6:12 p.m. - 2006-08-15
Teach me to fly?
It poured, so I took off my sweatshirt and stood in the rain. Deserted street. One s. Alone. On purpose. Deliberate. It's been The Rainy Summer. That's what I'll call it. And that is what it will answer to. For one reason or another, I feel like being alone, but at the same time, I need to get out of here and be in a crowd of people. I want a concert, a mosh pit, music throbbing along with my heartbeat and pulsing at my eardrums. A beat I can dance to, not with. Nails painted a shiny red, deeper than rose petal with more of a glimmer. Heels forever clickclickclicking. I pretend this doesn't bother me. Actually, maybe I just don't want to talk about it. Operation Evasive Summer is going splendidly and being received with airs of hypocritical and unreasonable bitch with a side of immature. Ellie says I'll stop being nice come my next birthday. She says that the real world will change me and that it's my age that has me jaded. I want to tell her that I do live in the real world and that my entire existence in a series of responsibilities and consequences, but I don't. I just sit there and say maybe. Why? Because I don't wnat them to know. I don't want to be the pity party. Same reason I don't join in the game of "My family is more fucked up than yours because..." Maybe come December I will change my attitude on life, but I won't get anymore cynical or rude then I already am. I'm already pretty cynical, but there's no excuse for taking it out on other people. There are millions of excuses, but none of them apply. None of them are good enough. Everyone has shit to deal with, so deal with it. never apologize, never explain, "I'm sorry. what did you do? beach? at night? well, what are you doing tomorrow night?" "Not hanging out with you." And exit. She's gone too. Another state of mind. The runaway chronicles. Hiring lawyers. I'm beginning to think it's a love story. She's in love with the broken hearted and lawless. or maybe she's just in love with breaking the law. In the end it is one in the same. We all end up in tears wondeirng where we went wrong in life and how we could have fixed it. The thing is. We say things that we don't mean and we do things that we want to try but we know we shouldn't and at the end of the day we weigh our regrets against what we wish we had done, we analyze the experience and rip it free of emotion. Then we write self help books because we know how to live a truly sterilized life. That's all it is. Well, fuck that. I'm doing it my way. No carbivals. No self help. No help. No nothing. If I say I'm a bird, I'm a bird. And I will fly. I will soar. Because I want to. I am no stranger to responsibility or consequence or hardwork, but I will soar above these trivial attempts at reconstructing a better sense of belonging. Because maybe to truly belong, you have to have ownership of yourself first. And I don't. I belong to the populace. But it's time. It's time to learn to fly. The problem being, well, don't birds typically fly together?
