74

Loving something is scary, very very scary.
Being aware of the darker things to come only make them ever more ominous the further you fall through.
But in those silent moments your breaths and another's intertwine, you know, whole heartedly, it's worth it.
You know, they're worth it.
And because of that, I very much love you.
And my silent hidden crevice of the internet, gets to hear all about it.
And you. Of course.

73

There's something happening, and I'm not quite sure what.
But it's making me scared.
So I sit here and try to breathe.

72

There's this thing.
It's called life.
It's pretty broad, you know?
It's gotta all these intricate lumps and bumps in it.
These little lines and dots, alongside the grandest things you could imagine.
This thing, called life, Can I tell you something?
It's the most indecipherable thing known to any creature.
To be perfectly honest, It's the most amazing thing too.
See... Sometimes there are times in this very life, that people forget why it's worth sticking around for.
See, once I forgot too.
So I learned to take things back to the utter basics.
To the actual life itself, rather than it's creations.
In it I found the lines of my palm, the tiny details of my fingerprints, the light roots of hair on my arm, the birth marks lining the underside of my jaw.
In it I found a newer broader life, and since that very day, life has grown with every waking minute.
There's this thing, this thing called life.
To be honest with you, looking at the lines upon my hands, feeling the heat upon my skin, I could not be happier.

74

I'm blissfully happy and want to tell you, however you're not online, nor are you by my side.
So for now I'll pocket this happiness to keep it safe, and show it to you when you can be there to join me in it.

73

It's horrible not being brave enough to tell you.

72

So... here's the deal.
I write insignificant and relatively vague things, and then post them on the internet, just to watch the little green line of infrequent views rise and fall.
I write and post these vague little stories and quips because I need to tell something.
I write because in a world of anonymity, there is liberation.
So this, these writings and unseen posts, are my mental liberation.
Today, Today I...
I.
I'm this kid. Right?
I sleep too late and wake late.
I like to write.
I seem to be constantly aware of the fact that what I write now? I will scoff at later.
I will degrade it, I will render it futile, emotional, impractical, but above all; ugly.
I am so terrified by the emotional crippling I have been brought up to expect, that to feel emotion, to write it, to actually acknowledge it in the most cliche of fashions... I find it ugly.
I find myself ugly, in that respect.
So, I'm young, I'm afraid of emotion, and sometimes wander into an almost autistic state of mind.
I have degraded and taken apart every aspect of the delicate things, and turned them into science.
I have taken love, for example, and reduced it to nothing, absolutely nothing but chemicals and evolution.
So, when I find myself lying in silence listening to someone breathing in their sleep, and being unable to let go of the smile that lines my face, I am a pawn of my own degradations.
My scientific opinions catch me in the night time.
Sometimes, they catch me when my head is burrowed into his shoulder, and I only press my head in further.
I sit here, and, may I tell you?
Every day the degradations of my cynicism and past hurts degrade the imperfection and, in honesty, purity of what it is I am so fortunate to be, this very second, experiencing.
But it is not because I don't see it's value.
It is because I can't believe it could exist.
It is because I can't believe any living thing could care this much, regardless of whether you're beautiful or ugly.
It is because I feel that what is so so good, must be chemicals and nothing more.
But, I cannot deny what it is I feel.
I cannot deny there is no other person I wish to hold.
I cannot deny, it is his eyes, and not another's, that keeps me still.
I cannot deny the reality of this.
For I have done that, and it does not fit.
My head cannot deny the tangibility of their touch, their skin, their voice, and the effect it has upon my pulse.
But most of all, I cannot deny the tangibility of louder heartbeats.
And it is things like that, that draw out my cold scientific protection, and render the sweet things to jokes.
But.
I cannot deny, as much as my distaste holds me from saying the cliche of all; How I feel.
It is a marvel, is it not?
You're brain conjures one emotion, your heart physically feels it.
I didn't think that was real.
I thought the words, "Heavy heart," were just easy lyrics and poetic nothings.
But no.
Within my chest, hidden behind a cage of white bone and blood, lies an anchor, that sinks further and further every day.
Sometimes within elongated kisses and lingering breaths, that very heart feels as if it is drowning, without lungs to take in air.
How very odd, is it not?
An organ that needs not breathe, feeling as if it could drown, living inside a once cold and icy being.
And so, I sit here, and I type, unsure as to the unease resting under my skin, seeping into the anchor tied securely to my heart.
For the past two days, an unexplainable sadness gripping me in the silent moments now bringing me to this; a meager attempt at finding answers within an answer itself.
I cannot explain it, nor can I find it's answer or cause, however, the further I write, the closer I feel to the root of my unease.
Funny, is it not? Within an attempt to alleviate sadness, a heavy anchored heart was drawn into the equation, despite my own personal claims that it had nothing to do with this seemingly unexplainable state of self.
Even funnier that only one face was brought to mind as each word was set down.
I fear my heart has realized something before my mind could even comprehend it's existence, or even possibility to exist.
And so as the realization dawns, it only descends further, drowning ever more within itself, and another's.
And within another's.
Ah, I have said it myself.
The anchor falls further into an ocean, for fear only that it will reach the ground all too soon, and become lost among the sand, never to have called out the echo of it's thud upon the ocean's floor.
But I fear telling him I love him only to be met with an expression of remorse.

71

Fuck, You're amazing.
Got that?

70

And she just smiled, and felt the edges of her lips rest against her cheeks.
She was happy.
And this is exactly what it felt like.

69

I will never tell you that sometimes I know...
I think...
I will never tell you that when you speak about her, just sometimes, it makes my day a little bit sadder.
But I'll still be there when you need to talk.
I'll still listen because I know you don't understand it in the same way.
I will never tell you how sick it made me feel when I saw her name in your calls list, her name above and below mine as you scrolled through your inbox.
I will never tell you because... Because it's nothing.
Because it's just...
Because you're so good.
And... And because I understand.
Because I know it's just me feeling sad because... Because I remember how you spoke of her before.
How her absence tore you apart.
How much she meant to you.
How much she still, and always will mean to you.
It just makes me sad because I sometimes think I could lose you in a heartbeat.
And... That sometimes I'm just... There'll never be anyone like her for you.
And the sad thing I find is that, I often think there'll never anyone for me like you.
But I'll never tell you that, Because that's the way it goes.
Because that's the way it is.
I'll never tell you, because you're good, you're you, and... the past is the past.
The heart is the heart.
And they say it never dies.
They say you never truly get over someone.

68

Everything is going to be OK.

67

The most sickening of sweet smiles began to drag across her ivory skin,
"Not going already, are we?"
Her tongue clicked to the back of her teeth as he began to slink away.
Tracing one thin finger along her skin, her black eyes narrowed, closing in on his palpable fear.
"Now now," she softly murmured, reaching to touch his jaw, smiling as he shuddered upon the feel of her hand,
"No need to fret dear. I'm just having a little fun."
As the words left her lips, she exhaled deeply and turned, her deep scarlet hair encasing her shoulders as she did so.
He could do nothing but watch.
His worlds called back to him,
"She was beautiful. But she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful; To be admired from a distance. Never up close."
He bitterly chuckled, it's tone quickly drowning to nothing but a groan.
He stepped forward.
She froze, momentarily, before turning to face this rugged worn man.
Her eyes were the deepest green, with dashes of black and gold scattered across their watery surface.
Every time he searched through them, he drowned in the ocean they seemed to embody, the ocean filled with a thousand mysterious creatures never to be found.
Every time she blinked, he swore the lights dimmed, and he could no longer see the world.
She drew her slender figure closer to him, her eyes wary of him, hungry in curiosity
Her right hand lay limply by her side, the other pressed into her chest, wedged between her rib cage, convulsing methodically.
One-two. One-two. One-two.
With each beat, she took the opportunity to breathe.
Every time she did, he could feel himself reawaken,
"You're not leaving."
She stared at him blankly, as he stood his ground, his words echoing in his ears.
He was made of grey.
His eyes were a light faded blue, sparkling only in the harshest of sunlight.
His skin was the iciest of whites, while his lips had the memory of blue imprinted upon it's edges.
His ribs were torn right apart, inside nothing but a hollow cavern.
But now, right now, his eyes were ablaze.
His feet stuck solidly to the ground as his teeth hit off each other in the restraint it took for him to stay standing.
She gently cocked her head to the right, her spine curving away from him,
"Say it agai-"
"You're not leaving."
Her face was, for once, void of this distant smile he loved to hide her behind.
Her expression was withdrawn, her eyes boring into his.
He could do nothing but stare on.
Her lips pursed slightly,
"I am born to break."
She smiled weakly at her chest, her eyes tracing the blood that lined her convulsing hand.
He nodded,
"And I am born to function. No more."
As he said so, he could feel her stare upon his ribs, he removed his eyes from hers and continued,
"But I am not human," he softly murmured, his head hanging lower as he did, "and to survive, to live, rather than function, even you know..."
Both stared on silently.
He stood so still as her hand convulsed between her bones, and she continued to breathe.
His eyes took in each piece of her, the smooth skin encasing her, her slender form, her burning eyes, her cracked lips, her shock of wild hair, the scars lining her cheeks, the pins pressing against her arms, her shoulders, her chest.
They briefly lingered on the chunk of soul torn from between her ribs.
"You're not leaving." he conceded, one last time.
Raising her head, her eyes reached out for his,
"Pretend to breathe. As if you're tasting the air."
He began to inhale, the air hitting his lungs harshly, the memory of life now dawning upon his mind frame.
Reaching from her chest she drew out one pin, the other hand solemnly convulsing like clockwork,
"Life is not how you remember it, " she sighed, almost to herself,
"I will break easy."
At her words, both solemnly nodded, before she reached for his hollow chest with her empty hand, digging it under his ribs to gently pull him closer.
Closing her eyes she waited until he was close enough to feel her warmth, and as his body warned him to run from such heat, she pushed her hand deep within his chest, and finally he breathed.
One-two. One-two. One-two.
Her hand began to convulse.
He was reunited with Heart once more.

66

We.
They.
There is no one.
What are we?
Pixels and thumbs, calling out to others.
We are beings spawned from dysfunction, loneliness and the era in which denial has reached it's final, crucial numb stage.
We are the era of liars.
We are forever learning the hard way, this life was never intended to be pretended.
Turn off the lights.
This time; Really see what is it you're looking at.
See it.

65

We live for lights and sound.
The 21st Century lives for hollow breathers.

64

Marks of black, strokes of grey, lying softly upon drooping lids.
With one stark flash of blue; it was all over.
There was no draw, no second place, no survivor.
Everything had already been said and done, in the silence of her glare.

63

With lips of the slightest red tinge; She smiled.

62

Smothering won't protect me, now will it?
You're forgetting a world exists after this.
You're forgetting you'll be able to do nothing.
Bit late to start cocooning me.
Bit fucking late.
And... it is the things that were presented before my eyes in stark truth that I learned from.
Smothering me now will only teach me to cross the road without looking, thinking someone's gonna pull my hand back if I'm in trouble.
No one is gonna pull in reality.
No one.
So, rather than pulling my strings, be there for when they are cut, and I am lost.

61

Guide me in my choices, don't make them for me.
You say I'm to look after myself, and yet you won't let me decide for myself?
"Am I not being fair?"
You're never asking that question looking for an answer you'll listen to.
You're never really asking.
You're just reminding yourself and I who's boss.
You're preparing to tear down any answer contradictory to your own.
You hear.
You don't listen.
You really don't.

60

6 days ago feels like a year ago.

59

Why do days seem like years ago, and yet everything moves so fast?
Time has become warped.

58

The pads of thumbs upon keys is tangible enough for the memories to exist.
Skin is memories.

57

If you were just a fleck of paint upon a page, would you not be just as important?
That page is forever different because of your existence.

56

We are just details in a grander story.
We are the paragraphs before the dialogue, the author's frivolity before the plot takes hold

55

"What do you mean? What's worse than that?"
"..."
"That's good, isn't it?"
"..."
"You really are terrified of it, aren't you."

54

Little steps, remember those little things.
Remember the things that you forget, but another survives on.
Learn to wake.
Learn to feel.
Remember both were once your sustenance.

53

See the colours.
Overwhelming, isn't it?
Ripping up a piece of paper, the size of your floor, and sticking it to your walls.
Those colours, those shredded bits of paint on white... Scary, isn't it?
I guess it shouldn't be.
These colours, this humanity, it shouldn't reduce you to hyperventilation, it shouldn't force you to sit and watch it in awe.
But it does.
Doesn't that just... show how strong it was?
How wrong it is?
Even for yourself?
Doesn't that just... It makes me sad to think it.
To think I had just fallen back into something I swore never to return to.
Senses shut off. Mind in control.
It's cold, you know?
You feel so... Dull sometimes.
And you feel tired in place of sorrow.
The harder the pain would have hit, the more lethargic you become.
You just don't feel much... You feel because you should, not because you are, so everything is just... Duller.
Colder.

Numb.
Nothing changes, everything is so static, and as each day goes by, you find it harder and harder to find things to keep that hollow feeling away.
Sometimes in the night when I was alone and writing, I'd wake up.
I'd feel again.
And I'd become so scared, so upset, so at a loss.
In the morning it would be as if nothing happened.
That was every morning.
Every single morning was the same.
Every. Single. Morning.
Wake up, feel hollow, and then, feel nothing happily.
I missed this.
I'll say that, I'll say it; I missed emotion.
I missed feeling alive, properly.
I missed something that felt real, that felt human.
I missed being able to be frivolous and expressive rather than so...
Practical.
Cold.
Strong.
I missed being able to hear a song, and it reducing me to tears.
I missed it's ugliness, and equally fear it's return.
But I'm sick of being numb.
I'm sick of not having anything that I'm afraid to lose.
I'm sick of being so solitary, so...
Trapped.
I'm sick of the good things being hurt, I'm sick of the great people not being allowed to understand, I'm so, so, so sick of pushing the best things in life away.
I'm sick of pretending everything is so fucking OK.
It's not.
Everything is not fucking OK, and know what?
For now, that's all I need, to just... be allowed to say that to myself.
Everything is not OK.
I am not OK.
Heck, feeling numb for another year, and this time unaware?
Things couldn't be OK with that happening.
Time does not heal all wounds.
In fact, if left alone, time alone can cement those wounds into the figure you grow to become.
I used to feel so much.
So much it was very nearly crippling, but it was better than this.
It was real, human, and because of those vulnerable foundations I was not left alone now.
I had found the people that would still be there when I no longer was for myself.
I have to learn to not be afraid of those torn pieces of colour, and so I stick them to my walls.
I place them above my door, at the bottom of my bed, at the side of my room, so every day I wake up, they are there.
That fear is there, and that awe is standing alongside.
You wake up to emotion thrown in your face, forcing you to experience it.
You cannot deny what is right before your eyes.
I refuse to deny this.
No more.
I've pushed away enough already, there is too much that has been lost, and far too much to lose.
The monochrome world is too lonely to be eternally lived.

52

51

She thought she was going to be sick.
She could do nothing but stand there, staring back into her own eyes.
She felt so sick.
She traced her hand across her skin, pulling her fingers under her jaw, reaching up for her lips as they quivered so slightly.
Her knees, her legs, her arms, they felt so heavy.
Her chest felt as her ribs had finally been torn apart, and her heart lay bare and vulnerable.
It thudded, so loudly.
Thud. Thud. Thud.
Louder, and louder.
It pounded through her chest, her throat... she could feel it's loud pulse traverse across her skin.
Her eyes had become glassy, that sparkle of blue worn away to a blank expressionless stare.
She had never felt so human in her life, and it made her sick.
It made her feel so incredibly raw and vulnerable, it made her feel so unstable, so malleable, so...
So dependent.
Words began to feel difficult to say, to even utter.
Words of which she had promised never to feel, never even to contemplate.
Words she had sworn; were labels for things that never even existed.
But she stood there, faced towards the mirror, her eyes frozen into a glassy stare, with the words,
"Oh fuck." running through her head, over and over and over.
She couldn't help the memories that were forcing themselves into her mind, she couldn't help the way her hands shook as she struggled to deny the truth.
She couldn't help her dreams.
Those little vulnerable things, that refused to hide.
"And so, a tragedy occurs." he had conceded, so sweetly, so sadly.
And even in her dreams, she could feel her heart break.
She had never felt such raw emotional pain before, never to such extremities, and all from the words her dreams had conjured forth.
Her dreams had forced her to realize a terrifying truth, of which she knew, even now, she would persist to deny as long as her heart would allow.
She would deny the fact, that made her so sick, and so scared, that she had fallen.
She had fallen.
And in doing that, she knew she would never utter the words, the word, as long as her dreams kept at bay.
As long as her lips remained sealed, and his heart kept safe.

50

Skin is memories.
Skin is ten years old, lying in the grass.
Skin is fragile.
Skin is just tangible hauntings.
Skin is memories.
And when you touch my skin, I know;
I will remember this.

49

We are the selfish beings- Praised for negligence.
We are nothing but bitter articulations.
We are rotted men and heartless women.
We are cold creatures, withering slowly and documenting our bitter perceptions in paper and ink.
We are nothing.
Nothing but words.
Nothing.

48

No it's not.
It really, really, really isn't.
It's just a name, like Peter Pan.
The boy who never grew up.
The window never shut.
The story always awaiting it's finish.
Peter Pan- The boy who never breathed.

47

Make up words and languages so no once has a choice but to discredit your thoughts.
And then continue to be indecipherable and honest in this stolen tongue.
Speak, never to be heard.
To be heard rarely means to be understood.
So, speak.

46

When did civility infringe upon the innate?

45

Cynicism is brutal but... Who said brutality was not honest?

44

Loathing, with such burning seething passion for something so fragile.
I often think fear and anger are the same thing, just with different extremities.
Passive.
Now that, that very word, that very mentality... It should be loathed, it should be feared.
Passive is a disease.
Passive is what renders all to nothing.
Passive does more than rot- Passive removes existence.
But... what if you are a passive creature at heart?
When then?
Are you destined to hear your thoughts degrade each thing to nothing?
Perhaps then it is just to be found within yourself, whether or not you give a fuck enough to fight for something.
"Live for something, or you'll die for nothing."
What then, if it doesn't matter to you whether you die for nothing?
Perhaps that's just the tragedy to all but you.
Meaning. Reason.
You never call for either.

43

I feel uncomfortable being sure.
It's rare.
And yet I'm here. Sure. Clear. Understanding.
Surprised... But sure.
Makes me cautious, because this can never last.
It only makes me wonder what is next to come, what is next to be deciphered.
What will bring me back to discontent.
It is confusing waking up, and realizing nothing is wrong, and you are safe.
It is confusing to meet nothing, when you push past the doors you had avoided.
It is uncomfortable to be in a sure state of mind.
And... and I don't know why.
Perhaps because when you don't know for sure where the trouble lies.
Perhaps all this time you've had your back unknowingly turned to it.
It means when it strikes, you're blind.
I suppose that's the cause of my discomfort, I don't know where my next downfall shall arise.
I am unprepared.

42

Why did you look as if you were about to cry.
Why did the way you spoke send my heart into my mouth.
What have I done to you.
"I heard this great one liner..."
"Oh really?"
"Yeah... There's this guy, and he really liked this girl, but she wouldn't go out with him..."
"Oh..."
"But she knew he liked her."
"Uh huh..."
"But anyways, apparently she did something really nice for him."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah... But I dunno what, but anyways, he said about it afterwards,
'Thank you, you'll be in my dreams tonight', and she just goes, 'But I'll only end up giving you nightmares.'
And he said, 'Who says I'm gonna be asleep?'"
"Wait... If it's a dream but he's not asleep..."
"It's a fantasy."
"Oh."
"Goodnight."

Never have I met a man so raw as you.
Never have I been in the presence of a man so young and yet wise.
I could see the burden upon your shoulders.
You were unhappy, and even now, you still are.
Your presence... It is...
You're...
Words fail me.
You are in one breathe indecipherable, and in the other, I understand you more than I think you know.
Although... Once you let me in. Almost.
Perhaps you saw more of my understanding than I had thought.
You are not accustomed to love.
And yet, you handle it with more open arms than I had the desire to.
I crushed it, you sought after it.
Perhaps that is why your eyes brimmed at the edges.
Perhaps that is what I should have seen.
With so many similarities, I failed to remember the most fragile of difference between you and I.
Perhaps I would not be writing about you now, had I remembered them.
You thought I would do more than understand, didn't you?
You thought...
I'm sorry.
You are strong for everyone.
Is there no one to be strong for you?
I hate to see you in pain, but even more, I hate to have that sickening feeling, knowing that I am the cause of a piece of it.
I could not mend your heart, for you would only alight the parts of mine that had grown to destroy these fragile things.
You would have been my vulnerable downfall.
I only feel remorse that I could not be there for you, that my mind no longer had the strength to return to the life I once was so accustomed to.
I am only sorry you and I did not know each other when younger.
Perhaps our burdens would have seemed lighter.
Perhaps I could have mended you, rather than unintentionally add to an already suffering self.
I wish someone who could help you, would see how you really are.
I wish someone actually gave enough of a fuck to see that you're not doing OK, you're not happy, and things are not fine.
I'll try to do what I can, but I know I am not who you want to talk to.
Once perhaps, but then I became a part of the problem.
Then I just got too close.

41

You know what?
You mean something to ME.
And yeah I know, things are hard, and right now, you can't see any other way out.
But look at me.
Look at just how uncontrollable I get when I think of you not being here anymore.
Look at how furious, how afraid I become when I think of you not breathing, when I think you not being there to text at night, to hug in the day, to smile at silently when your voice rises.
Life is hard.
Life is cruel, and you know what?
With each beautiful pulse you feel, life fucks you up.
Life takes every scrap of your innocence, and crushes it, it renders your body, and your soul, and your heart to a  memory of what it once was.
But you can't let it forever.
You've gotta see, that while this life is cruel, and while this life is dark, in it every single day, there is beauty.
And yeah, I know, right now, you don't wanna see that.
Heck, right now, you can't.
Right now all you can feel is your broken heart, your young soul, and your heavy shoulders.
Right now all you feel is the blood gushing through your veins, and the thoughts traversing past your eyes.
And know what?
I'm not gonna say it's selfish, Because... Because I've been there.
I've been there.
I've lied on my stomach, on my bed, going through the easiest ways to do it.
I know that, when we beg for you to hear us, all you can feel is hollow words.
Nothing is real, nothing is perceived as warmth.
Life is cold. Life is numb. Life... life is better off without you.
But listen to me.
That?
That is your shattered soul speaking.
That is the deepest moment of isolated darkness, that you can let crush you, or you can move past.
In this life, in this beautiful fucked up life; nothing lasts forever.
Nothing hurts forever, and the past never returns.
But, You do this?
You do this?
You will never get the chance to see that.
You will have chosen a dark forever.
You will have broken my heart, and so many others, and me telling you that I love you, will do nothing.
I love you.
Don't do this.
Don't break my heart.
This life... It is cruel, and I know you don't know how to be with it yet.
I know you're not there yet.
But please, listen to me.
Cruelty is not all there is.
Sometimes the most beautiful things in life, are just the mere fact it exists.
Just the mere fact that my pulse races every time I hear a certain song, that my skin goes cold for just a few seconds when I feel vulnerable, that I can never help but smile when I feel the sun on my hands, and I think,
"This may not have been."
The fact that 3 years ago, I almost ended everything.
I almost gave up what it was to feel my skin pressed against a keyboard, my warm breath passing through my lips, my legs crossed across each other, gently swaying to music.
I almost gave this up.
I thought there was nothing.
And this is what you're contemplating.
You're not just ending your misery.
You're ending what it is to be human.
What it is to feel and to see and to smell and to taste and to touch.
You are giving up the most unappreciated delicate moments in which you realize,
"This is what it means to be alive."
You are giving up what it is for you to exist, this very second.
You're giving up the sounds you hear, the things that make you smile when nothing else can, the memories that  haunt you so silently but sweetly, the feel of the sun upon your face, and water upon your neck, the taste of coffee on a cold morning, the eyes of a beautiful stranger as you walk by, the smile after a kiss.
You're giving up the feel of cold tiles in the morning, the promise of dreams, the escape of films, the beauty of art, the liberation of running.
Just... running.
With the wind wrapping itself so tightly across your neck, with the rain pelting down upon your spine, and your feet just slamming, one after another on cold damp ground.
You're not only deeming it all dark, but you're giving up everything that is so delicately, so indescribably, so imperfectly; beautiful.
You are letting the darkness take you.
You are saying goodbye to the future.
You are saying goodbye to me.
Please.
You have no idea just how much you mean to so many people.
Don't do this.

40

You're a beautiful girl.
Beautiful.
Beautiful.
Beautiful.
And... Right now, sitting in this cluttered room, music drolling out across it's walls, I want nothing more but to write for you.
I... I don't even know you that well, but there's a silence between us.
Every now and then, a silence in which I feel like I understand you, and you me.
I wish I knew you well enough, so I could actually... be there for you, rather than making do with a kinder smile, or a louder hello.
Right now... Right now I wish I could be there to understand for you, to just... "be" for you.
But, I'm rendered to a letter you'll never see in obscure web space, that I will never send, and that will never benefit you.
I want you to be happy, so much.
But I know happiness doesn't come with choice, not deep down.
I know you need time, I know you need to grieve, and...
I hope you're given the chance to do that.
You're a beautiful girl, far too young for those empty smiles and lowered eye lids.
And I...
I want you to smile enough, that it deepens the lines by your eyes, and the sun bounces off them, like sparks bursting from flames.

39

You know something?
I adore the way your stare lingers, just that second longer.
Heck, It's longer than a second.
You unashamedly do it. You grin as you do it, your smile growing broader as I cringe, blush and avert my gaze.
Or when I can't stop myself from sleeping.
When my eyes shut, under the warm sun, and you quietly lean closer, kiss my lips, my forehead, my cheek, and lie next to me, as I silently smile, and reach for your hand.
I adore that.
And I adore the fact that you use that word, "Adore."
I adore a lot of things actually.
I like how loud we can laugh. I like how sometimes I lose my breath from laughter, and when I open my eyes, you're keeled over, one hand pressed against your mouth, your eyes squinting happily.
I like how fucking crazy we are.
We are. Fucking. Crazy.
And... I like that.
I like how we've given up on fear, and when we wake up, you simply say,
"Good Morning."
And I just smile.
I like how you admit it makes you happy when I kiss you on the cheek.
I like that fact, that, upon you telling me that, I reached for your face to kiss you on the cheek, to feel your smile draw across it as my lips pulled away.
I like that I wasn't afraid to do it.
I like the fact you're sappy.
Yeah, I really do.
And... I like how surprised you and I are, that I don't scoff at every moment of intimacy, that I would have shied away from before.
Perhaps it's because you make me feel safe. Perhaps it's simply that I trust you.
Perhaps it's just because you're you, and... That's a pretty good reason.
I... Like the fact I write on obscure blogs about you, and... That... My notebook, and my blog, and my writings... You consume them.
Just that little bit.
It seems difficult to be inspired by other things.
You're just that little bit more inspiring.
And so, "You", that little word, litters most of what I write.
It litters... It litters creativity.
What I like most though?
The very most?
How I can sit here, legs crossed, catching my reflection in the window, music softly playing, hands pressed against the keyboard... and... I feel so whole.
Things may not be perfect, and my head may not be fine, But... I feel whole.
I feel strong, and good... and... Happy.
So very happy.
And I like very much, that you're to blame.
I blame you, and thank you, for being so very you.
And, I adore you for that.

38

Eyes wide shut.
Funny, isn't it?
Just how... heightened every aspect of your body is, once those lids have closed.
Once that glassy blue stare is hidden beneath long lashes and heavy breaths, how the hairs upon your neck rise, how your skin has that electric tinge to it.
How every touch sends wilder pulses through your skin, how every heartbeat thunders in your ears.
Funny, isn't it?
How your breath rises and falls, how... instantly and instinctively your eyes desire to shut, as skin meets skin.
Funny, isn't it?
The electricity, the heightened senses of closed eyes.
How music obtains even greater depth, heartbeats pound louder through quivering ears, and the smell of fresh grass, and the promise of summer, lingers upon your taste-buds.
Eyes wide shut.
Funny. Isn't it?
We shut our eyes, for only the greatest of things, to feel them all the more, and linger in their haunting presence.

37

Panic is the founding father of ill action.
Disdain; the leading growth of bitterness.
Fear; the crucible of lacking control; both mentally and physically.
Happiness; the sweet procrastinator.
Bliss; the home of silent content.
Hatred; the force of destructive passionate acion.
Detachment; the fatal passive end; rendering all passion, all hate, all desire, void.

Hatred is a thousand times better than a passive soul.
An impassionate soul, is not in fact existent, merely it's strength of desire waned.
An impassionate soul... A completely passive soul... To ALL things?
Dead.
Fear the passive soul, for fear will seem to be all you will have left, alongside your dull surrounding of ice and solitude.

We are humans.
We were born to feel.
We are humans; and soul is all we have.

36

Why do we shroud ourselves in anonymity?
Because we wish for no one in real life, to see the things we hide in the darkest corners of our minds.
The things we wish never to utter, however need so badly to drawl upon some hollow place.

This.

This little spec in an ocean of like minded anonymous raw individuals, alike every other, and personal to each.
This; is the ultimate safety, found in words written alone.

Hello there, stranger.
And welcome to my mind.
Utter my name, and it becomes barred from your eyes, never know my face, and my deepest thoughts are yours.

35

Thud. Thud. Thud.
As each day goes by, you've made my heart race just a beat quicker, and each time your skin touches mine, I swear it stops, for just one second.
You terrify me.
Fucking hell, I'm petrified of you, and yet, I continue to grow closer to you, my defenses for once obsolete and futile.
I am defenseless.
I am fucking defenseless.
And, the funny thing is; I know.
I know that this, this fragile imperfect vulnerability, this trust, this uncontrollable indecipherable magnetism, is just what I've been protecting myself from, all this time.
I know that.
I know I've succeeded in the past.
I've succeeded to such extents, that I've earned the title of "Emotionally Dead Inside," "The Ice Queen."
I can hear the words, I've heard the words:
"Her... Her? Ah. Yes. Her. One day, you'll meet a wall, a wall of which you'll never get past."
"...Never."
"Never ever."
And yet... you did it.
I know you have.
You got past that wall.
Fucking hell, By now you've broken through so many, I've come to a point in which I willingly give you the key, knowing I've surrendered.
Knowing I've surrendered to the magnetism, to the chemistry, to the pure indecipherable desire to just... be next to you.
To just... tell you things.
To just... be vulnerable with you.
And not only that, but that pure unadulterated bliss of knowing, that you do the same.
That you're terrified. That you freak out. That you, just like me, are battling with defenses.
I like knowing that.
And I like how we both just squeeze the others hand, that little bit more, when we know the other begins to grow scared.

You scare me. And I scare you. In fact, you and I?
We petrify each other, push each other to panic attacks, and crumbling defenses, shaking hands and underlying insecurities, and yet, in the end, it's each other we turn to, to dispel that fear.

For that... For that... I just.. Plain and simply... Submit.
I submit.
Terrify me. Petrify me.
I still submit.
Simply because you make me so very happy.

And you're very, very, wonderfully so, you.

34

Knowing what is going to be destroyed is a scary thing.

Moving forward in spite of it; That's even scarier.

33

I wonder what strangers think of at night.
I wonder whether they wonder what a stranger to them thinks of, as they write.

32

Where is the balance scales, for I can feel the measure, and yet lack in substantial concrete value.
I have one side, weighing down upon metal, raising it's counter part to the sky, but the other side?
The heavy other half?
It's poignancy is not evident yet.
It's presence is certainly known, it's ominous inevitability is certainly existent, however, as of yet, it itself is not existent.
And yet, again, where is the balance scales?
For while I know one value, the other I do not, and yet I'm sure, the poignancy of one far outweighs the other.
Perhaps because I know of it's measure, or perhaps I merely know of it's strength.
It's weight against a darker other half, I feel sure, Is worth the risk.

31

Ignorance is bliss.
Have truer words been spoke? I fear not.
That then begs the question; Why so do we seek out the answers to all, when our blissful ignorance is what broadens our dazed smiles, and alights colours a shade brighter?
Do we fear ignorance, for knowledge only of it's potential detriment, it's underlying threat; the harsh abrupt truth; lying in wait?
But is that to say, we should not relish in ignorance?
I may have believed so, once, but my lessons in life have brought me here.
To a place where ignorance is appreciated, rare, and gently guarded.
It is not wallowed in, nor is it eradicated.
It is appreciated for what it is' the bittersweet moments before inevitability strikes, and life intervenes.
It is to say... Appreciate knowledge, for it is your saviour in the dark.
Appreciate ignorance, for it is your moment in the light.
Appreciate those brief moments in which knowledge exists in stark white light; in a rather optimistic grounding, far removed from the pessimistic label applied to realism.
Appreciate those golden moments of clarity, and see them, as all things, for what they are;
A good truth, among few.
Ignorance is bliss; Indeed.
However, as is knowledge, if perceived correctly.
To find bliss; It is only a matter of knowing which mentality to choose, and when.
Knowledge and Ignorance; the bountiful foundations of unadulterated bliss.

30

I want to write to you.
Actually, I want to write a letter for you, that I will never send.
I want to... I want to say it out loud, what you've been brave enough to say.
I... You're so much braver than I am. Even though this scares you just as much as it does me.
You... Even though sometimes your hands shake, even though sometimes you go quiet, even though sometimes when were pulled close together, you whisper to me that you're scared, that you're fucking terrified... You still...
You're still brave enough to tell me how you feel.
You're still brave enough to reach for my hand, rather than me reaching for yours.
You're still brave enough, even though this scares you, to speak in the moments of silence I hide in.
I... I've lost all choice in this.
I can't push you away, I can't go cold, I can't detach.
You're in my life now. You're... You actually matter.
You mean something.
And that scares me.
You scare me sometimes... Fuck. You fucking terrify me sometimes.
You really, really fucking terrify me.
And only because you mean so much. Only because I know, I fucking know that we're gonna hurt each other one day, and right now, we've both lost the capability to prevent that.
We've both tried, and failed to detach.
And now we're here.
And I actually miss you.
Fucking hell, I miss you.
And... that's saying something, Because... me? I don't miss anyone.
I don't need anyone.
People matter but... I can be without them.
But, I miss you.
I find myself smiling at you when you talk, when you're arm reaches across my waist, when you say so brazenly;
"I was going to kiss her. Thanks for ruining the moment."
I find myself wondering where you are. I feel... happier when you're there.
And... I feel a little bit more unsteady when you're there, only because I actually give a damn that you're there.
I feel safe with you.
I feel... secure, and happy, and... you make me smile so fucking much.

You're my closest friend, and I trust you with everything.
Fuck... You're more than my closest friend, and I trust you enough to say that.
I trust you enough, to be so complete and utterly vulnerable with you.
I trust you enough to give you that power, to crush me.
I trust you, and adore you oh so much, for just how you, you are.
Thank you, for being so fucking terrifyingly you, and being the person that I could be so terrifyingly me with.
Thank you, for making me see the world I'd eradicated with all defenses, all promises, all vows of protection.
Thank you, for being so fucking terrifyingly wonderful.

29

I'm at a lost as to what to type. Not for lack of words, but for lack of beginnings.
So much to say, and not a sentence can come to mind to begin a tale.
Electricity.
Magnetism.
Chemistry.
The ultimate, uncontrollable, indecipherable force of which overpowers every shred of your skin.
Consumes every vein, alights every breath, quickens every pulse, burns every minuscule piece of your cold body, drawing your hands from fists, and reaching them for another's.
The raw, uncontrollable release of palm upon palm, breath upon breath, lips upon lips, as you find yourself surrendering to passion.
Surrendering to lust, vulnerability, and trust.
Surrendering to someone else, giving them the ability to crush you, with just one flinch.
With just one word unspoken, one word spoken too harshly, one glare too icy, one decision too raw.
Surrendering all that is vulnerable, all that is real of you, and to another.
Surrendering, just... surrendering to the magnetism that grows to control you.
Surrendering, simply... to someone else.
Choice is evaded.
In fact, there comes a point, in which there is no choice.
There comes a point, when you realize, cutting this person from your life has become an impossibility.
A greater hurt than to be vulnerable with them, and a difficulty not met before.
You try once.
You try again.
Your defenses fight against inevitability, and fail.
Eventually, you find yourself lying on your back, head raised to the ceiling, music pumping through your ears, as your eyes trace each and every single crack, each and every cemented piece upon your walls, and all you can think is how much this scares you, and how much of a choice you do not have.
All you have is this:
You've finally found someone, that is worth enough, that is worth so fucking much, that you are helpless to push them away.
You've finally found someone worth trusting, someone worth the inevitability of pain, someone worth being vulnerable to.
You've finally met your bittersweet downfall.

28

Woven. The intricacies of relationships, the complexities of lies, defenses, insecurities, and the raw vulnerable revealing of self.
Woven; My current, beautifully complex, beautifully woven; life.

27

However.
The word of which begins, or ends all.
“I love you, however…”
“This can’t happen…. However…”
The word that switches everything, and squeezes your ribs for just one second, as you wait in agonizing anticipation for the closing statement.
For the words you wish to hear to, or wish you’d never even have thought.
The words that, for just one second, one tiny moment, change everything.

26

Sitting in the sun, with music pumping so sweetly into your ears, you fail to hear the creak of the rocking chair, as it balances under your sleeping weight.
The wind gently caresses your neck, intertwining it's force within your hair, pulling it softly across your cheeks.
Your legs slowly pull up, as you tilt your head back, pressing it against the wooden backed chair.
You lift your head to the sky, face the sun, and simply smile.
Everything is gonna be OK.

25

I like seeing that some individual from Canada keeps going back over a blog post, and another from America seems to check on the same story, each day.
I like seeing that some stranger from Singapore has inadvertently clicked a link.
I like seeing that 20% are Google chrome users, and another 70%; Mozilla Firefox.
I like seeing that blue strike running upwards, just ahead of the creation date.
I like the fact four Americans will have read post 12, and another three have read 07.
I like to think, rather than that, that one person just keeps going back to the same story.
I like the fact a stranger loves my music, and decides to subscribe to me for it.
I like the fact strangers have liked it on Facebook, and I can never find out their names.
I like the phrase "Perfect." when left on it's own.
When it's meant.
When no smiley faces adorn it, and it stands alone.
I like the poignance of some words.
I like how, even though they are abused, even though they are overused, their meaning can be found once again, with just the  right string of words.
I like how a stranger doesn't lie.
How they don't need to waste time, pretending they like your work.
How they'll tell you if they do, and they won't if they don't.
I like the way strangers eyes are so magnetic, so indecipherable.
I like the way they have no demands, no expectations, no constricting opinions, and care so little.
I like that.
I like how you do not rely on strangers, and they in turn do not rely on you.
There is that trust. That rust not to trust each other.
I like that, it's certainty and it's solidity.
I like how a stranger doesn't know how you laugh when you're lying, how your hands fumble, how your words fall when you grow introverted.
I like how a stranger has nothing but to take you, for all that you are, rather than expect more, rather than place you in that hideous place of pedestal and grandeur.
I like how the stranger desires nothing from you of mind, only of body.
I like how they lean forward when you tell them you've loved this band forever.
I like their reaction when they realize you're not as dull as they're expectations had prepared them for.
I like the strangers that maintain that mystery, and yet intrigue with each select word they utter.
I like how a stranger will momentarily cease to conceal their identiy.
How their smile will falter as you smile in return, and tell them that movie you adore, that song you grew up to, that night you'll never forget.
I like how they stop looking at you like they had, in that second of understanding, and see a person behind the facade of mysterious stranger.
I like how their face changes, and soon you begin to speak to a human, rather than an idea.
I like how the mystery still enstilled within them, and in you, perfects the line of opinions.
How the intrigue of this person merges with the removal of their defense, and for a brief moment; you have met the most exciting person on earth.
The fact that you do not in fact know them, is the preservation of their perfection.
They could be anything now. Anyone.
Maybe they have other movies in common too?
Maybe they love that song aswell?
Maybe they think similarly?
Maybe, just maybe, this is the perfect stranger, who will grow to be the perfect person you were fortunate enough to meet.
I love how this is never true.
I like how you'll catch them sneering at a passer by, flinching for something you said, grinding their teeth in an anxious manner of distress, confessing an all too raw truth, breaking the lines of the perfect stranger with one hand gesture too close, one smile too sly, one word too cold.
I like how this happens, each time.
I like how the perfect strangers exist, but the perfect people do not.
I like the imperfect people.
No. I love the imperfect people.
I love the fact they become part of life, rather than immaculately constructed opinion of a strangers first words.

I like the strangers that never spoke, most of all.
The ones that you crossed paths with once, and remembered because of a muddy shoe, a bright bag, a nondescript tattoo.
I like them most because they seem the most human, and the most painless.
They are the ones of which you complete and utterly can let "be."
These are the people you will never know, and who will never know you.
These are the perfect strangers.
The ones who could haunt you, with just one lingering glance.

24

I hate the sound of church bells in the dark.
When you can hear nothing else, not even the beat of rain against rooftops, nor the footsteps of a stranger.
Just silence, interrupted by the ominous call of metal on metal, as it echoes through dark streets, and forgotten doorways.

23

Maybe music does more than alter or instigate a mood.
Maybe it convinces you more than that.
Maybe music convinces you; This is who you are.
Maybe music is wrong.

22

http://8tracks.com/vanessawur/screw-california
Writing to music.
It's almost as if each note, each chord pulls at your finger tips, and induces greater language than you thought you had possessed.
Simply put: The voices of others, the raw emotion of music, and the vulnerability of self expression...
It only inspires more.

21

Whole.
To feel whole, is it not the greatest desire?
To feel the security, the safety, so often found in another’s arms, a favourite song, a warm coffee cup.Or the sense of whole, found in freedom.

I used to own a golden cage, that could fit within my palm.
It hung from a golden chain, and swung from my ceiling; the moon's light lining it's rounded form.
I used to lie in bed, and watch it swing back and forth; a little blue bird trapped inside, rocking gently on it's perch.
I adored it.
I would lie awake, my hands wrapped in white sheets, my neck wrapped in curls of hair, my legs curved up against my body, and I would just watch, as light seeped through it's cracks, and lined the blue birds back.
One day, I took the cage from my ceiling, and placed it in my pocket.
As I walked, my fingers fumbled against the metal each time they grazed my leg, each time the cage shook, and the bird hit metal bars.
The cages form started to grow warped, as the metal ridges began to bend, and I watched the bird become encased.
No longer able to swing back and forth upon it's perch, but now frozen in place, the bird's beak pressed up against it's trap, until, as the cage twisted and pulled; it finally snapped apart, setting the blue bird free.
It's home was now torn, it's protector, and savior now parted, as it swung, back and forth upon it's golden perch.It's head facing the sun, it's wings enclosed by no thing, restricted by no bar, held in by no cage.

And so now the golden cage hangs from my ceiling, it's doors parted, as sunlight encases a free blue bird's form.

20

Facebook; a word synonymous with the young technological socially advancing generation of this 21^st Century, 500 million users, and all the time expanding, this site has become more than a social networking ground.
Facebook, it seems is no longer an escape from the stresses of reality, but has in fact become the reality for millions of teens worldwide.
The infusion of cyber space and reality has long been discussed, and as this technological era continues to grow, we are beginning to see the effects of this dangerous merging.
No longer is the internet merely an accessory to life, but in cases such as Facebook, it influences and has the potential to shape social life.
It is whether this growing social control of this site is beneficial or detrimental to this generation that must be called into question.
While potentially controlling, and socially influential, Facebook is not without its positives.
It connects people of whom would not otherwise pursue friendships, connecting family members abroad, such as in the case of myself and my sister, communicating to each other on the other side of the world, all from the comfort of home.
However, the overall social control, rather than alleviation of this site, generates a tool of which has more control of its user, than the user has of it.
The loss of privacy, the overwhelming addictive nature and the social pressures and requirements of Facebook lead to a raw personal message board, publically accessible to all, and permanently existent on the internet.
To be honest or even vindictive behind the shield of a screen is far easier than to speak in face, and in such terms of social liberation, younger more inexperienced users become manipulated.
On Facebook, one secret, if inadvertently posted by a friend, remarked on by a user, can instantly become the property and knowledge of every Facebook friend, within seconds.
It is this rapid distribution of personal data, the addictive and easily vindictive nature of the site, and the permanent existence and lack of control within the site’s settings and history that bring a simple networking site into unsteady ground.
The moment in which the escape from reality becomes reality itself, is the moment in which these sites go from fantastic, to futile.