Sleep wins.

Shut your eyes, tightly. When you open them - for the moment when your vision blurs - the white lights are hazy and beautiful. I've wanted to sleep under the Christmas tree for a few nights already, but for now, sensibility, and also (mostly) the fact that my neck is already royally fucked is what's holding me back.

"Tonight will be the only night of my life I've ever wished for snow?" Come on, Kelsey.

It's funny, isn't it, how grown-up you can pretend to be, or think you are, but when it comes down to it.. all it takes are a few words and you're back to hoping with all of your heart that those simple melodies are true.

I have approximately one page left of my history paper, and at least two for psych. It is twelve forty-six a.m. I also have to take a quiz, and do a discussion board. My options are: get off of here and do it now - at least the history and the quiz - or wake up at like.. five-thirty. Or wake up at six-thirty and go like an hour late to class.. probably the most likely option, hah. I am very efficient when I have like twenty minutes to accomplish something.

Really though, when I am choosing between five and six-thirty, I need to work on my time management.

Nicotine.

I had an old friend that I used to spend quite a bit of time with, and I miss her house sometimes. It was always warm and hazy, and everything was a bit worn down, but comfortable, with ashtrays everywhere (I had a tendancy to tip them) and plenty of caffiene and old movies. I don't miss the friendship so much; she was always preoccupied with some other friend of hers who was a little bit tighter with the local musicians big on the scene, (or just sleeping with a few of them) and I never ranked highly on her "who's in" list. But she talked and I listened, mainly because I didn't have many comments other than questioning where their income was going to come from in five years. Ultimately, our closeness was the product of spending so much time together because there was nowhere else to go when we had no money for gas.

I do miss that house, though. I can't wait until I have my own.

Thanksgiving.

SERIOUSLY SHUT THE FUCK UP.

I am so sick of loud people and little kids yelling it's unbelievable.

Ennui.

"Men, I do not love. Man is for me too imperfect a thing. Love of man would kill me."

And it does, slowly, but unavoidably. There is a grey mist outside that penetrates not just skin and wood and concrete, but soul.. a chill that isn't claimed by the cold Minnesota winds. My chai tea won't warm and there is an unsettledness in my spirit that I can't seem to calm. A symphony of silent cries pierce nothing - accomplish nothing - only echo farther into the land of ghosts to join the multitudes of discontented who never cease to haunt.

If each ghost it not a ghost, but a never-forgotten feeling that could not be erased, how many tendrils of melancholy regret and unchangable despair will curl around you in a single day? Can a feeling be more than an abstract soft science term? Can it be so nigh concrete that it is tangible in air? Maybe only in Harry Potter.

Science says no. Science says that there is simply too much moisture in the air - salt water condensed from the ocean - rising above life on the ground into a shroud of of purple and blue light and dust. A burial shroud slowly binding itself to this earth. This will take careful editing and much more thought but I'm sick of staring into nothingness.

I wonder if a change in location will have an effect on this onslaught of unrest. I can't even keep busy because busy seems impossible on this dragging day. I sound so overdramatic but it truly impacts me like nothing ever has before. It isn't sadness as is painful heartache, where the sole wish is to be dead, instead of stretched from limb to limb.. but sadness as if you are standing at the world's own funeral. Ominous and bleak. Hopeless. As if you know from now on that nothing will ever be the same again, nothing will ever make you completely happy or fulfilled. That is what this mist perpetrates.

Yellow Ochre.

I am stained from painting this morning. It's ugly; purple and black and orange - it looks as if someone's beaten me - colors mixed on my skin, and my hands are all cracked from the turpentine. I have too much to do still tonight, but it's one of those days and I know it won't get done.

It's one of those days where everything you say is wrong. Your words are stumbling and awkward and meaning is found where none exists and none is seen when it means everything. On days like today, first you're sad, because you can't fix anything when you can't find the words and you're a million miles (or about fifty-five) from what's home, and you don't know how make them laugh anymore, and hearing that laugh every day was like coming home, so now you're lost, and then you simply become silent, 'cause you figure that if all you can do is make a mess, you shouldn't try at all. And then you're just alone.

Alone with your empty canvas and colors that won't ever come out quite right until you have happiness in your eyes and can smile again.

Fix me fix me fix me.

Missives.

Cause I just don't know what else to write about anymore.

You're reticent, unresponsive now; not a change, but an innate trait become much more pronounced. You with your scientific formulas and planetary systems, your broken metal parts and computer programs, you're so impersonal. Every exigency you face so optimistically can be fixed if you just employ that very fallible logic of yours.

Wrong.

We are polar opposites, my every word laced with irony or occasionally, honest emotion disguised as equivocal tripe, but the emotion's still there, if you care enough to look. I'm not at all straightforward, I prefer a more oblique existance and much of what I say will never make sense to you, because it is illogical, inane but it's true, damn it, it's the truth. I'm not going to lie to you anymore. I'm not going to lie to myself.

You can pretend that wishing something away will make it disappear, but it won't, and you know it. You know I know you know it. Please just tell me this is all a matter of time until you just give in, circumvent your "best interests" and love me. Just love me.

Acoustic No. 3.

It's a reality check that I kept trying to indefinately put off.

Distance and time are only constraints of your mind anyways, right? So none of this really matters, right?

It's hard to have hope when your final long-shot possibilities won't pan out.

This is really just altogether slight insanity anyway. All that he wanted was for us to be together and go and grow together. I said no, I want New York. I want away. But this is different. So now my brain is in the middle of a huge wrestling match right now; could I overwrite my own dreams to be a part of someone else's?

God, I miss you. I'm requesting applications to your colleges, just in case.

Inundated.

So, my last post was mostly just for my own purposes, not really anything informative or interesting or, who am I kidding, when am I ever either of those things?

SFKhldsfkhfmmehh. I love the sound my fingers make on laptop keys. It's a click but not a sharp click; softer, sporadic and thoughtful. There is definately something to be said about sharp leaden pencils and writing on beautifully thick paper - journaling in, perhaps, its true form - but I feel so much more productive on a computer. I still miss having mine, piece that it was. I'm also still upset because basically every.. anything of writing I did that year is still stored on the hard drive, and it's broken probably beyond repair. Although, with my compulsive editing, I'm sure I would think everything on it was trash now anyway.

And I'm making small talk with myself, which means there's something hidden in my mind that apparrently my subconscious doesn't want to broach right now.. but too bad, inner Kelsey. Personal demons have no room to breathe when they're locked up inside you like this.

(Is anyone else nervous that I'm talking to myself like this? Anyone?)

Maybe how I'm sick of having a one-track mind. Or maybe not a single track, but double sided. Both cannot simultaneously exist and play. Which also is not helpful.. making the conscious effort to switch thought processes is like getting up to take out the mix tape he made out and put in something else. Worth the effort, eventually, but so hard to do.

I'm not jealous. I swear, I'm happy (that she isn't very cute) for you.

Strip my mind.

It's such a good thing that I have so much college shit to do; it's very.. occupying. I can't be anything but focused right now. Time to be sad? No no no.

This is my hopefully-not-tentative list:

U of M - Minneapolis
Tulane
University of Chicago
Sarah Lawrence
Portland State
Bennington
U of Colorado at Boulder
U of Vermont
University of Puget Sound
Michigan State


Ughldkashdlkasdf.

Pull yourself together. love.

I'm working on it, I swear, I'm working on it. I told you that I tried and you thanked me. You thanked me, what the fuck. I wonder sometimes if I miss you because I love you or because you were comfortable; because you're a habit that I don't want to give up, each text another drag to a recovering addict.

It's like a drug, an innate need, an unquenchable thirst; but I wish you were my sun instead, that gives, not steals.

My similes or metaphors - I've temporarily blanked out on the rules - are terrible, which means it's late. And I have Model UN in the morning, early.

An exercise in futility.

Ugh. I was never going to be that girl. Begging, helpless, crying. Spilling. The "No one will ever love you like I do" girl. But it's true. I promised myself I wouldn't break, and took it very seriously. Clearly, I need to work on my level of commitment to my own commitments, because I feel like the walking fucking dead. Where are those pesky vampires when you need them to suck you soulless? Cause I'm not sure I want mine anymore. (I'm anxiously awaiting the sequel to Eclipse, FYI - classic seventh grade mystical melodrama, albeit completely and totally adorable and jealousy inducing, I'll admit it.. god, I'm jealous of a fictional character.. wonderful).

I swear though, before this year I never would have considered myself a masochist. Now, I'm not so sure. You see, you think I'm so pessimistic all the time, but there is one thing I've never stopped hoping for, and never will. This is somewhat of a caveat in the inability I have to commit to ANYTHING, as Sullivan so perceptively pointed out yesterday. By all means, what I would like to be doing right now is having a complete breakdown, but I'm just logical enough that it doesn't work. I can't cry anymore, just smoke and smoke and sleep to dream. I can't not get my shit done because apparently even in the midst of heartbreak (ew), I have some degree of self-preservation kicking in. And, quite frankly, it is so much less satisfying.

God is dead.

I hate this empty, aching feeling. I hate when waking up is the hardest part. I hate that I can't fix it. I hate that I can't simultaneously paint and write, because they are perfect counterparts; to say what can be said and show what never will be. I hate that you'll never read this. I need you to so much, but I'd hate it if you did.

I hate myself when I'm weak, but that night when I couldn't breathe and I couldn't sleep and I couldn't choke down the alcohol because I had work.. I wish no one would ever have to feel that way. On the other side, hiding in the dark under your red blanket, grasping your shoulder blades, your hands on my hips and holding so violently tight, trying not to cry but it's home and it hurt but it was real and we were alive.

Everyone should feel that once.

The night starts here.

Forget your name, forget your fears. The sky is bleak but full of stars, cold and clear and lovely. The burn of the fire and the alcohol incites an aching loneliness not felt for so long. There's a fog above the grass that drives us all inside; onto the couches and into the beds, searching for something that'll never be found in sex.

That's all the explanation you're getting out of me.
Because somehow, now, it doesn't matter anymore.