

Insomnia is the scales and seeing how your heart holds up; how heavy it truly is. 

Insomnia is the asphodel meadow; a place to just exist, though barely. 

We Write as we must, and as best we can.

"...I'd slept so long my brain was stuck to my skull..."

 -Sorin

"Real people! The idea is to show life the way we experience it in dreams - not the way it is or [the way] you think it ought to be."

-Konstantin

"When Jupiter's angry, Jupiter's wrong." -Dorn

"Jupiter wasn't a woman" -Arkadina 

Failure to Communicate

This is all coming from my inability to finish a post. I had a large chunk of it done and then POOF I lost half of it through user error and now weeks and weeks later I just keep going and starting at it. I know that words that are there but every time I write something different comes out; my brain is a jumble of words and what comes out is inconsequential alphabet soup. I can't continue writing and it make sense. I think I lost my purpose. I love the point of the post and for some reason it is just not done. There are things that still need said there but the will not line up like they should. I refuse to scrap it. I'll keep working on it and try to organise my soup into the words that want said.

The future happens regardless

And that is very reassuring

Mother's House Morning Routine

Preliminary wake up
Sleep
Answer phone when mother calls
Try to figure out my crazy dream(s)
Lay
Check every checkable thing on my phone
Actually get out of bed

I wish you would step back
From that ledge my friend

Replies

And this is you being desperate and wanty
because you think
That is
the affection you believe you were denied.

You don't want the niceties, politeness
because that is what everyone gets
That means
you are nothing.

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.