Why I Hate "Old Friends"

"You're the kind of girl who ruins lives, you know that?"

"Funny, I'm reminded of that pretty much ever day."

"It's an inescapable fact, dollface."

"Oh, you talk. I've never ruined yours."

"Only because I'd never let you."

"Like I'd've wanted to, right."

"That's the trouble with you sort. You ruin people without realizing it. It's simply in your nature."

"We'll see. You could get ruined by some girl you never would have expected. I hear love works like that. Especially with ego-flaunting men like YOU."

"Hah."

"You think you're so tough and witty, and no one can down your high, or show you up in anything, but then one day some girl comes along and brings you to your knees and drags your heart around like it's nothing."

"You see, that's why the wise man keeps some good old fashioned callus on his heart. And I for one, do my best to not get mixed up with your sort. Actually, I wish I could avoid your kind all together, but then sarcasm and chauvinism just wouldn't be any fun, would it?"

"So you admit that my sort of girl gives you a run for your money then? We could very well take you down if we got too close?"

"It would never happen. I hate girls who think, I never let them near me."

"So you like stupid girls? Who'd've known..."

"Stupid girls are much easier to manipulate, use, and discard."

"You're such a dick. I don't know why we're friends."

"You hate stupid girls just as much as I do. Don't get self righteous on me now."

"You just said that you hate smart girls. So you hate stupid girls now too? See, this is exactly why i never believe a word out of your mouth. You're so full of shit. Just walk around saying you hate women. Don't categorize them into 'smart' and 'stupid' like you give a damn which one they are. You just spend more time hating the stupid girls because they're easier into bed, and easier out."

"You are the living example of why I detest smart girls. And you're right. I thoroughly hate women."

"Wow, finally honest. I guess there's a first for everything, though I have the feeling this may be the only time in your sad little life."

"You're probably right. But I'M probably right in saying that you hate men almost as much as I hate women, dear."

"Only men like you, darling."

"You must've fallen for quite a few to become so bitter."

"And some VERY smart girls must've totally ruined you to make you such a chauvinist prick."

"Well, that is completely false."

"You're a liar."

"The point is, sweetheart, you ruin people. And you can't help it because you're a doomed, beautiful, thinking girl."

"Noted."

There isn't a reason for candle light

I don't really know about the flow of things. 

I have alot of thoughts about it, but there's no way to be really sure. 

I'm a damsel in the dark. You can't see my face, but you can hear me tiptoeing around on wooden floors. 

The attic is the warmest place in the winter - the higher up you are the further you are from the snow, or so my mother used to tell me. There's snow on the roof of course, but when we'd bring it to her attention she'd tell us to go shovel it off the roof. No one really cared enough to get up there and do it, so we made our beds in the attic, allthesame. I used to quilt with my sisters on those long winter nights. We'd crouch by the woodstove together and sing quietly with our needles working slowly, slowly, so we'd not finish a whole quilt in two nights. It was our only passtime, and it was what kept us from going crazy most of the time. 

My father talks about winters in Europe, and how he never saw so much snow until he came here. He sits in this old chair he brought with him off the ship,  and he smokes his tobacco in a pipe he won in a bar fight back in New York, before he'd even met my mother, and he seems so thoughtful and content. My sisters and I were always so restless, but my father could just sit in his chair, smoking his tobacco for hours and hours and hours. 

Most people seem to think of their mothers as busy and somewhat neurotic. Or atleast, strict and rule enforcing. But my mother never was. She was dreamy and peaceful, more like a girl than like a woman with three daughters all nearly grown. She spent most of her time in the kitchen during the winter, and most of her time in the garden during the sumer, and she was always humming, no matter what she was doing. Sometimes on warm evenings my sisters and I would catch her sneaking out to wade in the stream by our house in the moonlight. 

It hit my father hard when she died. 

The Invisibility Of The Contents Of My Guts

Everything is at higher stakes when you don't realize what you're dealing with. 

That's why desperation is so heavy in the air every goddamn day, in every goddamn place we go.

Every second, every minute, every hour, every day, of every year in our short lives we inhale this toxin of desperation. But it's a desperation without cause. There is no reason to look behind us, because there's nothing there. There is no reason to scurry toward a perceived "safe" place, because nothing is really safe. There's nothing out to get our fragile human minds. Only what we conjure up and give the power to take us. We don't know, so we scare ourselves into believing it's us against everything. Our enemies are an army of ghosts. How many people are ruined by their "pasts"? 

I propose there is no past. No old selves with old habits and old stories that somehow prove relevant to who we are today. To apply one's "past" to oneself makes it a present, and not a past. It's not who you were, it's who you are. You are yourself and you never changed if you hold onto it. 

Some people are afraid of "losing" themselves, and some people go on journeys to "find" themselves, and some people have "identity" crisis that sends them into a void of... desperation.

I am desperate.

I am desperate to lose myself.

Because once lost, how can any desperation exist?

How can anything exist?

Nothing can, and nothing will.

Thing intangible and without links can't be as fragile as the glassy shells we live in, or the glassy shells we BASE our SELVES around. Abandonment is so necessary. Lose it, lose everything. Lose it with an AIR OF DESPERATION. 

I'm cutting all the invisible threads, and I'm throwing out all the old game pieces. There is no game anymore. 

Most people seem to find comfort in what exists.

I find comfort in the lack of existents. Because then there are no walls anymore. 

This blog is basically word, thought, and feeling vomit from my"self". About thoughts, feelings, existence, and what exactly IS and ISN'T to me. It's a bit of experiment, abandoning oneself. But it's something that ought to be documented. IN THEORY.