Waiting on the world to change.

I just think to myself, is this worth it? I could live day by day, just worried about making myself happy. I could be selfish and do something that doesn't require responsibility or duty. I could travel the world and take jobs at cafes and little bookstores, speaking stuttering French, Greek, Italian, with soft eyes filled with wonder. Oh my, look at this world around me. I don't even watch the news anymore, I hardly have time to read current events, and I hardly know what's going on in the world.

I think about the fact that for the last 21 years of my life, I've been waiting for my life to start. It seems I keep waiting, and telling myself, soon I'll have everything I want. Except when I'm a doctor, I'll have just as many restrictions as I do now, only different kinds. The kinds that mean others' lives.

Is that all life is? Waiting for the next big moment?

john mayer: 'I keep waiting, waiting for the world to change'

not okay.

i just hope that when you finally push me away you'll be okay with the thought that you didn't even fight for us. i hope that you'll be okay with the fact that you thought i wasn't worth your time. i guess you'll be happy i'm not around to keep trying to make us work. i'm not fighting with you anymore. i just thought you should know that i'm not sure how long i can keep doing this.


you pretend we're okay so you won't have to deal with our issues. you wait it out until my hurt just bleeds and bleeds, and i yell because i can't take it anymore. and you tell me to forget. so i crumble up the pieces of my damaged and faint heart, put the jagged edges together, and place the paper ball of a heart back in my chest.


you think we're okay. i know we're not.

Dreams like Cotton

I've been having sad, soft dreams and headaches lately. Like my head is protesting against the constant barrage of science and body. My dreams are filled with things of how i wish my life was (soft memories of days with my family and love and art and just beauty, beauty, beauty all around me. days of young child, memories of laughter and kisses and goodnight wishes.) Sometimes, my dreams are not nice packages of sweet nostalgia, but rough dreams of things spiraling out of my control. I dream of running, running, sometimes hiding, sometimes dying. Sometimes I am crazy, sometimes i am sane and all around me is crazy. Sometimes snow, sometimes clouds. Sometimes, she dies and I watch, living the moment again and again so I might save her. Sometimes, she hates me and I cry and cry and wait for some sort of redemption. Sometimes, i find that I know this cannot be real and cannot break away from it. Still now, awake and lucid, I feel the dreams at the edges of my mind, haunting me like a chilling requiem.

Still now, awake, I am hungover, imbibed with alcohol tasting vaguely of nightmares and drunken chaos. I have a headache, pounding and stuffing my head with cotton. I cannot think straight, instead I am dazed and parched. I feel water sloshing in my mind, like vodka in a drunk man's cup (it is bitter and sharp and pungent). My dreams feel like dry sandpaper, scraping the edges of my jagged consciousness, scratching, leaving behind scars and bruises.  Like cotton, I feel these dreams crowd (fill, stuff, pack, compress, compact) my mind and I feel dry, dry. Dry and wrung out and waiting for the rain to drown me again.

long time.

it's been a long time
since i've put my pen down to paper
and let the thoughts fill up the
glass, like water and sand
it sludges slowly,
my mind.


it's been a long time
since i've felt happy or felt
less lonely, because all that's
left to talk to is the dry
tunnel in the sky.


oh
and it's been a long time
since i've had faith
that i could hold,
like
a penny found
on the ground,
luck curled around it
like a sleeping snake.


its been a long time around.