Lovegood

I hope you never look back on your life and get sad.

I hope you never wish you were born to be someone else.

Isn't it weird how you'll be somewhere different in a couple of years. Or perhaps, you'll be in the very same place.

But it's okay.

Sometimes, I think the only reason faith exists or a believe that someone is guiding our hand is because it feels better.

and that's okay.

I've been dabbling in religion and ideas lately. I've given up Facebook for 40 days and even though I still finish my homework at the same rate, I do more interesting things and not worry about other people's gossip.

"Propaganda is putting thoughts in my head.
Sure, they know our days of childhood are dead."
http://www.myspace.com/ministryofmagicmusic

Dracula

6 Things About Everything

1. Such dreams! I remember when I was small, I had a wind-up box that played “Over the Rainbow”, and that was what I fell asleep to for 10 years. If anyone were to ask me, “What’s your theme song?” I wouldn’t have to think about it. Not pop, no Lady Gaga or Breaking Benjamin. Just the song that haunted my sleep so long the wind-up box became a wind-up person. As the first notes come my limbs get heavy and my eyelids droop. I shut them and suddenly there’s no such thing as a book of literary merit, or a grade, or failure. Perhaps that’s why we are so disenchanted, then, because we were always so enchanted to begin with. To fall into oblivion like clouds, like powdered snow, like “Over the Rainbow” and a pillow. That’s what we grow on. If we were vampires, we’d feed not on blood but on dreams.

2. Then I wake up. The pillow isn’t so soft, but it’s there, and it’s real. Not like the things I imagine, like movie clips pasted together, when I’m not thinking of real things. And it’s a true thing; that I never dream of anything I wish to dream about. But you can’t wish your subconscious into submission. That’s the reason it’s your subconscious, not your conscious. If we could control everything we imagine we’d never dream of zombies or darkness or glorious strange worlds. And then there would be no Dr. Seuss, no Final Fantasy, no World of Warcraft. No fiction, no insight, no words. As terrified as we are of things we can’t control, it’s no wonder we have such nightmares.

3. Words. Letters clumped together, hopefully in a pattern, more than often not. Sometimes the words make sentences. Sometimes the sentences make words. I Think Imagination Says Things Rarely Understood (by) Everyone. We can cheat a little. We all cheat a little. And sometimes when those sentences don’t make sense, they make the most sense. Just like when someone tells the truth, sometimes they aren’t telling the real truth. I think maybe there’s more truth in fiction than in any thick biography. Dead people have lessons to teach, but imaginary people teach the lessons we can’t learn from the dead. That’s why we put flowers on the graves, and go home and read a book. The dead teach us their mistakes, and books teach us our successes.

4. The regrets that weigh us down make us the lightest. Have you ever seen someone who’s never made a mistake? It’s quite irritating, actually. You glare a little, like you can’t help it, and they’re never your friend for that. Too perfect, you think. They’re too perfect to be real—they shouldn’t be real. They’re just characters, made-up people. But remember that the made-up people teach us something too. Most of the time, however, it turns out the perfect person is the one who just covers up their flaws a little better than the rest. You get to know them and it turns out they let their friend attempt to commit suicide. They got a B in PE. They don’t write in complete sentences, and they don’t have any lessons to teach and too many to learn. I want to meet a made-up person. I think they would be earthier than anyone who’s ever made a mistake. Treat regrets like balloons. The more you have, the less you can touch the ground. That’s guilt, I guess.

5. And truth be told (it always will), I’m heartily sick of the future and I’m especially sick of the past. I’m writing in a composition book and the teacher says, “Today we’re making plans for the future” and the entire class groans. Why? Because we hate the future. It’s even more uncertain than death. In fact it’s probably the antithesis of death because at least we know we’re going to die. We don’t know we’ll have a future. Which is why I’m sick of looking for it. If life were a corridor lined with doors, I’d spend my time looking behind every one for that inescapable yet elusive “future” of which I’m hearing so much. And the past is no better! We must learn from the past. This I know, from dead men. More so from the words of dead men, because no one cares for a corpse but everyone cares for the words of a corpse. Possibly we realize only words escape death, and only in the end when all people die will words die too. Until then they’re the constant; the past, the corpses, the words. Sometimes when I learn about history I just want to leave. I don’t want to spend my life avoiding mistakes. Yet at the same time it’s the only way to live where we don’t become those sad unearthly corpses.

6. “What do you believe in?” God help me if I ever say God. I believe in souls. If that means I believe in God, okay. If it means I’m a raging uneducated atheist, that’s okay too. But souls! There must be souls, I think. “I think, therefore I am”. What else can account for us? Us, people, greedy, sentimental, loving, hateful, people. I don’t believe in science when it comes to souls. Souls trump all. We exist, and we die, and perhaps there’s something left after death but perhaps there isn’t. It doesn’t matter because we have souls when we’re alive, and those souls spill out of us in everything. We gather things to us, in rooms, in books, in friends, that reflect our souls. And those who paint and those who write are all attempting to do the same thing: put into words some indescribable aspect of ourselves that we won’t ever be able to explain, but attempt and attempt nonetheless. It’s the effort in this case, not the success. Our souls don’t mind the effort, and won’t ever allow the success.

Dracula, because I think he had a soul too.

The Picture of Dorian Gray

It's a strange concept for some people, having a favorite person. But we do. There's always one person, or two people, who we love--yes--but we admire even more than we love. There's something about them you want to live up to, that makes you feel more worthy just by being with them. And while you don't want to disappoint them--anything but that--you give them something too. Even if they don't realize it, you give them a part of yourself to carry around. Call it your soul, call it emotional attachment; does it matter? No. It doesn't.

I think when you give someone a piece of you, you don't ever get it back. Maybe it regrows. Maybe it regenerates, and leaves behind a scar. In 50 years you'll still be rubbing that scar and remembering with your lips clenched shut.

Who was it that first commented on the depths to which we fall? Who was it that first handed off a piece of themselves? Who lost the first piece? Who had the first scar?

I've always wondered if we choose who we love. Whether it be conscious or unconscious, our hearts and minds in accordance or just one, in dreams. I used to think we didn't choose who to love, but now I don't think so. Even if logic says it's a bad idea, we choose to keep loving and that's part of why it hurts so much when we can't justify our love anymore. Because we know we choose it, and it hurts to be wrong as much as it hurts to feel shrivel the part that you gave away.

Does that mean love always turns out bad? Of course not. Just...sometimes. And sometimes that's all we need to keep choosing to love, the chance. We're big on chance, even bigger on happy endings. The thing is, one wrong choice and all the others seem sour. No matter that you caught a bad one; they're all bad for a while after that.

Why am I talking about love? Because in order to understand favorite people, you have to understand that you choose love and thus you choose your favorite person. No matter that your favorite person in the world is not necessarily the person you love the most. Just that they're trusted to be everything you want to be. Sometimes dreams die harder than love. Sometimes I guess they're one in the same.

The Picture of Dorian Gray: for Sibyl.

Life in Technicolor II

Run, run, run.
Then your lungs, they collapse
The sweat drips down your back
Into your eyes

Sweat is in your mouth
But your ears fill with words
“Look at that fat kid go!”
“Why does he even try?”

A slight falter in your stride,
But you don’t want to be fat.
So, you run.

Anyway, it’s fun.
The sweat that drips down your back
It is only there to protect you.

You.

---


She is pretty
She is blonde
Quite approachable!

She is patient
She is blissful
In need of a best friend!

She is not who you thought
She is dark
Anger fills your soul

Why can’t she be who you thought?

She is trusted
She is coveted
So you lie

Maybe then
She will be your best friend.




I wrote them without thinking at all.
Sara inspired me and I just felt it was the easiest way to explain the situations that are making me angry.
I've never written poetry outside of elementary school!