listening to: The Smashing Pumpkins - Drown

Everyone always complains that I write too cryptic, that it makes it hard to understand what I'm talking about, and I've let it affect the way that I post on my journal. First of all, these things are meant to be an outlet for the mind. So, I'm doing that in the way that I do it. If you don't get what I mean, then oh well, huh? It is a free country and this is about the most direct I will ever be on here.

It doesn't matter, near or far, its like you're never here at all.

Yesterday, to much surprise, I recieved a reply from an email I sent out to someone and am discombobulated from it. I haven't replied and I wonder if a reply is even expected. Why the hell did I even send it in the first place? Things are being unearthed from long ago and I'll be damned if I have a place to put it. So, I don't know what to do. I don't want to hear the new news, I can't stand not hearing it. I'm all confused and I wish I never would have written that message in the first place.

Another thing: The order which everything fell into in the beginning of the summer is gone. Its like total anarchy and its sending me into a violent spin. If only the old photos I find scattered around my room will give me some sense of relief, but no, no relief to be had.

"That's the trouble with you Americans, you're always looking for pain."

On another note, I'm getting calls at work from people looking to fill the newly opened receptionist position. i guess that's my job their looking for since I'm moving on to nurse's aide. For the beginning half of the summer, the monotonous desk job which I took place in was fine, especially since I had a class at the college that required me to do homework (because I wouldn't do any work in class). But now, since that class is over (which I happily recieved a B in), the monotonous job has become nothing but monotonous and I play solitare to keep me awake. My fastest game was three minutes, twenty-nine seconds and I can't remember my score.

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He took the bottle down from the top shelf and sat down in his favorite chair and looked at it. The curves, the cold feel; he opened it and sniffed the contents. Strong. It does the trick though. And with that he took a big gulp and felt the sting in his throat, the burn in his chest, and his eyes water. Soon to be forgotten will everything be. Hey, good job Yoda. And up went the music and up went the apathy to the phone which kept on ringing. It doesn't matter as long as you keep telling yourself that over and over again, even though it does matter and you'll never get over it. Never will you get over it. He sat with his head back and staring at the window. The blinds were closed, but it didn't matter, he knew exactly what was out there. He knew what it would look like. The weather's clear and everything will be green. The fences are brown and the trees are tall. He shrugged and drank more cognac. Thoughts began to flood his head. Old memories of special people, whom he was walked all over and let go. Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Where are you now? What are you thinking? Do you ever think of me? I'm sorry, I'm sorry. He dug around his desk and found a crumpled piece of paper. An old letter stained with spilled beer and half torn and a big piece of it was missing. The sentences were all broken fragments of words once said by someone... But who? And as he read the words he could her the voice of the author. The voice rang clearly in his head and he drank some more cognac. Then the face appeared through the letters and the warmth from her arms wrapped around him swirled him around in his chair. Another drink, another toast to the times when I was alive. He put it in his desk drawer, to keep forever and ever and never let go. Never. He got up and felt tipsy from the cognac and layed down on the floor, staring at the ceiling fan that spun around and around, clockwise. Clockwise in never-ending circles. Spin, spin, spin you fool! The music needs to be louder. I can't hear with all the commotion. What commotion? Nobody is home and the only sound is the music. Ahh, but there's more isn't there? You can still hear her scream, can't you? Yeah you can. You can still hear her scream and you will never forget her and she will haunt you for the rest of your life and what can you do about it? Miss her. Miss her and wish you could just see her again. My, my, my, oh my. What has become of us? What have we done?

And it was all over. He laid there on the floor and closed his eyes, getting drunk off of his thoughts, off of her, off of her eyes, and he slept.

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