My mind is a vast junkyard, cluttered with questions and problems. All these questions – unanswered, all these problems – unsolved, all these failed attempts to make myself happy again – futile. I just stand, covering my nose, trying to sweep the infinite amount of psychological gunk someplace unseen. But there is no bed to hide things under, nor is there a carpet, or a closet. For miles around, all that can be seen is piles and piles of rubble and stinking plastic bags oozing screams and tears from their murky depths. I’m afraid to touch and to look at what’s inside. How do I go from picking timidly at the garbage to digging in, and building new things from old memories and wounds?

I feel repugnantly compelled to shed a number of tears, thinking it will make me feel better. And it does. But as soon as my tears touch the polluted ground they turn into puddles of stinking mud, which only adds to the desolation and to the disgust of the place. I cannot bring myself to reach down, pick up a back, and dig through it, for I’d rather not grab hold of and bury myself in the rotten waste of my life and my mind. My life is on hold – for what, I don’t know. I cannot continue traveling the road of my life if I am faced with an obstacle so large as this junkyard, which I simply cannot dismiss and ignore. My whole life I have tried to avert my eyes to what was initially there, and before I knew it, the mess grew and grew, and I got no where.

I have discovered things in the past, during such daring moments in which I forced myself to pick up a bag and stick my hand into the unknown. But these fleeting moments in which I hastily examined a thing passed, and were no more. What was discovered, and would be discovered, were lost, partly due to my ignorance, and partly due to my fear of I have and will find.

I am afraid."

- excerpt from my journal

08/11/04

A City By Night

            Dark veils of cloud moved across the night sky, uncovering the moon’s silvery face. The weak, lunar light cast jagged-edged shadows upon the bearded man’s face as he entered the alleyway through the creaking, rusty metal door of the nightclub. He shivered in the cold wind while he squinted at his surroundings, trying to see into the obscurity. Absently he scratched at his beard, the sound disturbing only a smoking man sitting at the end of the alley amongst damp cardboard boxes. The dim orange of the cigarette butt shook violently as the smoking man achingly coughed, leaving streaks of light to diminish slowly in the musty air before him. From the opening of the alley some light entered from the city beyond, where drunken laughter could be heard. Three men and a prostitute staggered by noisily, smiling and giggling. Approaching police sirens sent the four stumbling quickly on into the chaotic city beyond the lonely alleyway.

            The bearded man shifted his weight from one leg to the other while treading away from the stone wall he was just leaning against. The cold of the stones had slowly drawn into his back, causing the muscles to ache. He accidentally stepped into a puddle, rippling the perfect reflection of the moon and bright neon signs in the dirty water. As he did so, the sour smell of vomit mixed with the scent of car exhaust spread throughout the alley, causing the old, coughing man to curse with drunken obscenity.

            The soft tumble of raindrops reverberated from the metal outcropping above the bearded man’s head, and upon the numerous puddles in the uneven ground steadily increased. The clouds above the city became thicker and blacker, sending a the constant torrent of downpour along with electrical flashes of lightning and thunder. The smell of molding cardboard, garbage and vomit intensified as water poured down the rough brick walls. A sharp sizzling noise signified the cigarette butt extinguishing, followed by the angered, despairing cry of the cigarette’s owner.

            As the bearded man’s surroundings were steadily swallowed up by gushes of wind and rain, the moon battled the stormy rain clouds in the sky. Light wisps of cloud already covered her, and soon the blacker, more billowing clouds completely hid her away. Her rays no longer shone down upon the alley, and the bearded man stood sullenly, observing the sudden darkness of his environment. His skin pricked as the biting wind blew into him, and his hands were soon swollen and numb. They throbbed as he desperately tried to work some heat into them by rubbing them against each other.

The clouds still poured rain, which now violently hammered down upon the world. The shuffling of cardboard could be heard as the man sitting at the end of the alleyway tried to shield himself from the tormenting cold. The creaking of the rusty metal door could again be heard as the bearded man left the strange calm of the alleyway to return to the hectic chaos of the city life by night.

"What happened today? Yes, I felt like I was stuck in a hot air balloon (not the basket, but the actual balloon). My head felt afire so badly that I forgot where I was. There was only the pain, nothing but the pain.

No love. No hate. Just pain. Is that all I am? A mass of pain that’s able to speak and walk? When I speak, it isn’t me. I don’t want them in my life. I don’t want anybody in my life. My life is my own. My pain is my own.  I cannot share it; I cannot burden other people with it. Why would I? I don’t like creating another inferno in the one that already exists. No. My life is my journey, and I will journey on until the end, if it ever ends. It might not. Who knows, I might get stuck in an everlasting cycle of life and death, life and death.

Death is part of life even though it contradicts the meaning of life. Death. What is death? When your body has run out of energy? A malfunction unable to fix? We have spent entire lifetimes creating things that are just like us: they terminate when they have failures. What would happen? What would happen if we created something to with last all of time? It wouldn’t be possible, would it? No, because we don’t know when time ends, or if it ends at all. We don’t understand it. We never will.

People change, but time doesn’t. Things get old and crumble and cease to exist as something else; but time, time, is time. It is there, always. What if there was no time? We would be confused. What happened ten minutes ago could be 5 hours later. Hours and minutes won’t exist. They don’t exist even now. Minute and hour are just names given to an expanse of time. TIME IS LIFE. They are one and the same, as is death. But is the answer really that simple? No. Yes. Maybe. Life is complicated, yet simple. Time is complicated yet simple. Death it complicated, yet simple. Death affects nothing except for those around the dead body."

- excerpt from my journal

   unknown date

Random Lyrics #2:

In this world you tried 
            not leaving me alone behind 
            There's no other way 
            I prayed to the gods let him stay 
            The memories ease the pain inside, 
            now I know why 

            Chorus: 
            All of my memories keep you near 
            In silent moments imagine you'd be here 
            All of my memories keep you near 
            Your silent whispers, silent tears 

            Made me promise I'd try 
            to find my way back in this life 
            I hope there is a way 
            to give me a sign you're ok 
            Reminds me again it's worth it all 
            so I can go home 

            Repeat chorus 

            Together in all these memories 
            I see your smile 
            All the memories I hold dear 
            Darling, you know I'll love you 
            'til the end of time 

            Repeat chorus 

            All of my memories....

What follows, is a short story which I began writing shortly after moving away from Milan. Of course, like so many things, I never finished it. The writing in italics is what I saw in my mind - it's the world in which I graphically interpreted my feelings when they became too much to bear. The writing in quotations is an actual excerpt taken from a 'daily journal', which I had to write during Humanities class while I was still attending a school in Milan.

        "My head was held in my hands, and as usual, I was huddled in my little corner, afraid to look up. I was afraid to see things I’d rather not see. Visions, nightmares, demons… a vast array of painful sights I knew no one could ever bear to see, not even myself, though I tried. Visions of people dying as a result of me killing them. The stories all ended in one simple conclusion – my own sweet demise. Such an attractive idea. I deserved it. Or did I? Had I suffered long enough to deserve death – my final salvation? No. Punishment was needed, and punishment was all I ever deserved. Punishment for being me: a cruel, selfish being, doing nothing but hurting others. I know I made mom cry. I know I worried dad. I know my sister couldn’t see me dying slowly on the inside, because I made her the way she is now.

        A scraping noise disturbed the silence of my white cage as I scratched at the padding on the walls and floor. Frustration ate at my heart. A tear welled up in my eye, sliding down my cheek and finally descending towards my arm. I jolted in pain as the saltiness of my own tear made contact with the wounds on my arm. Self-inflicted wounds, no doubt. I had a habit of scratching away at myself. Though I couldn’t quite remember when, I knew I had done it sometime. A mist had started to form in front of my eyes. In its foggy depths was a mirror image of myself. A small, pathetic, huddling little creature. I hated myself. And I knew I always would…

        I tried to force myself out of my own head, my demons struggling to keep me in there, and keep the torture going. Words of hate ran through my mind: an extreme abhorrence against myself. I tried desperately to recall peaceful, happy memories, but my memory had forsaken me. All I could see was black. The color black seemed alive in my eyes, like a million parasitic entities trying to force themselves into my head. I panicked as I found it harder and harder to breathe.

        I jumped up and ran to one of the walls of my prison, banging my fists against it. “Let me out!” I screamed, sobbing. An unseen force, my own despair, threw me back against another wall, and I fell down upon my hands and knees.

        My eyes fluttered, and opened. I wiped my sweaty palms on the bed sheets, and reached for my mobile phone. 7:01 AM. ‘Time to get up’, I decided, as I heard my mother awaken to her alarm clock in her bedroom down the hallway. I got up, trying not to think about the coming school day ahead.

                                                                         ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

         “…School. Yes. A waste of time? No, I don’t think so. We learn things. We meet people that change our lives. The atmosphere here is what is the problem. Yes. People hate it here. Here hates the people. Crying? No, I’m not crying. Should I be? Am I alone? No, never, even if I wanted to be. Yes. I remember my song. My life. My dance. How I danced towards death, towards salvation. I don’t mind. I think I don’t. I wish I wouldn’t. I do not run from death. But I do not embrace it when it is still far off. When my old friend comes close, I’ll greet him like an old friend would. I will embrace him with open arms. I will embrace the pain. The pain. We are always in pain. Vomiting because of the pain. …Must get out of this box; The Box of my Life. My prison. But when I die, will I be shipped to another box? Is this what life is? A box? No, it cannot be. Only I make it so. Only they make it so. Only those who want control make it so. Only those who seek power make it so. The Shadow? No, a different reason. ? I hope so. Why am I important? Because I am who I am. There are no miracles, no exceptions. We are all part of Life. The Circle. The World. We are who we are, and no one can change it. When will it end? No. It won’t, unless the stories are true. Another dimension? No. No. A Few? One dimension for the haters, and one for the lovers? God. No. It does not exist for me. Because I cannot comprehend? No. He does not exist to me because I do not want to be enclosed in an even smaller box.”

        I rested my aching fingertips. I had arrived (late, as usual) in my Humanities class, and immediately began typing like the rest of the class. Free write, my teacher called it. Randomly spilling your thoughts onto paper – translating your illegible self into something that could globally be understood."

"I just can't forget what it felt like falling asleep in his arms. I miss the warm, secure feeling. I miss him, his eyes half-closed, looking at me and smiling. And then, is his half-sleeping state, he he kisses my shoulder, squeezing me lightly with his strong arms. His smell, his lips, his eyes; the whole experience, so intoxicating. The way he has me sit before him, my legs encircling his waist, playfully demanding I take my shirt off. 'Just so I can feel your skin against mine...' He then holds me close, lustfully, yet with a passionate gentleness, and smothers my neck with kisses. He teasingly exhales warm breath along my jaw line, gradually stopping at my earlobe, which he then decides to playfully nibble on. I soon find myself in a state of ecstatic euphoria..."

- My diary, 11-7-05, 23:54

I had the most disturbing dream last night. I got married. Now, to most delusional teenage girls who crave the perfect sugar-coated life with the perfect sugar-coated marriage, this would seem like the perfect dream. A beautiful white dress encrusted with countless sparkling diamonds, a loving in-law family, bouquets of white flowers (magnolias, I believe it was, tied with lace and hanging off walls, with rare white orchids perched gracefully in baskets set upon tables), the finest champagne served in crystal glasses with two or three small diamonds floating in the bubbling liquid, bride's maids wearing dresses which didn't dwarf my spectacular radiance but which did prevent them from despising me for all eternity, and a groom who had not had any naked women at his bachelor party. But beneath the expensive, glittery exterior, lay a cold truth. I was ignored by my husband-to-be. The whole night. I remember vividly trying to kiss him while he was talking to someone on his cellphone, but to no avail. I thought I could see everyone laughing at me, as if they knew something I didn't. I ended up bursting through the lavishly carved wooden doors, tearing, and found myself in a white hallway. I followed it, my groom close behind me, and ended up in a shopping mall. I stood, dazed by the bright halogen lights, while I saw my groom walk into an internet-café. I followed him reluctantly, sitting at a computer where he wouldn't see me. He smiled, already having forgotten about me once again.

Random Lyrics #1:

The Truth Is by Kristine Sa

Everywhere I look, I turn, it seems that you are there
Everyone I leave, I learn that they cannot compare
Everything I see, I do, I touch, I think of you
Every little thing in life
It leaves me so confused
Oh, everything was so, so clear before we tore apart
Now all my passion's trapped inside
This lonely broken heart

So if you ask, if you must know
I'll tell you, here's the truth
If you ask, if you must know
I wouldn't lie to you
If you ask, if you must know
I'll tell you, here's the truth
Do I love you? Love you, still?
The truth is...
I do

Now without you here, the sky turned a new shade of clear
A new rain of tears
And without you here, my body's a lonely frontier
An ocean of fears

So if you ask, if you must know
I'll tell you, here's the truth
If you ask, if you must know
I wouldn't lie to you
If you ask, if you must know
I'll tell you, here's the truth
Do I love you? Love you, still?
The truth is...
I do

How does one define love?* How does one reflect on its doings; its comings and goings - its persistent ability to creep into one's life, and take over one's mind? How does one appreciate its malaria-like attributes, yet how does one loathe its intoxicating sweetness? And oh, what of love's doppelganger - that which is not quite love, but something like it. What is love, and its countless façades? What are these tears that cloud my vision? What are these smiles that lighten up my tired eyes?

"And maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me...And after all, you're my wonderwall..."

Love ~ Bittersweet

*...what a cliché!

Random Poem # 2:

*The proverbial cogs of a mind start spinning*

*Someone types frantically*

*A laptop whirs audibly*

Did you hear that? I do believe that is the sound of the birth of an LJ. Well, the very fine beginnings of one, anyway. Being pushed by many a friend (I love you guys) to create one (or at least try to), I have finally decided to, yes, open up on the internet. A 'journal' - such a dreaded word in my mind. Ever since being the tiny little girl with overly-curly hair pasted onto her abnormally round and pudgy face, I have tried keeping diaries. But to no avail. Even those I had to do in Kindergarten, complete with Neolithic cave-painting type drawings, never really existed for long. 'What's the use of diaries, anyway?' I used to say, trying to ignore the obvious benefits of them (like expressing your feelings, and keeping memories for each and every day). 'Just a bunch of my meaningless words... no one will care!' But what is this? Do I feel a tingling inkling of an emotional change in the Flemish wind? Hm, perhaps so (unless it's the weather changing. Again). I'll just have to keep this journal running for a while, just to see…

Random Poem #1:

They say that eyes are windows into the soul.

They sparkle with happiness,

They dull with every tear.

They lighten with each caress,

They darken with all ill words.

They say that eyes are windows into the soul,

When you look in mine,

You’ll see a reflection of yours.