i’m so tired of same and same and same and same

this stream of consciousness is killing me i don’t know how to survive in everything i do no matter how true and passionate and real i lose a part of myself i’m losing me my heart mind soul truth all that’s left is shell body if i’m not careful i’ll lose him lose love too then there will be nothing holding up the case that used to hold me so empty empty empty nothingness is my core and i feed off it and it spreads through me consuming everything all i have want need ever had might someday be gone

use what you know photograph it examine it tear it to pieces so you know what’s inside of it all i know is words and those the eye cannot capture cannot see i don’t see can’t see won’t see you’re not there even though you swore promised to be foreveralways here with me i am alone a lone lone lonely loneliness lifeless hopeless nothing

my heart escaped my chest when it still mattered before i fell apart it could sense what was coming like birds before a hurricane thunderstorm tornado disaster my mind is my soul is i am disaster in its purest form mundanity destroys me and i try try try so hard but sometimes i lose everything i worked for and more like the turtle who climbs eight feet each day and slides back six each night in those elementary school math problems except backwards because i fall farther than i climbed at the beginning

sometimes it’s even backwards again when i build myself up at night then the day comes the sun rises the stars fade and the light burns holes through my paperthin cover and what was inside splits and divides and turns to little threads of almost-me that wear away like an old map exposed to sunlight for the first time in a hundred years and i disintegrate and i am

gone

…stargrl

Back rubs and bubble baths

It’s like cramps except for instead of my intestines being ripped to pieces, it’s my soul.

Save me, please!

But I won’t insist. That wouldn’t be fair, I know. I don’t mean to inconvenience you. I just thought you might be willing to give me a hand…

I wish ibuprofen could fix this. Tylenol, aspirin, extra-strength Midol, whatever. You know, it’s funny because I don’t like to take meds unless I’m actually feverish or in severe pain. And yet if acetaminophen would fix this pain, I’d take it religiously.

How is it that the one who wants most to help me, to save me, doesn’t know how? It’s not as if I know how, but knights in shining armor are always supposed to know exactly what to do. Not knowing doesn’t tarnish his armor, though, for he’s one of the few who sees enough to try. I can’t keep anything from his knowledge.

At least today it managed to manifest itself into actual physical pain. It’s amazing that that pleases me, but that’s because a dose of ibuprofen can fix physical pain. Simple lower back ache, at any rate. (Although I think the real culprit here is my old mattress.)

I think a bubble bath would be ideal, and a back rub, too. Some sweet-smelling lotion, my hair up in a twist, a comfortable place to read, and — my comfort book. It’s been awhile since I read of Annalisa, Nathaniel, and James in Jade Parker’s To Catch a Pirate, but it’s one of my favorites when I’m not feeling great.

I think I’ll go do that now.

Love,

Stargrl

P.S. Often, these posts were written by hand late at night and are being posted in the morning because that’s when I can get to the computer. But they’re meant to be just-before-bed, I’m-really-tired sort of rambles.

Hidden

It’s almost a relief when you realize you’ve learned how to fool even your closest friends and family. I’ve always been good at pretending in public, but I can finally keep it from those dear to me – almost. Almost all of them. But last night I meant to pretend. My intent was always to wear the mask. But somehow the words forced themselves out of my mouth when I didn’t mean for them to, and all of my sorrow doubled in size and overflowed into someone else’s heart. I never wanted to do that. And so I apologize deeply for that. You didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t your fault. It was mine; my mask wasn’t strong enough. I guess I’ve been wearing it long enough that it’s starting to wear out. Time for a new one, maybe? That might not be wise. People might notice the change unless I can manage to get the exact same one again. And that’s unlikely.

Why is 10 a.m. not much different from 11 p.m.? They’re both charades.  Here’s my late-night perspective:

I have one face for the day,
and it smiles and laughs
at jokes and good friends, and
it manages to look like
me.

I have one face for the night,
and it cries and closes its eyes
to keep out visions of delight, and
it manages to seem like
me.

Time has taught me how
to switch my masks in a moment,
without even the briefest second
of a bare face,
And at sundown I put on my sorrow,
and at daybreak I put on my joy,
and it has been years since anybody
(including myself) has seen
me.

May you not forget to take off your mask from time to time,
Stargrl

Eleven p.m.

I cried through much of the second half of heaven tonight. I cried before dinner (but not mine) and after. And if you’re reading this, I may have cried for you. I can’t be entirely sure who you are as I’m still quite clueless as to who I am, but it may have been you. If it was, I’m sorry and I love you.

I used to think all I had to do was find myself, but that was back when there was a me to find. Now I think I might be a series of masks that cover nothingness in its entirety, but perhaps that wouldn’t be such a tragedy. I’m not sure nothing is such a bad thing to be.

The shadow of my hand on the window is giant, as though it was significant, which it may be. Perhaps the shadow is more important than the words are. The words give body to the shadow, but the shadow holds more than just my pencil.

I see a heart on my mirror in washable marker, drawn by a dear friend I would hate to lose. The flower above it is mine, an almost-useless attempt to make early mornings a little bit cheerier. An actual flower might have been helpful. The drawing of a ten year old? Not so much, I’m afraid.

I envy the one who can still sing children’s songs without drawing laughter, the one who can still sing in the shower and dance when they aren’t covered in darkness. Because they say dance like no one is watching, but people are. I never could avoid or deny that. This would be my downfall were I a tragic hero(ine) in a Greek play.

Sometimes the seconds are hours, and sometimes the days are just moments, and as soon as I think I’ve got it all figured out, the pattern changes and I have to relearn everything I thought I knew. No, not relearn old knowledge, but absorb new knowledge and try to smush the old into even smaller little spaces in the back of my memory.

Only the love and the joy seem to fall through the holes in my memory, although thank god not all of it disappears. I might not be able to bear it without a few happy pictures in my mind when things start going wrong. But I still lose so much of what I’m dying to remember, what I scramble for for hours on end, but often can’t retrieve for a million reasons, not one of them a good one.

Oh, there’s such beauty I see that I never could see before, beauty encompassed in all I never knew. And I hope every day that your beauty won’t fade, and I see it grow brighter every time you return. It’s still hard to tell the difference between you brightening and me dimming, but ever so slowly, I’m getting there.

There’s a delicate balance between being assertive and not causing pain, and choosing to err on the latter side may well be what’s destroying me. If every time I touch someone is like a knife in their heart, I’ll keep away despite the cost to me. But I wish I wouldn’t. I wish I had the strength to make the right decisions – not all of them, but the iron ones – for me but I don’t and I can’t.

Don’t. Can’t. Don’t. Can’t. Don’t say ‘can’t.’ You always can. Kindergarten teachers say so many lies without really thinking about it. I wonder if they think it helps us or if they’re just trying to make that days’ work a little bit easier. Maybe both. Maybe neither. I don’t really think the mysteries of the elusive kindergarten teacher, from her constant smile to her odd enthusiasm for colors and Tuesdays, are ours to solve. Not in this generation, at any rate.

She’s still up and on the computer, and for one it’s not me who’s addicted to the game. Instead of playing solitaire or switching jewels to make sets, I’m writing here by a booklight because I’m afraid if I turn on the light, too much will become visible. Things I don’t want to know, I think. Why is it her this time instead of me? How did I end up pouring my soul out when I can barely sit up instead of doing what I do every night?

It must have been the tears that drove me to such madness, for there is no other explanation for it. My crying monkey pillow is right here just in case, but my eyes are so dry there’s no way I could cry. Every time I think that, or so it seems, I end up being wrong.

It’s ridiculous how many of my thoughts I share that I shouldn’t. I linger under a canopy of delusion, the main umbrella fantasy being that people are actually interested in what’s going on in my head. They say they are, but everyone with a smidge of feelings does. It’s one of those required rituals like the hugs and love-your-dresses at homecoming with every girl you barely know because it makes her feel a little bit better inside. Believe me, I know.

It’s even harder to tell the fakers when you’re close to them because not only have they learned how to best fool you, you know they wouldn’t hurt you on purpose, so they have this awful but confidence-boosting habit of lying. I’m pretty sure everyone does it.

Stargrl

Once upon a fairy tale

Do I believe in miracles? I’m not entirely sure.

I’ve noticed people mentioning miracles in passing, just tossing the word around the way some people toss around love. When someone scores a goal at the last second, it’s a “miracle.” When someone gets an A on a test, it’s a “miracle.” But I don’t think so. And I don’t believe in treating words like bread crumbs to be fed indiscriminately to the birds. Words aren’t to be used at random, thrown towards the ears of whoever is nearby. Words are precious, and they ought to be treated as such.

One of the reasons I wonder about the truth of miracles is the distinctly religious ties of the word. I have nothing against religion, mind you; I think that if you have faith, it’s a wonderful thing. But I don’t, at least not now, and so I sometimes feel awkward referring to such things. I wasn’t raised with religion, and so I have an extremely limited knowledge of all things biblical. This leads to, when I speak of things such as miracles, wondering if I’m using the term right. And, as I said above, I don’t want to talk about something if I’m using the words incorrectly.

Some people believe that everything happens for a reason. Others believe in fate. Still others believe everything is merely chance. My indecision between philosophies contributes to my hesitance around miracles. To speak of miracles is to speak of some outside force guiding things, such as fate. And without that trust in an outside force, where could miracles possibly exist?

There remains the possibility of miracles being a force of nature, just like whatever causes wind and rain and sun and stars. (And I don’t mean the scientific explanations.) In such a context, I imagine them as this strain of beautiful music, almost like a harmonica but undeniably gorgeous, just a few chords that bring happiness, if only momentary. It may be an odd image, but this is what I picture.

I would love to believe in miracles. And if I did believe, there are a few of them in my life right now. And if I didn’t? They’re the closest thing to miracles that could possibly exist.

I love you.

Stargrl

P.S. I’ve added a poem to “Some Random Poetry of Mine.”

With music in my heart

So I’ve realized that my entire life is pretty much trained to music. Everything I do has its own little soundtrack playing through my head if not my iPod. Feeling childish? Listen to Bill Harley, Tom Paxton. Cleaning my room? Rock out to Kelly Clarkson, Billy Gilman. Going to sleep? Try Dougie MacLean, Charlotte Church, and the Connemara Cradle Song. There’s always a song running through my head, although sometimes it’s not at all appropriate to the current situation.

Take today, for example. I’m looking forward to my boyfriend coming over in half an hour or so, and yet the only tune I hear is Sara Bareilles’ “Love Song.” If you’ve heard it, you understand why it’s not exactly the happiest song. And if not, let’s just say she’s telling her guy that she’s “not gonna write you a love song ’cause you ask for it,” and that “if all you have is leaving, I’m gonna need a better reason to write you a love song.” Yeah. Not exactly a happy-couple song.

I do, however, have a lot of happy-couple-love-songs that tend to cycle through, including Jamie O’Neal’s “When I Think About Angels,” Billy Gilman’s “Spend Another Night,” and Kelly Clarkson’s “Before Your Love.” There are a lot of love songs out there, and I tend to like them as a genre. But what makes one love song better than another?

Partially, of course, it’s the singer him/herself. It’s not just whether or not they’re good, although that’s certainly relevant as well. But I’m super picky about what voices I like the sound of and which I don’t particularly enjoy. It’s just a personal thing.

Then there’s the cliché factor. Now, I know that pretty much all love songs are at least slightly cheesy. But some go so overboard with the overused phrases that I just have to turn them off. Also, songs like “Spend Another Night” are slightly cliché, but they acknowledge it (literally, in this case – “And though it’s so cliché, there’s nothing else to say but I’m never gonna spend another night without you in my dreams…”) and manage to present it in a slightly different manner.

Last, and probably the most important, is the one that makes one person’s list of good love songs completely different from someone else’s. It’s this: Can I connect this to my life? For example, I once liked someone who didn’t agree with me on a lot of important issues (values, politics, etc.), and for that expanse of time, I was very much into Bette Midler’s “Night and Day.” As is apparent from the title, she sings about how she and her guy are as different as night and day, but they manage to get through it. We didn’t, but still, for awhile, that was what I connected with my life. And so that was one of my favorite love songs. And don’t even get me started on good breakup songs! I’ve been through a slew of those, but that’s a story for another time.

As I finish this, I’m listening to “Love Will Find A Way” from Lion King 2, which definitely rates on my top list of love songs. Gorgeous voices, moving lyrics, and as most all love songs seem to do these days, reminds me of M.

I love you all,

Stargrl