It feels like I can't talk to my right hand anymore. That it's socially accepted by my body to be an obscene gesture to look at or even think about my right hand. That while it's still a functioning member of my body, it's separated. I used to be "Garrett with his right hand" but now I'm just "Garrett." There's no attachment, there's no use- just myself. I just wonder if my right hand thinks about me as often as I do. We can't be this close and be so far apart. Can we?

Maybe the meaning of life is whatever that keeps us from killing ourselves and seeing what is on the other side. What if you lose this object? Even worse, what if you never find it at all?

You can sell your body on the television multi-faceted (oh studded and broken vase) shards into shards, and the red pools litter the hallway where picture frames stud stud stud stud stud stud stud of what could be, what is and what isn't progression of plumed feather and buttons on a calculator push, retract and empty I love her and like you, I am one with the ground: my hair roots of the night our rosy cheeks touched the hedges separating the motion hidden underwater.

And while although the feeling was bittersweet, something deep, something deep down inside me told me that everything was going to turn out to be alright; the angel who flashes the lights through my usual clouds of despondency, told me so. He said, "Everything is going to turn out to be alright. The universe is still spinning, expanding and the sun above you will burst in millions of years like it naturally should." You have not stopped walking. You may think you have, but your shoelaces weren't untied. Plumed with the thousand pieces of something famous, your tears have dried and all is known. The feeling was bittersweet, but at least I knew. I knew what I had to do next. Flip the switch, shift a gear and open the hatch. And what I felt around me, the text on the screen, was nothing compared to what I felt within me.

I don't want to feel.

I gave my heart away, to find it packaged in a seashell, patched and bruised return to sender, fields of grass, crowns of leaves pictures on the floor of when we were younger; a camera without eyes and believing in the darkness holding hands into a forest, hearing whispering of the trees growing so loud, and we begin to sing.

(oh) god: and so she says that it's going to be alright and that it's natural to be wanting to sink all of the boats in your habor. "it's natural to get destroyed" she says, but all you can think about is you and her back on your floor. where smiling and happiness used to grow, but now you find a dusty circle.

It's really hard, giving your heart to someone who doesn't miss it.

I'm a mess.

Lately, I've been hoping that she's going to call me back and tell me what a horrible mistake she made, and everything is going to be okay. But I know it's not. At least for right now. But right now is all I have, and my mentality seems to include the words "permanent," "forever," and "never." I don't know what to do now. I really never wanted this to happen, but it did. And I should be getting over all of this, but I don't want to. I don't want to get over her. I don't want to leave her in the banks of my memory, simply filed as "another person." Because she's not just "someone I know." She was never like that to me. Not even the first time I saw her at Arroyo Verde Park, when she was wearing blue jeans, her pink peacoat and had her Shins bag. I don't want to do to her what I'm pretty sure she's doing to me right now. It all seems very final, end of story and print. Like the actors are all getting in their expensive cars, and driving home to their families, while the director is left alone in the studio, picking up the pieces of film- because that's all he has left. Maybe that's an extreme parallel. But I don't want to get over her, like she was any other girl I've ever liked. The fact is that she was never "any other girl I've ever liked." I don't want to be without her. I don't want anyone else. I don't want to be with anyone else. I want to be with her. I can't stand feeling like this.

Part of me wants to get over all of this. Part of me wants her to hurt forever. Part of me wants to still hold her hand, talk to her, kiss her like nothing happened. But something did happen, and it now feels like a part of me is missing.

more personal.

hello valley. it's never going to heal this time is it? if that's the case, then i might as well drown it.

I've been asking the eight ball the same question and it always tells me the same thing: the one thing I don't want to do. I know it's going to be difficult either way; but there is a difference between hope and ignorance. i need to get a grip im losing my mind

Strange, I completely forgot about that memory.

and it's hard not to care when my heart is split in two and my memories are put inside of a vase next to Maxwell sitting in a corner and I'm beginning to understand that I weigh her down when she just wants to be free I need to leave

I'm afraid. I'm very afraid that it will all come crashing down about me, and we'll never speak to each other again. I suppose this feeling is natural, but I can't handle with the possibilities of failure. The hardest part to accept is the fact that I know it has to end at some point. The idealistic side of me however, screams that it doesn't have to. And, maybe he's right. But I still can't handle the future. I can't handle what I don't know, what may happen and what will happen. Maybe it's my immaturity acting as a poor shield; maybe I'm just a weak person. Either way, I don't want it to leave as quickly as it came. The whole thing seems so fragile to begin with. It feels like walking on a suspended tightrope, with two weeks' experience and only the clouds to break your sudden fall.

And in a minute there is time for desicions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

Last night was easily, one of the best nights I've ever had.

As stupid as it may sound: I'm tired of feeling, and above all- I'm tired of thinking. I'm tired of wasting all of my time thinking of reasons why certain things happen the way they do, and the feelings behind the actions. For once, I don't want to think about what is left unsaid and what should be said. Reading between line after line, deciphering any sort of message that seems to fit in where I like it to, and all too often being far wrong then I think I am. Maybe the situations change, but the feeling never did. It's always there, hanging around like some dying cloud, just wrapped up with a different colored bow. Differences aside, it still hurts. It hurts a lot- self-inflicted or otherwise. I know, pathetic.