Wish

There are a lot of things I want. I realize every single one of these is going to sound immensely pathetic and self-absorbed, but they are true.

Even the dreamers need dreams.

I want to be able to say I might not be That Girl, but I am somebody. I want to be able to catch every moment and keep it safe, even when my memory fails me. I want to be able to look back when I’m dying and say it was worth it, every second. I want my life to mean something beyond tics and tallies, to mean something bigger than me. I want to die when I’m happy, when all the clamoring in my head is quiet for once and I know it’s time to seek that great unknown and instead of fear, there is peace. I want to see myself in someone else’s eyes and be proud of the reflection.

I don’t want to live in fear. Not of the government, not of terrorists, not of myself. I don’t want to lose all hope, ever, or give up on anything that matters.

Life Goals:

1. Die happy.

Religion

I have this thing about religion where I can’t bring myself to believe in a higher being. I can’t believe there is a divine power, a power above everything else because I believe a lot in balance. That comes from knowing that everything you do has a reaction of equal power. Balance.

And having there be something big, something all-mighty and all-knowing…thwarts that.

I’ve said before that I know there are things people can never understand. That maybe, we shouldn’t ever understand because that allows for a tiny bit of mystery when all else is dissected and used up. When there is nothing left to believe in because there is nothing unknown, and every dark crack and crevass has been studied and proven just another stone face and facade. There is nothing divine there.

But I also think that putting all your hope into something else to help you out doesn’t work in the long run. Maybe some people need that belief, because there truly is nothing left for them, but some people use it as an excuse not to do anything…or worse, to do too much. So I’m not a big supporter of the whole “divine being” theory.

People need something to hope for. I know a lot of people who believe in God and they believe that if they do right–right, as defined by humanity–then they’ll go to Heaven. To a place where there is no pain and suffering only bliss. But the problem with that is most people have different ideas of right and wrong. Most people follow different paths because they’re thinking the same thing: If I do this, life will be bliss when I die.

The thing about right and wrong is that it doesn’t exist. Not to me. To me, wrong and evil is defined by the heaven of one person conflicting with the hell of another. When a serial killer tortures a victim and gets off on it, but the victim hates every moment. When the pleasure of one person takes away by the other. That’s what I call evil. Not a doctrine, not a societal belief but an actual fact, actual emotions and people–not laws. To me, right is when a person helps another reach their heaven. Their ultimate.

That’s why I try not to put people in categories. When I see a drug addict, I don’t think of them as corrupt because they’re only trying to reach their heaven and who am I to stop them? The grey is when reaching that heaven makes it worse for someone else. When the drug addict is happy while his/her child is hungry. When drugs lead them to rob convenience stores for money to buy their heaven and a clerk is killed in the process. They can’t help wanting heaven. They’re trying to reach it in any way they can and sometimes the way most people would deem wrong is just the best, quickest route to that person’s high (no pun intended.)

That’s why I’m not religious in the traditional way. Because there are so many people who like to set standards for good and bad and they never realize that those regulations are their own biased views. The results of such restraints have been seen throughout history: women forced to cover every inch of skin, people flagellating themselves because if they didn’t, they’d be punished. Millions others living with guilt for doing something their religion deems “wrong,” even when they only wanted that sweet moment of ecstasy.

So what do I believe in? I believe in people, mostly. I believe in the way you can tell a kid has successfully been tamed to society when they begin coloring inside the lines. The way some teenagers realize that riding in the back of the bus doesn’t matter because in the end it makes no difference whether you were the badest or not; you’re still stuck with what you’ve done to get there anyway. The way most people make mistakes and that’s how they learn. That people should make mistakes because it shapes character better than any boot camp and military academy. That there is no life without the presence of death to make it mean something. That no one can really be tagged because no one is ever the same.

I suppose you could say I believe in living. In not giving up until the very end, and even then, looking forward to what comes next because it is simply the next chapter to the end of the book that has no end. That eternity can be held in a split second, and if you play your cards right, eternity lasts forever because you can always remember it and it’s there. That no matter how corrupt a person becomes they are still in some ways the tiny, wrinkled child on their very first birthday. That even if a person doesn’t believe in a God or an Allah or a pantheon, they still need something to believe in and that something is what helps them when they need it the most.

That religion is truth, but a truth of the human heart because it is all the hopes and fears of people expressed in different ways. And even when it presumes to say what is right and what is wrong, there will always be people who know different and that is why there is no common religion or even common goal shared on the face of the planet. It all boils down to perspective and in what shade people choose to see the world.

Me? I prefer grey.

Meaning

I’m looking for something.

It can’t be bought in a store, or given to me by a friend. I don’t think it can be physically found, in fact, because it is not physical.

I want meaning. I want to have meaning more than anything else. When people ask me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” I say, “Who defines when I’m grown up? I want to be someone with a purpose. Can you get a Ph.D. in Meaning?” It’s safe to say not many people get it.

Whenever I write, I think, “What would make this stunning?” because I want every word and sentence and paragraph to have hidden messages that translate easily. I want everything I write to have a specific place, be it for a darker end or not, like bricks in a wall stretching taller than I can see.

Sometimes, I will read a book and when the last page is played I will close the flap and just sit there thinking about everything that came into my head from the book. I will think about everything that happened and I won’t stop thinking about it because it’s just that good. The best kinds of novels, I know, are the ones that leave you astonished in the end, that leave you sitting there blankly because their meaning is so great you have to take a minute or ten to process it. Those are the best books. The ones that don’t stop at the end, that say, “Who knows how it will end? Perhaps there is no end” (from The Garden of the Green Dragon).

I don’t want an end. I don’t mean death–I know I’ll want to die when that time comes–I mean the end of the book, the end of the chapter. I don’t want the words to have a period and that to be that. I don’t want there to be simple action and motions and nothing of the deeper undercurrent–the one that runs through everything.

I want to be part of that undercurrent. It can drag you under (and thus philosophers are born), or you can ignore it and search for the cold hard facts (and thus scientists are born), or you can recognize it and study it but not become deluded by it. That’s where the best writers are born. They’re the ones who see what makes up a person and know even then that what they see is not everything. They use that undercurrent to build up, to make those little pieces of their imagination tangible.

I want to be like that, to have what I say be profound in every way. But it is difficult, when you do the same thing every day of every week and are stuck in the same city all your life. There’s never any chance to discover more, so you never really grow. I never see those things that help me understand more about people, so it’s hard to make people of my own.

It’s hard to have meaning when you don’t know how.

Someday I hope I’ll know why. Why the world is the way it is, not in terms of numbers and formulas but in people and thoughts. Why I think so much, and why I can’t stop the flood that’s always there, in everything I see and do. Why I’m lonely sometimes and I know I’ll always be lonely like that. Why this has to be the way it is.

Someday I hope I’ll be able to tell someone who I am and what I do. That I have meaning, and this is what my meaning is. This is why I keep living, what I keep living for beyond the simple sake of being alive. This is what I want and what I don’t want, what I’ve done and what I know about it.

This is me.

Writing

So I was sitting here thinking about what to write. I was thinking about my day, and how many things I could say about it and then I realized how in the end the little things that happen in the course of twenty-four hours don’t matter so much as the things that stay with you. The things you’d write about, too, if you had a blog. The things you’d want people to know about you.

Sometimes certain people irritate me. They do it without thinking, maybe because they’re so deluded they can’t see themselves or they’re so unconfident they don’t want to know that truth. It’s brutal, when you realize you’re irritating. The sad thing is that most people never do.

But that doesn’t matter, I’ve decided. I’ve settled on something–that I won’t let the lack of equality or injustice bother me while I can do nothing to change it, so I won’t.

Which means I have to have something else to talk about. And putting aside all the trivial things, all the nuances and small pleasures and dislikes, there are few things left. There are few things left when you take away all the stuff you could live without.

One of those things that could never be taken from me is, quite obviously, writing.

It is the one thing I love almost as much as I love people.

Before you write something wonderful, I think, you have to recognize what could be written. It’s like assessing all your options, except this is just one huge concept, one that only strikes me in the odd moments: everything is possible. I love it. I love the idea that I can type any word and have it mean something, and that I can connect together those words to have a greater or lesser purpose. That I can construct celluloid people or complex characters out of these single letters, all looping together and connecting back to equal something huge, something unimaginable.

I get that. I get that there is everything I could write. The problem with me is that I don’t know how to choose just one thing. I don’t know how to pick a single thought and string it on because there are so many of them.

Start with the truth. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Start with a true statement, something not many people pause to consider?

It’s harder than it sounds.

Try this: think of a statistic, an oddity that has occurred to you or that you’ve read of lately that not many people know. I did that a few mornings back. I said to my mom, “Did you know there are hundreds of thousands more women than men in the world?” And today she said to me, “Most of Arizona and Hawaii are the only places without daylight savings.”

The curious bits make the best bait. The trouble is finding that one piece that is simple but uncommon. I have trouble here.

The thing with me is that whenever I try to write I inevitably end up with nothing to say because there are so many topics to cover. Once I get used to a person they seem overused, and I want to move on to someone else. That’s not good. Makes it hard to commit.

Writing, I think, is comparable to dreaming. In it, there are things from your life that you didn’t remember until then, details that strike you. There are places and people, things real and unreal, a whole kaleidoscope of mirages and images blending to equal something unattainable. Something you can only hint at but you know it is there and you know that in a way, it is just as real as anything else because you can see it and you can imagine how it feels. And in the end that is all you can really count on, whether you can imagine something, because if you don’t believe it is real when you see it, you won’t believe it is real when it’s not there anymore.

I’m rambling. No one will make it this far, I am sure, but that doesn’t really matter to me anymore. Sometimes I will find something new and share it with others, and after a while I realize they just don’t really care. So I’ll stop doing it for them and start doing it for me.

That’s what this is now. This is for me. It just happens to be here, on this page, on this blog, which is free and huge, and no one will ever bother to sort through it because there are other more interesting things they’d rather look over.

Politics. People. Sports. News. Knitting.

So this is for me. It was not in the beginning–in the beginning it was to let my friends know more about me–but now it is mine. All mine. Rambling and rants and lovey-dovey, corny pieces and all.

Confusing as hell and sometimes ridiculous and sometimes unimaginable for people who do not think like me, but it is mine.

And that makes it worth more than the world to me.

Serial Killer?

This is going to sound morbid and horrible. I knew it before I even opened this page. But sometimes you have to admit there’s someone inside you no one likes to recognize. Someone who wonders about those gruesome details, someone who wants to know more.

I think serial killers–any killers–are the ones who recognize that other person inside themselves and realize it is just themselves. Everyone has a dark side. Not many people like to admit it.

I’m admitting it. I’m curious, and this happens to be the perfect place to write down all my curiosities.

Don’t read on if you might be inclined to believe I’m a sociopath. I’m not. Not in any way. All of this is just pure curiosity, just ramblings from that shadowy darker side. Do not take them as facts, do not take them as fantasies. They are neither.

And most of all, do not try this at home.

What is this big question I have? What am I being so secretive and warningful about?

I’m wondering what it would take to create the perfect serial killer.

This would be different. Not one from the books. Not one who tortured little animals, not one who works out of passion. Would anyone even recognize the work of a serial killer if they did not have their previous profiles? What if the very essence of the differences in a serial killer is their profile?

Let me explain.

I watch a lot of TV. Too much, some people might say. I watch all the crime shows, and the biggest one is Criminal Minds. It struck me as odd how all of their killers are alike in most ways, so I thought, “What if they weren’t?” and that got me to wondering what would change, what would stay the same, and how they would catch a serial killer that had no motive, no reason beyond their own wonderings. What if there was one now and we didn’t know it?

If this is too morbid, now is the time to stop reading. Because next is a list, and if you’re starting to think I’m insane, the list will only serve to cement your belief. I’m not insane. (I’m sure all the insane people say that.)

The Perfect Serial Killer.

1. Would be a woman. When people think “serial killer,” they think men.

2. Would be either very young, 18-20, or very old, 60-75. Again, this detracts from the “male late thirties” anthem people wave like a flag.

3. Would be ethnically different, anything noticeably other than caucasion. African American, Asian, Indian. No one thinks of black people in the same terms as they think of serial killers. Cover. Who would guess it?

4. Would have no obvious motive for their crimes. They wouldn’t kill out of passion, rage, the usual suspects. This would be no revenge spree. They would kill coldly, but not too coldly. They would not be overly cruel, but not kind in any way. There would be no sympathy, just curiosity perhaps (this will likely lose a lot of people, considering my earlier speech about curiosity)

5. When police look for a killer, they look at motive. Abusive father. Dead mother. Foster home. Thus this killer would come from an ordinary life. Not too ordinary. Raised in a middle-class household, maybe two or three close friends growing up, a boyfriend in high school, dating every few weeks. For the older ladies: still married to their high school sweetheart, maybe on their second marriage, worked since they were young, retired late. Content household, not too rich not too poor, perhaps on the comfy side. No reason for breaking from the pattern. No evidence.

6. Methodical. This is where the two paths–my fictious one and the prolific one–cross. The woman would be methodical down to the details. She could have OCD, but passively, not aggressive in-your-face nonsense. She would take everything in stride, keep a cool head. This would perhaps put her in a position of some power–not much, but some. A low-management employment. Admired, and warm to her comrades but really feels nothing for them. Has no compassion.

7. Thorough. Gives everything five checks, every detail accounted for, every variable factored in like a mathematician with his numbers. There would be room for wriggling if needed, an exit strategy, several escape routes and cover plans. Nothing would differ from the original plan except in the worst-case scenario when there is something wrong. Then there would be a second-best plan to cover her tracks.

8. Nothing would be the same. The methods of killing would be different, every one of them. Once most of the popular ones were used up, she would copy one of the old ones but in a new way. There would alwways be new ways. If the police were trying to figure her out, she would perhaps pick victims of the same type twice in a row, not a different one each time because that difference would allow for a profile to be drawn.

9. She would maintain contact with the outside world. In all appearance, a dedicated worker but not too dedicated, and people believe she just wants to go home for some Ben & Jerry’s after a long day’s work. Likes vacations, but does not vacation at every time of each murder. They’re always varied, some during some not. Some during overtime hours some when there is no work at all.

10. She would have quirks. She’d be memorable, but the kind of memorable that fades when she’s out of sight. A normal person bites their fingernails or plays with their hair. Different signs for different emotions. She would too. Nothing too unusual but nothing too common. Every action examined down to its base, reaction and memorability.

That’s all i can think of right now. Truthfully, now that I go back and look at it, it seems horrible. That’s my sunny side showing. Really, I would want no part in anything like this. I’m just curious. Curious and compassionate and caucasion and nowhere near the age or status quo, thank you very much.

Once again, do not try this at home.

Understand

There are a lot of things I don’t understand about people.

The first is my brother. The eldest one. He has a car and a job and is a senior in high school, the Big Bad Year, so to speak. This morning on the drive to school he did something that makes me frown when I think about it because it’s so unhappy…First: the background.

Usually my parents get me up, and even though that sound so naive it is true and any way you look at it will never alter what you see.

So they forgot to get me up and I woke at the minute–the exact minute, curiously–that we usually leave for school. We were late, and usually I’m a stickler for that sort of thing but once I know five minutes won’t matter, I’m alright with it. What’s done is done, that sort of thing.

I asked him to stop by McDonald’s for some brekkie, me having skipped in hopes of grabbing some food I don’t have to throw together myself. But he refused, despite having done just this when we really were presed for time and almost made us late as a result. So if he’ll do that, when time does matter, what is a few extra minutes when it doesn’t?

I don’t get it.

And then there’s my friends. They’re wonderful, most times, except when they’re caught up in themselves that they unintentionally insult another member of our quaint posse. But when you get to the core of it all, I don’t get them. They don’t make sense to me.

For one, there’s what they do. A lot of them will say things and we’ll all laugh about it and make semi-oaths to go through with it but when the time comes no one does it. And then it doesn’t matter.

My butt-tattoo friend, as mentioned earlier, was doing a project with another girl in our group–kind of a drifter, like she’ll be with us sometimes but not always–and she was absent today. Well, she and my butt-tattoo friend had been working on this big english project for a week and a half, and when the time came to turn it in, because the one girl wasn’t there, my butt-tattoo friend got a bad grade because she only had a small part of the project.

I don’t get it. Just last week they were scheming and saying how they’d play it all out in front of the class and it’d be great but when it came down to it she wasn’t there. And what’s more, I’m not sure if it even effected my butt-tattoo friend because she didn’t show it at all.

Maybe you learn to let go of things if you want to stay friends with someone. I could never do that, because reliability matters so much to me. Maybe that’s why I don’t have many friend that are close, and especially few that I count on.

I’d try just letting things go, but that seems like such a waste to me. It seems like giving up a piece of what the friendship could be for what it is. It seems like just giving up period to let the things that matter to one person go because that person just doesn’t want to hurt their friendship. It seems like more of a sacrifice than anyone should have to pay.

There is so much I don’t understand about people. I don’t understand how some can hate each other over a rumor after a decade of being friends. I don’t understand how some can jump to conclusions that aren’t realistic, even if they know it. I don’t understand how some have to shoot others down in order to like themselves better, when really they don’t feel good afterward anyway. I don’t understand people.

I just don’t get it.

PS – Sorry for the nickname, butt-tattoo friend. It just happened.

Lost

Sometimes I wake up but I never really wake up. The morning is there but I can’t feel it. I’m doing all these things but it’s not me doing them, just the body, on autopilot.

That was today. It wasn’t a good day, not the very worst of the worst, but…disconnected. Lost. It was like watching my life play forward from a viewpoint somewhere high above the perspective. Like looking down and thinking, “Hey, a pencil. Hey, math homework. When did I do that?” Scary.

Sometimes I feel so lost. It’s like I have this life and I’ve filled it with the things I’m supposed to like and the only real things I’ve chosen are my friends. It’s like the rest of it’s just to appease other people, people who don’t have to deal with the consequences of my actions but just watch and want to control them. Sometimes my life isn’t my own and those times are the worst but they come and go as they please.

The worst thing is that I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, and the Senior Exit Project—where we choose a profession we’d like and do research on it—seems like a personification of that ignorance. I hate not knowing, not knowing who I am or who I will be or anything pertaining to me—the real me, not the one who lives to please. I don’t know what I like the most—except writing, perhaps—and that frightens me more than anything.

It’s like I don’t know who this person is, whose hands these are that are typing so fast but are they really typing anything at all?

I’m so lost.

Stats

Statistics are terrible. I love them, but they kill me.

There are government agencies designated solely to the collection of statistics. I didn’t know that until about a year, two years ago. And it all seemed so useless, even if I knew the reasoning and agreed with the reasoning, that knowing percentages and the like would help us better understand what comes next. What might come and what will come and what won’t.

More than the bureaucracy, I hate it when people say I will become yet another statistic, just a tic on a page or a tally in a row of other tallies that all represent human lives and choices but don’t really represent anything in the end except what the writer intends them to mean. And with the writer dies the meaning and then all those statistics are just numbers and lines with no meaning, and it’s reducing something complex and lovely like life into something concise and readable.

I’m addicted to the stupid things. I love searching the Web for interesting tidbits, like “50% of all Americans will die before the age of 70″ or something like that. I love all the order and organization because it helps me keep in line those wild fantasies that rampage through my head on a daily basis. The statistics assure me that no, not everyone in the world is a serial killer. Just about one percent. And most don’t even know it until you provoke them.

See what I mean? This fascination is horrid. Yet I can’t stop loving the useless numbers that all seem to magically come together to mean something more. If there is a real superpower gifted to humanity, it is being able to take something useless and give it a purpose.

That’s better than x-ray vision, if I do say so myself.

What is the origin of statistics? Necessity. The need for order. Oooh, that’s a big one. The need for control and prediction.

People love being in control. Most times, the ones that have it the worst are the ones that don’t even know it. Why, look at my dad! He’s a good guy, nice and all, but he lives and breathes control and order. I suppose it could be serving in the military for a while or having to make his own way, but I think even the hardest of hardships aren’t enough to change the real essence of a person. If they’re born leaders, they’re leaders. I don’t think it’s something you just pick up along the way.

So he’s sort of demanding. Like he’ll slight me and not even know it, telling me things I’ve already heard as if he thinks I can’t hear even with two young ears. And he has to be the one giving orders, unless he makes a conscious act to let someone else take over…temporarily.

I never realized how many people are like that. Not until lately, when it started to grate on my nerves, and I’m hoping this isn’t the old modicum about you hating the most in others what you hate the most in yourself. But sometimes I think it is, and that scares me.

No matter. What I was saying? Statistics are control. Something, everyone knows, the government loves more than…well, anything. So it doesn’t particularly surprise me to find they have agencies that go around asking questions that pertain to nothing imminent but are fun to look at anyway.

I mean, I’d do it too, if I was the government.

Then again, I guess if I was the government the British would’ve already swooped in by now and we wouldn’t be the United States of America but the United States of Britian or something like that. And I would’ve installed an immediate death penalty for rape, and an eye for an eye on other assaults that are intentional. There would be no need for added jail space if I were in charge.

So it’s probably a good thing I’m not the government.

Unknown

There are a lot of things I don’t understand. And to say that is such a huge understatement that I can’t even begin to explain it.

Sometimes, I think about the universe and I think about how we–as a planet, as a Solar System, as individuals–are all just a tiny part of the whole. I think about the diagrams they show in earth science class, how they have infrared pictures and x-rays of galaxies–galexies!–beyond ours. Just a small part, miniscule, minor part of these systems have names and labels and there are so many things we don’t understand about them that it utterly astounds me, when I realize it.

And all throughout, I’m thinking that there is a single star at the center of our Solar System, and a huge unknown in the middle. That’s a lot like people, I think. Even though most anything can be compared to people, can be made to fit like horoscopes on Yahoo, this seems to fit better than most.

I think we all have something we want. I heard a quote once that said, “there are three things a girl needs in life: something to do, something to look forward to, and someone to love.”

I’m thinking that these things all make up that star at the center of our Solar System, that bright shining unattainable thing we strive toward all our life and it gives us purpose where once there was darkness. That thing we long for all our life, be it absolute power or just happiness, it makes things grow and survive where otherwise they would die out. It’s nourishment, in more than one sense of the word, and no matter how many philosophers claim men don’t really know the light, it’s not true. People know light. Everyone knows light, because be that light corrupt in the eyes of others or not, it is still light no matter how you look at or interpret it. If it is the heaven of one person, I think, then it is light.

And then there is the “Great Unknown” (John Green, Looking for Alaska). I have to mention this because it plays such a huge role in everything–absolutely everything. Even when we have our light, the place where our eyes are drawn every time we look up into the sky, there is still the question in our mind, “what’s beyond? Is there anything beyond? What happens when we reach that Star, when we’ve conquered that goal?”

That’s another thing that drive people, some more than others.

The unknown.

It’s life, essentially. Some people are deathly afraid of it and spend their existence hiding from it, trying to kill it, or denying it is real. Others try to find it, to expose it, to study it and make it something less than godlike because they’ve long since stopped believing that there is anything in the world that cannot be explained. What they don’t know, and what I believe wholly and without hesitation, is that there is.

My science teacher tells me that everything can be explained. She’s one of those people who believe that science is the answer to everything. This isn’t a bad thing–indeed, I too believe that science can explain quite a lot–but not everything. The black holes and the great center of everything (ever)? They can’t be explained. Even she admits that they defy the laws of physics–the laws!! How can this be? How can there be something that science cannot explain? Impossible! There must be some aspect we have yet to reveal!

That kind of thinking makes me sad. It’s so unromantic, so completely devoid of faith. I truly believe that people need something to hope for, and when you replace that shining star at the center of the Solar System with the great black hole in the center of the universe, there isn’t any light left. You have your curiosities and your discoveries, but each one is a little less life, a little less innocence.

People grow up believing in things they can’t touch or see or understand. They believe there isn’t an answer to everything, and that’s what makes up their dreams of white knights and castles and fair maidens and dragons. The belief that there’s more to life than what’s already here, what already exists and can be proven in a lab with chemicals and people in white lab coats.

And science is the act of killing that belief piece by piece, with each discovery that says no, this can be explained using this, and really, no great being simply wished it into being.

I like science. I like knowing what I’m made of, what allows me to take that next breath. What allows me to drink water and not have it pouring right back out of every orfice. I like that it gives me reason and logic, and there are a lot of things that are made better for being applied to some kind of order.

But not everything. Even when I’m dying, I know I’ll always believe there are things that can’t be explained, no matter how many numbers and formulas people think up. No matter how many discoveries are made–that this or this reaction created the universe, that we’re just a product of chance and nothing more.

No, I refuse to believe that. And even if I don’t have a religion, if I don’t believe in a God or many gods or a Goddess or the like, I still believe there are things that aren’t meant to be understood–not by us. Not by anyone.

I like the unknown. I like knowing there’s always going to be something out there that isn’t overused and overwritten. That there’ll always be something new and exciting, when all the Earth is crowded and dense and there is no room left and all the ideas have run out and there’s no point in living because everything’s already been done.

I like knowing there’ll always be something I can’t explain with science or words. It lets me believe in fairy tales and happy endings even when I watch the news and know, logically, that there is no such thing as dragons.

I like the unknown.

Sleep

There is not much to say today. Mostly, that it is unfortunate how fatally awkward some people are (namely, me and a particular track and field act involving hurdles.)

Today was not good. Not at all. But I will not complain because that would make it somehow less, and even when I thought “well, my day is crap already–I might as well make it miserable,” I was referring only to how I spent my time (chores and homework for five hours).

Usually, when I need to write, it is because there is a multitude of thoughts in my head all begging to be let out. Clamoring, chaotic, screaming and screaming until finally I give in and type until I sleep. Those are the days when all my opinions are at the forefront, when i can give any example and have it fit to anything else.

Today is curiously…empty. Devoid of clamor, of chaos. Right now I am simply exhausted.

That happens to me on Fridays. All of the sleep I missed out on during the week all catches up to me and no matter how many times I claim I’m staying up late, there I go falling into the bliss in the oddest of places.

So there is not much to say. Nothing life-threatening (for, in fact, an idea in a writer’s head that screams and is ignored can kill a body.)

Just sleep. That’s all I want right now.