This is really a scream in disguise

I'll write something straightforward. I won't aim to be beautiful or poetic or to transform my life into art.

Because I love life but sometimes it's just too difficult to think about things straight. Especially when you're only 17 and you know the world would understand if only you could explain. The world isn't at fault, it's you.

My brother has a fever. 103 degrees. The world understands perfectly. But I can't explain how seeing him makes me feel. How scared I am. I'm holding him every chance I have, feeling the terrible heat, so terrified that he will just vanish from my arms. Trying not to cry because that would be silly, right? But I imagine him with the oxygen masks on his face, or I imagine how tiny he was when he was first born. And then I remember how people always think I'm his mother, and how often I feel like I am. I know I can't give him nourishment but sometimes my mother can't make him happy and I can just by singing something in his tiny ear and it feels incredible. I love him more than anything else in the world. He looks like a tiny angel. And when I play with him, throw him in the air or whirl him around quick, in that way that he loves, he looks like one. Soaring, happy, beautiful.

I'm going to college in a few months. Today I got accepted into one of my dream schools. I was in the library during class with a friend and I opened the email and screamed. Everyone must have been glaring at me but I didn't care. I was in. NEW YORK! Just think of it, this time next year I can be so far away from it all!

And then I thought. Far away from what? My family? My friends? This beautiful (perhaps somewhat bland) city? I'm so scared of doing anything. Even talking to people. I see somebody I like and clam up right away. I say everything that's on my mind just to avoid being vulnerable. And here I am, not saying what I wanted to say because I'm too scared someone will read this.

Only I'm sure nobody ever does.

I'll probably delete this soon anyway.

It's ugly words.

Shadows

I love the concept of sin because if sin exists, so does integrity. Correct action. A superego to the id. Water to quench the fire and light to purge the world of shadow.

A white to black.

Only white is the excess of color whereas black is the lack of it.

And both do not exist singlehandedly.

So maybe sin is just a collection of mistakes and integrity is all the right steps we took, blindfolded. Babies can only see a few colors; as we age we begin to recognize shades. We recognize that shadows are the products of light.

Quentin Compson

I dont suppose anybody ever deliberately listens to the sound of a watch or a clock. You dont have to. You can oblivious to the sound for a long while, then in a second of ticking it can create in the mind unbroken the long diminishing parade of time you didn't hear-

perhaps its easier to understand time than any of us ever thought possible time is just a creation of mandkind a sound caught in the fury of our lives it moves in slow undulations in shadows and the only place it ever vanishes is the cleansing flame that you spoke of when you pleaded incest to save what you loved most

Innocence.

when i hold him i understand what quentin tried to save when i look into the sky in his eyes and see the clouds of possibility and imagination i love him more than anything my brother and i worry that someday he will become man he will believe that purity is nothing but a word although now he is my purity

I am imperfect.

the little girl in my chapter is not italian but she has brown eyes like the eyes of a toy bear and they watch me with the friendliness and love that quentin understood but she is a shadow a

memory and someday she will grow up and be a woman just like i am a woman not a girl not a child but something already destroyed and blooming against the decay still capable of love but maybe not of being loved scared of being loved but wanting it like caddy not even understanding the word and choking it like choking on a blistered shadow that creeps into the throat and catches there but somehow im not scared not of time not of men not of the wounds that come with seeing the butterflies float through spring like the flecks that chipped away from the sun

Nobody knows a person until they learn to know their soul

mine struggles to get out to be known but there is a sister miles away from me a brother who loved me once as a brother should never love a sister and the thought disgusts me like it disgusts quentin but sometimes you believe in the corrupt to prove that there is a speck of innocence in this world that there is a feeling of love someplace but there is a girl who is waiting for her husband to come home from a war AND THERE IS A SISTER waiting for the boy she loves but can not marry because her soul hides she is the sister i felt happiest with because i could forget the words that signified nothing and be a fool and share the joy that overwhelmes shadows and death and love and time

If I could meet Quentin Compson I think I would meet somebody who believed in the innocence I only thought myself to love. Together we could purify, or at least understand each other without comparing speech on sparknotes.

But it trully is a wonderful world.

Anagnorisis

All comedies begin in shipwreck

And dash themselves to happiness.

All tragedies begin in joy

And shatter into shipwreck.

How did Othello feel

Seeing that he felt too deeply;

Or Hamlet or Macbeth

Or blind Oedipus;

Antigone

or even Satan...

And am I one

with all these figures

Masked in black

Is my hamartia trust?

The trust I lack,

The courage I misuse.

Perhaps the courage of a braver heart

Is the tendency to stay

Rather than fight.

What an unexpected parapetia.

I will never lose faith in you.

Fear

I don't know if I'm afraid of dying.

I know I am afraid of violence and pain and surprize.

A few months ago, a boy brought a gun to our school during a Pep Assembly. This was a boy I barely knew, but I had heard the rumors that he wanted to kill the students, or fuck my school up, or something crazy like that.

I spent about three months feeling sorry for him and wishing there was some way I could help.

I only learned today that he intended to shoot everyone who was sitting in the front row until the police caught him.

Tomorrow there is a bomb threat. People are joking about it, saying it's nothing serious, but... I want to live.

I was one of the people sitting in the front row.

The Best Kind of Happiness

It refuses to scream.

To jump and plunge and fly.

It will not reveal itself

To curious eyes.

It will never be vain

Or foolish

Or beg for attention...

It does not soar like an eagle

Proud and magestic,

But humbly chooses to reside

Within my softly beating heart

It bubbles within me

In the eyes of my brother

In the hands of my family

In the safety of my friends

In a brief but sweet message

In the opportunities I am given

And the grace of God's gift.

This is the inexhaustible well of joy:

Not an explosive phenomenon

But a common spark of a miracle.

Ophelia

I promised myself a suicide of the soul would never occur again. It's one thing to martyr the body, but there is nothing holy about selling your soul to the Devil, only to free one of his deamons from hell. Now I can't think of any pretty words to string into understanding, to explain how I feel.

Hello. Please tell me about myself.

I could make each and every one of these blogs make sense. But I am afraid. And yet I need to speak, to be heard. I can't be difficult. I'm an artist, I show EXACTLY how I feel. And I'm sick of hearing and seeing the negative. I want my senses to dull. So I can trully feel something beyond a limiting... sense, for lack of a better word.

As long as that something isn't the sensation of my essence seeping out through the nail holes in my hands and my feet. Just like empty air. That's all I mean to anybody anymore. A pretty face with no mind, and maybe I'm unhappy but I could never say that to anybody.

This is getting too straightforward.

I can't battle myself if I don't know what's wrong with me. I feel too deeply, yeah, we've got that already.

This is nothing but word throw up. Vomiting thoughts to try and find some jewel I swallowed and lost once upon a time. Don't kiss a crucifix if your lips are nothing but floating vessels for lies. Every Judas in my life makes me believe in miracles just a little bit less.

But I still believe in ressurection.

Come fix this.

The Streetlights Are On

You are beautiful because you can always see clearly. You tell me what to believe and suddenly I know it exists. You make the world make sense.

Fuck this. I can't even see half the things I point others toward. I make others see oasises in black ditches and they can see. But I can't. Because the whole time I was just pretending.

I can't be brave. I'm scared of everything. Love. Needles. Snakes. Rejection. Death. God. War. Cold. Hot. Tsunamis. Sometimes even heights. Because everything can hurt you. And I think I'm going to hide. Hide in this tiny box and show people the things they want to see. I wish I could die inside so I could function on my fucking seventh level of Kohlberg's moral development and preach conscience and truth.

Here you go.

I'm only beautiful on a pedastal. When you can't understand that I'm human.

Just. Like. You.

Bye.

Ps. I'm scared of letting a dream go.