I'll hallow your ween.

Why do I always feel left out when you're around? Oh right, because I can't sit next to you, or look at you, or do anything around you, because you'll just walk away, and I don't want you to be detatched from the rest of us. So, I'll just be left out, so you can be comfortable.

Fuckin hell.

I'm suffocating.

I always wanna write something mushy. You know those pictures with the shoes of the guy and the girl, and they're kissing or something. Everytime I see those, I feel like composing some kind of art to compliment it. Like a melody plays in the confines of my head and a whole ballad writes itself out behind my eyes where only I can see it. None of it is really coherent, and it doesn't make sense, so by the time I reach the point of expressing it outwardly, it's just a jumble of feelings, and I don't know what to say. All I know is that, I feel light, and content. Like everytime I really take a moment to look at those pictures, I immerse myself so fully into it that I become part of it. I'm wearing those SB's. Or those Vans. Or those Chucks. And my one and only is in front of me. And I can lose myself in her eyes, without having to worry about anything. Because God gave her to me for that sole purpose, and I'm just a part of that plan of His. And so is she. And our lives are intertwined.

And then there's reality.

I'd rather just live in the photograph. Reality is way too depressing for my tastes. I'm one of those people that dreams about vibrant green fields of grass, warm sunshine, cool breezes, and birds singing, and all of that pretty stuff. If I could have a choice, I'd let my body sleep, and I would live inside my own world. With the girl from the picture. And I would be happy.

And then there's reality.

Ugh.

I stopped singing worship songs. I realized that I'm not humble enough to lead people into worship. Mostly because all I really want is for everyone to look at me, and to hear my voice. My beautiful wonderful voice, because I'm so good at singing. Yeah, I'm the best guy singer in norcal. Yeah, I'm so much better than everyone, I'm so good, you should all listen to me, and compliment me, and tell me how good I am.

That's how I feel when I'm singing for the music ministry. And I hate myself everytime I do it. Better to not do it at all, than to do it for the wrong reason. The thing I hate most though, is that I don't only want everyone to see me. I want one person to see me. I want you to see me. And hear me. And tell me how good I am. I want to see you at practice, and I want to sing for you, because this is the only good thing that I have about myself. I don't have the looks, or even the personality. I don't have the swagger, I don't have to "moves" I don't have anything. Just my voice. It's the only thing that I really, truly, honestly excell at. I just want you to notice me. Sounds stupid when I reread it. I know it is. But I can't just change what I feel. I wish, so badly that I could. Somebody told me it's something I have to "overcome" but that's wrong. You're not an obsticle to be endured through. You're not just something I have to get over. Not after a whole year of this crap. All these blogs, all this time spent getting to know who you really are, and letting you know who I really am. And I'm so scared to mess up, because I treasure your friendship more than anything in this world.

All I can do is mutter under my breath, and think to myself, and imagine you being that girl in the picture.

And then there's reality.

I just can't sing worship in your name. It has to be in God's name, and if I'm not doing that, I'm committing the worst sin anyone could ever commit. And I won't do that. I can't do it until I change. Which will probably never happen.

Sorry music ministry. And so long. It was good while it lasted.

My hopes are so high that your kiss might kill me.

Hands Down - Dashboard Confessional

You understand the words of the chorus? No one ever listens to the lyrics anymore. The first time I listened to this song, it made my spine shiver. The low, mellow build up from the verse that leads into the explosion of sound at the chorus, as the lyrics proclaim the very extent of the regard that this boy holds for this girl. It's like... GENIUS.

His hopes are so high that her kiss might kill him. Because he's wanted it for so long, and she's so amazing, and beautiful, and everything that he dreams for. And even if that one kiss was to kill him, he would die content, and happy, in the knowledge that she held him in the same regard.

The voice of the vocalist makes the song sound solemn and sad, but it's really a happy ending after the bridge, because they end up being together. Hands Down, song of the year.

Maybe I'm stupid for analyzing this too in-depth, but I like this stuff. And nobody else ever realizes how deep these words go. And how far these things extend. Sure, if you're catholic, and you pay attention to your religion, none of this stuff should be real in any way. HOWEVER, what if God sent that girl to be with that boy? And what if they both believed that? Wouldn't that make it real? So let's assume they follow the Word of the Lord Jesus Christ, and they live by God's testament, etc. Just so we can understand the depth of this stuff, because they were meant for eachother.

And I know, they're just fictional characters derived from a song by Dashboard Confessional, but this scenario has happened repetitively over the decades of the Earth's existence. And this is the raw base of human emotion. LOVE is the foundation upon which we stake everything else. This is like, so freakin expansive that this one post isn't gonna cover it all, but it doesn't even matter, because it's the truth. And when somebody finds their ONE, a ballad should be written about it. Songs about it should permeate the air, and it should be sung by a chorus of freakin ANGELS. With harps and stuff.

Blah, I don't know where I'm going with this. I just got excited to write about something. I thought it was gonna be a sad post, but I guess not. Haha. Ok, I'm gonna go read.

I'm tired.

I always write something sad, even though I want to write something happy. I could start with something profound and inspiring and then end up with something gray and unrelentingly disheartening. And I don't like doing it, it's just that I can't think of anything else. It's always about rain and sadness. Or something like that. Blaaah. Ok, I'm just gonna think of something that makes me happy..

The sky was pale, and the light of the outside was slowly darkening as the sun gradually set behind the horizon, giving the neighborhood a gray-hued appearence. The wind was cold as I stepped out of the house, the rest of my group trailing behind me. I walked slowly down the driveway, my hands concealed in my pockets as I went to lean on the front passenger side door of the car. The others were coming out then, walking around to their respective rides, talking with one another. I wasn't listening to them. I stared down my chest at the cross hanging from the tip of the rosary that was around my neck. I fell into a dream-like state, my mind set on other things than the present, because none of it held my interest.

Then, as if to wake me from my slumber, I heard my name called once. The voice was familiar, and I was glad to hear it directed at me, though my experiences with it were bitter-sweet and meant for a different story. All the same, my attention was drawn back to reality as I lifted my down-turned head and looked up at the source of the sound. She was looking me in the face, which caused me discomfort. "Yes," I replied, attempting to sound indifferent.

What her lips mouthed out next brought on a wave of disbelief, combined with both awe and gratitude. Time slowed, and I lost the ability to comprehend. I couldn't understand. And then the sound of her voice registered in my ears, and the words resounded ever so clearly: "I love you."

After that, nothing mattered. And my memory fails me as to what happened next. Only vague outlines of the rest of the evening. That was the day my doom was sealed. that was the day I truely died.

A thousand suns.

Rage. Pent up within the dark recesses of my mind, and brought to the surface by the lack of mental stability that couples unconsciousness.

And yet who am I to be angry? It was by my own failure that I am condemned to a life of solitary discomfort. Somebody shoot me.

I have a lack of coherent thoughts to write about. Only images locked like welded iron inside of my memories. How I wish I could forget. How I hope and pray that my mind no longer remembers and that it simply erases the images held within them. They continue to tear at my mind, the harder I try to relinquish them. What can I do but reprint them a thousand times over within my mind? I can do nothing.

Of course there's always a slight distraction, but none permanent, and none completely distracting. I'm always left thinking, one way or the other. Agh. My blight. My infirmity. I sing the phrase, "Woe Is Me" as if it were an autobiography. I do feel sorrow for myself, proving my weakness. I am unable to raise to my full height of self-esteem, because I am but the exoskeleton shed by the former me.

If I am to die in this state, I pray it is soon. Madness threatens the internal affairs of my own logic and sanity. Then what will I be left with? As I see it now, nothing. I will be left with nothing at all. So let my passing into the void be swift, that I am not forced to confront such a fate as the suffering plotted out by insanity, and free me from my burdens.

Ugh... And I hate writing in such a manner. I feel like I'm trying too hard to sound like Shakespeare. To be or not to be? Is it really the question, or are you just messing with us? I know the answer to the question either way. The world is so full of disappointments, the answer HAS to be the latter. Only an illogical person would choose the former. Yet there are those who love life beyond the point of logic, so an individual cannot simply dissuade them to modify their choice. Fortunately for me, I am not one of those who loves life. Perhaps the people that are connected with my life, but not my own. Especially not my own.

I'm getting tired and this post is getting boring. Blegh.

Fountains.

Shifting colors lighting every droplet of water cast into the air by the jets pointing directly upward at the darkened night sky. Various patterns of water streams brought out by the sporadic, yet rhythmical releases from within the jets, paired with the endlessly meandering spectrum of color, illuminating the dancing streams as they flow through the air, then come crashing down into the pool of the fountain with a multitude of splashes. She leans over the concrete wall set around the fountain, fencing in the water, and decorated with roughly cut stones set upon one another. The top of the wall made of smoothly shapen concrete. Her elbows and forearms propping up her upper body as she leans upon the wall, her hair flowing gently down her back while she stares intently at the concert being performed by the color-lit cascading water, her hands clasped softly together in front of her.

It's all so disgustingly beautiful.

I guess I haven't gotten any better. Maybe it's dulled a bit but it's still there. Ceaseless. Neverending. Eternal. You choose the word. It's all the same anyways. I don't want it to be like this. I never did, but when I write about it, I can make myself confront it, and think clearly about it, and know what my exact feelings are on it.

Ugh. I'm done. I'm not feeling it right now.

Electrocoustic. Adventurous excitement, and smooth sailing.

I guess emo music isn't the only thing that calms me down. Owl City, Playradioplay!, Nevershoutnever, A Rocket to the Moon. Oh how all of you have saved my life. It's all so calm and soothing, this electrocoustic sound. Makes me forget why I was so sad.

But it'll never truly go away. I have no more words. No more energy. No more faith. All I have is this music. Flowing through the speaker and pounding into my brain. What an ill fate for someone who used to love the world. I lament sorrowfully for that person who has lost his will. It used to be focused on one thing. And now that's gone.

I've never felt like this before in my entire life. But there's a first time for everything, right?

Solitude is my friend.

I think that if I display too much emotion within the words that I type up, I become lost within my own thoughts and just start sporadically going off on numerous tangents out of pure impulse. Yet here I am, allowing myself to do such a thing, and knowing full well where it's going to lead.

Today I find myself heartbroken. Not to exaggerate my definition, but I feel trampled on. I feel that part of me is giving up in its struggle, and can no longer withstand the burden it carries. It seems every five minutes, that stab of pain pierces my chest and drills clean through my heart and all I can do is cry in anguish and wait for the pain to subside by strumming on the guitar, singing stupid songs that only remind me of why it hurts. Yeah. That's how deep I'm in. My supposed talents have turned against me and made me bitter, and now I hate all of them. Even as I weave together this eloquent vocabulary, I am reminded. With every letter that goes down, I am aware. And now what am I?

Because of my aimless pursuit, I am left haggard and defeated at the very root of my own being. I hate myself. I hate my voice. I hate my vernacular. I hate that stupid fucking guitar. Everything that once made me proud to be myself now only makes me want to extinguish it. And yet I can't, because I'd be letting go of something that's a part of me. And I hate myself because of that. I wish, so much, that I was born deaf dumb and blind. Then I wouldn't care so much about it. But that chance has passed. And I am backed into a corner that I cannot escape.

Plus, I sound like a fag. Like a stupid fucking fagget retard letting his feelings get the best of him. I don't display emotions physically. I'm good at that. However, sitting behind a computer screen, and putting down the words, even though I am exposed and whoever reads this shit knows it's me, I can do it. Because behind the keyboard, I'm no longer a coward. Take it away and I'm a fucking pussy. And all I want is to let it out, because I have no other solace. I can just let the ideas flow from my mind with an abandon like I could never have in reality.

And yet I'm still sad. Still unwell. I've been reading Eragon. If you know what that is, then great, if you don't, let me tell you about it, because I think it's a coincidence I decided to read it again. Eragon is a human kid, and he's totally into this elf girl, but she isn't digging him at all. And she straight up tells him, "We aren't meant to be together" and that shit was like a blow to the top of his skull with a bowling ball. I don't know how that would make me feel.

Oh wait. Yeah I do.

Hah. Like this elf girl (her name is Arya), is hella stuck up and shit. Eragon is the coolest guy ever. He's a dragon rider, he's good at sword fighting, he's good at magic. Dude, she just totally doesn't like him because he doesn't look as good as an elf.

And now when I reread that, I think I'm hella funny. But it's TRUE. She's shallow. Arya is a shallow bitch that is racist against humans. She just thinks she's better than Eragon. But y'know, Eragon's a big 'ole whiny baby. He thinks Arya is totally worth it. Like, he totally thinks Arya is the shit, and she's perfect, and there's nobody else. Believe me, he's tried looking at the other girls, but he's just totally taken by Arya, no matter what.

And all he wants to do is tell Arya all of it. How amazing she is, how beautiful she is, how no one could ever give her everything she deserved no matter how hard they tried, and given the chance, Eragon would do everything in his power to make her happy because he knows what she's worth and he's willing to sacrifice his life to make sure that he is good enough to be with somebody like that, and even though she doesn't think so, he knows so, and even God tells him that it's true when he prays about her. And because of her, he prays the rosary every single day. And because of her, he started writing again. And because of her, he feels like he's actually needed in the world. He feels like somebody. And yet she causes him so much grief. Too much grief. He's ready to let it all go. Forget all of that devotion crap and just sleep and become a hermit in the mountains with his books and his own mind where he can grow jaded and unpleasant.

Ok, that's not exactly how the story goes. Eragon actually does eventually look like an elf, and Arya still rejects him. And I don't think Eragon believes in God or praying the rosary. But by now, you've probably guessed I wasn't talking about Eragon or Arya.

And now all I have is self-loathing. Yeah. I'm just gonna go die somewhere in peace.

This is where I stand.

I started reading again. Books that I've already read, but it makes me remember the days when I could just get lost in the story and forget about the present reality. It's as if I no longer need to worry, I'm no longer required to doubt. As long as the character within the pages prevails. Am I pathetic for wishing I wasn't me? Am I weak for wanting something different? I go through the words and the story speaks so vividly of love and compassion and destiny, yet the actuality of those things is dull, and in most cases, non-existent. So what have I to hope for? I don't live in the story. I live in reality. And the harshness of such a bleak and merciless plane of existence is disheartening to the point of utter agony. My sorrow rises with every minute that I am forced to live through it. It's become so great that I feel imprisoned within my own mind and the only place of solace is within the pages of that book. That Book. It draws me in so far that I am finally free. Forget everything else. Forget the sorrow and the agony and the pain while I read about the protagonist finding his one true love. While I envision him offering that person his deepest devotion, and her accepting without question. What a world that would be.

It's all a lie. Those stories and ballads about love and destiny. It's all bullshit. It's all fake. It's all a carefully plotted out, pretty sounding facade composed by the greatest story-tellers ever known to man. People who have the ability to make you believe in whatever they say, and then exaggerated ten-fold by the normal denizens of society. Fickle-minded people who believe every word that the stories portray. People like me, who find solace and salvation within the words. Within the pages. Within the books. Within the STORIES. That's why they are called stories. Because they aren't real. And everytime I come to this realization, I die. Because this is my never-ending strife. This is my agony. And it'll echo in a dull roar of suffering for eternity.