I'm Nervous, Are You?

 Song of the Post: Laura - Bat For Lashes

I'm afraid okay? Just shut up!

I hate thinking about all the things I would do if I wasn't a scared little girl.

I hate thinking about my potential.

We were all born on third base, and I'm scared of people who think I hit a home run and ran all the way around to here. I hate the people who expect me to score the winning points.

I am a just a kid with average intelligence, and a Huge Imagination. 
Dumb people often mistake my imagination with intelligence but they're wrong. 
I have a good ACT score, but that's just because I know how to beat the system. I imagine myself as a test maker and do what they would do. 
I'm scared of my parents and my relatives who think I'm this smarty pants kid who is going places, 
BUT I WANT TO STAY RIGHT HERE. 
Forever.

I'm scared of places. New ones. 
I'm scared of panic attacks and I'm scared of when they'll happen and when they will stop, if they do. 
I'm scared of doctors because for someone who knows so much about my body, he doesn't know a damn thing about my heart. I'm scared of their cold hands. 
I'm scared of going to church sometimes because worthiness has always been an issue, for me I guess, I am afraid of people who don't take that worthiness thing seriously. There should be, like a test I guess.

I'm scared of being judged. I'm being hypocritical right now.
But that's how it works right?

I'm scared of my Dad, most days.

I'm scared my Mom is scared for me, all days.

I am terrified of being in front of people in a serious fashion.
I get uneasy at the fact that 99.9% of teachers are fascists and I'm scared I'm becoming one too.

I don't want high school to be my Glory Days, because these days are long and some are beautiful, but they are overshadowed by the shadow days. Those days are dark, and the only release is sleep and Mom.

me at our 30 year reunion: "personally i hated high school, I hated all of you and hope you rot in hell. Thank you." 
and I'll walk out like the fascist Git I've become. 
But I'll be being Honest. The real kind of honest.

The real kind of honesty that everyone here is scared of.

I'm scared like barbed wire and rain and rust. I'm scared like feet and rocks. I'm scared like hell. 

I'm scared somebody will read my journal. I'm scared of showing people what I make because of the one emotion we aren't born with. Shame. Why? What the heck. 

I'm scared you won't read this, and I'm scared that I'm running out of words to put down. 
I'm scared anyway. 

I'm afraid I'll never be able to escape me.

Love, Alex

Why Do You Love Your Ground?

Song of the Post: Moonshadow - Cat Stevens

This place I'm standing in. It's home.
It feels like the morning after something terrible has happened. But it's mine, and it's soft.

I love my ground because when I'm standing I can see everything. I can see down and look at all the funny lives that are being lived on little grounds surrounded by fences and guard dogs.

I have a patch of my earth that has white christmas lights strung up around on wooden logs and polaroid pictures in the dirt.

My feet are calloused, but that's just because I've tried other people's grounds.
My ground is soft and comfortable. Yours is rough in places. I guess that's what makes it yours.

I love my ground because I have room. Not to much room though, just enough to let my mind expand and warp and bulge.
I love my ground because it's not fenced in. Not because I can leave but because it kind of proves to myself that I am staying for me.

I love my ground because the dirt is brown and the dirt clods are wet and rich. The kind of dirt that you plant beauty in with the little white things. There is even green moist moss everywhere and it loves when my feet are comfortable.
I love my ground because even though I don't accept them sometimes, I have plenty of nutrients. I can run my toes through it.

I love my ground because I've planted things and some are growing.
Some plants aren't thriving, but it's okay and that's why I love it here.

Sometimes the wind blows, dries up my soil, blows it into my eyes. Sometimes I get scratches under my eyes from looking at the roses for too long.

I love my ground because I have dirt in my hair and dirt in my fingernails. I love my ground because it's home.
I love my ground because my veins pulse downward.
I love my ground because when I lay on the soil, and look up. I see the universe.

I love my Ground because it's mine.

Love, Alex

My Third Platform

Song of the Post: Northern Wind - City and Colour

I've been waiting at this train station.
The steam from the stacks and the rusted rails neglected but somehow still intact.
There's a roof and it's cracked and water damaged, the brown residue kind that rots and rots but never actually seems to cave in, but gives you anxiety anyway.
Although usually this station is usually busy, people getting on trains to far away places and to some people this station is their far away place and their scared and excited.
Right now.
It's desolate.
I'm sitting at this bench and the train goes slow now, like old molasses oozing from the jar from 1980 that grandma still has in her bunker/food storage room.
I know on the other platforms there are people hustling and bustling full throttle waiting in lines with headphones in. I'm sitting at this bench and I know I'm waiting for someone to get off of this train. I just don't know who and even though I hold still I'm anxious.
The lights flicker a little, like they're thinking about the same thing I am and they're tired.
That train stops.
Off she walks.
blue skyed and blue veined
this platform of meta cognition is the landing ground for the thoughts of a hopeless boy in hopeless love.

And it's getting dark. 

She dances on the platform now, even though there is no music, like the grande ballet, with her flats and eyelashes and ankles.

I'm just still sitting and this bench wondering how she got here and where she's from and where she thinks she's going.

She walks like rain, and dances like oak leaves.

A smile like thunderclaps.

She walks around like a twisted tree root, gnarled and beautiful. She's here like grass is here and I think I'm here and wooden desks are somehow always there. She's on this platform of my mind like a stubborn mule that supposedly has a good sense of humor, but how do we really tell?

There are these cracks in the concrete and they're sad and threatening. And she dances over them like silk. 

I'm watching her like skin watches hair grow, and knuckles envy fingers, and fingers envy toes and toes envy fingers.
She's on my mind like wall sockets don't think about sex even though they are, technically, a female part.
She's here in my mind like an IPhone in her case
and the second hand misses the minute hand like the minute hand misses the hour hand.
I'm thinking about you like how boys think about sex.
I'm thinking about you like girls think about who texted first, and where he will take her on their next date and what mascara he will like the best, even though he won't notice.
And like boys think about sex.
The white pad on a band aid always thinks about blood even though it makes it nauseous and it couldn't care less whether you bled to death or not, and the sticky party who really cares but can't ever really help that much. I'm thinking about you like the sticky party of a band aid thinks about wishing it was the pad.

I'm thinking about you like geologists thing about faults and judges think about faults.

I'm thinking about you like kids want to be infinite.
I'm thinking about you like infinite thinks about being overused.
I'm thinking about you like my violin thinks about her bow,
and the strings think about practice. practice. practice.

You're here and you're real. Dancing on the edge of the platform in the train station of these thoughts that are dangerous and beautiful. Don't get to close darling, you'll fall onto the tracks.

This is all just a formality though, me telling you to be careful, because even if you did fall onto the rusty tracks you would just dance on into the tunnels. You'd be safe because right now, you are the only train running through this station.

You make me crazy you make me wild.

Love Always, Alex

The supposed grand welcome to Paris

Song of the Post: Michigan - The Milk Carton Kids

 

I don't really know how or why to write anymore. Maybe you don't understand I mean, really write. From the brain, the heart or the soul or wherever the hell the supposed beautiful painful dark stuff comes from. I put too much pressure on myself to produce such writing that inspires and to be like the college girl I look up to so much who is so eloquent with words it makes me angry. I feel like when I write and it turns out to be complete shit [(just like this and every other time)Sorry about the language, I just don't know how to get across my feelings] it hits me harder than it probably should. People's blogs are starting to get repetitive. I want to write about a beautiful kind of love, the kind that people spend their whole lives dreaming of. but I don't think that I've never experienced that kind of love, or any worthwhile kind at all so if I tried to write about it, I'd just end up pulling it out of my butt, and I don't know if that's the best place for love to originate. What the hell, here are some pictures.

I don't really know what I'm doing with my life.

Try to love, Alex

Baby Don't Hurt Me.

Song of the Day: Higher Love - James Vincent McMorrow

Love.

When "Googled" love brings up about 1,520,000,000,000 search results. I think "how is this possible". No one knows what love is. It's stupid really. We're all just trying to live and stay alive, and some of mankind are trying out love, like it's some kind of nasty drug. It's like an unnecessary detour away from surviving. I guess maybe love might just be nature's way of tricking us into reproducing. Because I guess that has to happen for out species to survive. So love is just an excuse to get into someones pants? Cool. Thanks Nature.
This has all been pretty pessimistic, I guess. I believe in love. Kind of like I believe that someday I'll be happy for real, and kind of like how I want to believe that there's gunna be trumpets at the judgement day, I'm not preaching to the choir here, I want to believe in a lot of things, I'm just afraid that expectations I have are to hard to live up to. Somewhere out there there's a perfect love maybe, and it's beautiful and full and unconditional. This love is a forest fire, so beautiful, and destructive. Love is giving someone the power to destroy you, and trusting them not to. Love is the sun, a star. I hope that love is warm. Love is black barbed wire, twisted and gnarled. Love is morning dew on grass. Love, is a clean shave.

Love is a temporary insanity.

Love is breathlessness, it is excitement, it is not the proclamation of passion, the eternal kind of passion. Love shouldn't be the urge to have sex every second minute of every day, it is not lying in bed at night imagining that you are being kissed all over. No, please don't blush, some people actually believe that, I think. You can be "in love" with any old fool darling, Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is a tragedy a fortunate accident, and an art. 

Love is a cold blindfolded kiss. 

Love is a violin bow.

Love is the long wait for a train to take you far away.

Love is a stained glass window.

You're afraid to live, you're afraid to die. 

What a way to exist.

Love, Alex

trnl snshn f th sptlss mnd

Song of the Day: Surrender - Joshua James

Is there any risk of brain damagae?

Well Technically It is brain damage, but it's on par with a night of heavy drinking, nothing you'll miss.

Look at it out here, it's all falling apart. I'm erasing you and I'm happy!

Meet me... in Montauk... 

Love, Alex