just waiting to spill my red wine on this white sofa

i'm remembering how broken i was last year. listening to the one band (you know, that one band) that seemed to be a part of the ride beckons those thoughts sometimes. less and less over time, yet still true. i suppose sometimes i want a tiny glimpse of that time, or to feel for just a few seconds what it felt like to be so gutted. i try not to wonder too much why this is, but tonight i pursue the reasons, attempt to make sense. in contrast to current life, i suppose the contrast is what makes that time seem kind of surreal. i am not dead, i am not many things and i am many things that i was not before. another aspect of this may be that the feelings that encompassed that year of love and half of despair were so intense. so vivid with life and figurative color - even through the times that felt so dark. during the time after this particular end, i would have never thought that one day i would tinker with the fantastical concept of wanting a bit of those dreadful feelings for even just a few seconds. who does that? but hello!! melanie, you felt something. that was proof that you were emotionally alive. at one point, perhaps more than? it is strange. i sense a loop. you may tell yourself, never again. i will never again be so vulnerable. i still do this, but i know it is untrue. it will occur, probably time after time after time. some say after the first time that the next are never as bad. i doubt that. feelings, love, dedication - all so subjective, too subjective to count on any absolutes in between a beginning and an end. so count on just that. things begin, things end. it is the way the universe works. so i suppose in the meantime just live. well, or die.
it's whatever.

Broke

I think I have died a few times in my life, and I think I will die a few more. Tonight was surely an awful death.

Die: to lose force, strength, or active qualities

Year

The grouping of days into annuals is with less significance when each day is broken down into hours at best
Hours into minutes of twiddling neurosis

Note : I am currently bunking amongst eleven, caged Russian rats and a self declared Jim Morrison/Jesus Christ reincarnation.

During these cold, wet days I am shaken and full of internal debris. I walk in a straight line looking straight through passing bodies with the most stoic face I have ever possessed. The air I breathe is drowning me and the views of everything around me feel to be symmetrically upside down. I am in a waking dream where my surroundings are familiar, yet everything is out of place, leaving me to feel that I am not where I once was nor where I had hoped to be. Anxious and hunched with tension, even my body has become an enemy.
The feeling of isolation weighs heavy and I think myself to be trapped in a small box filled with many items and images, none of which equate.
I know that here, I make a left and there I can cut across the street - something is telling me to do that, and I am confused as to how I know.
Everything is surreal, except that it is not. This is real and this is awful, nothing beautiful. There is no rescue; no amount of hours that will wake me up.

Taya

How lucky I am for such a jewel that sends me a physical American Greetings birthday card in the mail that happens to arrive the day of.

Fin de siècle

I have found myself behind another mask, also self created.
Without tools of hand assisted craft, completely assembled with the creativity of real love and real ego.
We are often the last to know of these elaborate disguises.



Shaken uncertainty and a hollow, emotional spool of deceased thread.

For the books

This place is now an archive. It was a nice trip.


http://melaniegarza.tumblr.com/

There are events, thoughts, ideas that I want to lay out lately. I believe that I am finally feeling secure and settled in here in my new city. Unfortunately, a little bugger that I will call FIREWALL prevents me from accessing my blogger account - no offense to tumblr, but this spot was meant for practicing with a different style.

I suppose this can happen when leeching off of an unsecured network.

What am I to do? Move over to tumblr? Go and sit in a cafe, so that I can access blogger when I want to write? (Probably not a bad idea, but I usually feel like I weigh 250 pounds - in other words, I am lazy) I really enjoy blogger and have grown to being extremely comfortable when writing there. I have went through devastation, curiosity, outrage, and excitement over at that spot. It was always refreshing to visit someplace where I had comforts from previous writings. I will compare it to returning home after a day at work, or returning from an extended vacation; there is familiarity and comfort in the knowledge that a parent, a sibling, or pet awaits. This is a purpose my writings have served - unconditionally served.

In a way, this situation is mysterious to me, well not so much the situation, but more of my feelings towards the situation. How is it that one may form such an attachment to a slate of screen space on a public domain? (I typed out 'pubic' just now and nearly moved on, I should have left it that way) I will rush to the front of the audience to ask such a question, but I feel as if though I can give support as to how - evidently. Just as one may become connected with a paper filled journal, or tape recorder, camera, so I have become connected with my spot at blogger. I was never judged by the machine, never left standing at the door, locked out (well, now I am but I blame FIREWALL) always welcome to relieve myself of improper emotion and reaction.

Perhaps moving here to tumblr with a new address would be fitting. I am at a brand new physical address, new geographical address - almost everything in my life right now is brand new and I want to share and document these experiences. Reflect in such a way where thought reflection does not suffice ( I am poorly organized up there)

I can see this move happening. I wake up and still can hardly believe the real live move that I have made, so this should be pie.

Cheers to movement.