I'm sorry. Really.
I'm not a rock star or a baseball player, I'm something of both;
I use a metronome to play guitar and I'm constantly looking for home.

It's the sensation you get

when you feel the ground fall away,
and you aren't falling.

Half the things I write here are not true.

But half are them are true. So it's more than anyone else usually gets close to in the span of a reading.

Weighted tongue.

It's been so long since I've stood in the sound of heavy rain, so please take me out to drive in one lane - alone.

And when I die, when I'm long gone will someone write letters to their loved ones about how they covered my song? And when I'm buried please bury me with the keys, since if I go to hell I'll be everywhere I used to be.

Tongue tied, I swore my breath died when I couldn't catch your attention, though I'm sure that was your nonchalant prevention. So I hope someone good will tell me I'm not good enough, it'll give me inspiration to live up to.

And the one thing I can't talk about are these blinding lights, I don't repeat what's already been said, so there's so much I choose to keep in my head. And I don't keep what's in my head.

I won't lie, but I feel my acquaintance keep using me for their own ends, and they're the only ones I can't depend on, for a solid conclusion to my elusive case.

Keep in mind if I'm being laid down on my death bed, keep my pillows under my propped head so I can die with so meager fleeting grace. And no one I knew or talked to will remember my face, so I will continue to talk about how I never believed in Jesus Christ.

If you're wondering what my final thoughts were, I'll be thinking about where my hands were some time long ago, and how, "When I wear this hat does if it'll make a difference where I am, I think not, it's always awkward from where I stand."

All I ever was was the lost neighborhood dog, becoming soaked and smelling like a too soon April fog. And notice this song isn't about fucking, I'm just leading you on.

So don't take offense when I compare you to everyone else, because I swear, when you talk you sound just like everybody else.

And the one thing I do not on purpose - is mumble, so when you can't heard my words, I'll breath in the lines and breath out one last verse.

Venting.

Second post of March. it's getting warm.

There are very few times I feel truly touched. And usually, it comes from an incredibly insignificant source or reason. Though I do tell my family I am grateful for the things I've done, and the same to my friends. And I mean it. But there have been times where I actually felt relief from depression for some reason, and those are the times I am more grateful and I can actually feel my heart thaw.

Once, I was lying on my friend's couch in the midst of a party going on outside. There were about forty people rampaging around having a good time, and I my attempts to socialize failed miserably. If I could be like Smith at any point in my life, that would be it. Unfortunately, I didn't know him then, so I couldn't appreciate the irony of living someone else's misery. I digress; as I laid on that couch, I felt more space between myself and the rest of the world than imaginable. Any hello or other greeting I could have managed failed to suffice, and would drop me into an abyss of awkwardness when the person I was talking to realized I'm not someone they talk to. And a cat chose to jump onto me. I don't get animals. But they like me. And they're more affectionate sometimes than most humans I've ever met. That cat was there for no other reason than it wanted to be near me, and it stayed there for three hours, to keep my company when the rest of the world wouldn't even care to try. And for that, I was thankful. I was happy.

I've spent so many nights staying up wondering if anyone was alive in the middle of the night. I live alone. I eat alone. I write alone. I do everything alone, and when I go out, I am still alone. I am alone when I talk to my friends, when I attend class, when I study with a classmate, and when I'm talking to the person working the cash register of the restaurant I'm eating at. I try to look them in the eyes, and they look everywhere else but mine. So many of the people I've met are afraid of actually connecting to someone. I've been told it's creepy to do more than glance at someone you like. I've been given weak handshakes, or varying "handshakes" that don't last for more that a second. People are uncomfortable to hug me for more than two seconds (if at all), and feel awkward if they don't pat me on the back. It's not manners. It's a fear of getting to know someone else. I don't know what it's like to really know someone else anymore. I've lost the ability to understand anyone. But maybe that's because as we get older, you don't want to be understood. And it really kills me. Because I don't really "get" anyone I know. Not even my best friend, my exes, my forgotten friends, my family, or myself.

I lie compulsively. Much less than I used to, but I still lie. And every time I true, it's believed so easily. But whenever I speak the truth, it's disregarded quickly. No-one seems to appreciate honesty. Am I really so untrustworthy? I can't remember the last time anyone fully confided in me more so than anyone else. I can't remember a time where I was the friend of someone, not a friend. I know those times existed, I can remember names and an occasional detail from a memory, but I can't remember the time it happened. Or maybe I'm just lying to myself.

I have dreams of making friends, falling in love, traveling, adventures both grounded and fantastical, I have dreams of me being someone else that seems more like myself.

It's upsetting.

Catharsis

Been a long time. Here's to March, and the oncoming spring.

So many people I know pretend they have standards. Some don't. I think I'm a mix of both. I don't really know what I want from someone else. Maybe because they don't meet my standards, so I expect nothing from them. It's a damn shame people can't settle for less, or they accept less without settling for it. I myself constantly commit the sin of taking what I can get. Be it love, life, truth, or goals. The only thing yet to fail me are my dreams. So while you're happy with what you have, I'll constantly be looking for a girl with sunflower colored hair and blue eyes with a face I used to know. Because that's my impossible standard.

I'm trying to get better at guitar and writing while I waste my life away in college. Because I feel like as long as I can salvage something from these years, I won't regret how I've spent my time a decade from now. Though for whatever reason, I still don't feel like picking up skills accomplish anything if you've got nothing to put them to.

I wonder if I can buy a drug that fuels motivation. If I could naturally produce ambition, I wouldn't be where I'm at. But if I don't accomplish anything without striving for it and actually feeling like I've done it because I tried and succeeded, my accomplishments become worthless. I know on my death bed I'll feel I've lived my life to the fullest, but right now I don't feel as if I'm living at all. I go back and forth between manic and depressive, and I try to get by without thinking of suicide. I don't intend to waste my life, but that's what I feel I'm doing.

I don't have much to write about, since even though I contain so many thoughts I'm fit to burst, they're all things I've said all my life. What I desire more than anything right now is a sense of closure to the depression era of my life, so I can start anew and be content. They say it's teen angst, but I feel as if this will carry on into my late twenties.

Let's go somewhere. I don't care who I go with, or where we're going, but I don't think I can stay here much longer and survive. I hate the cities, but maybe that's because I almost have no money. The only emotion that actively moves in my body now is wanderlust. If I don't get out, if I don't move, my sense of adventure will die as I attend these classes. I've got to find something worth living for. For a generation who spends so much time learning and on the move, we never really go far enough. Because if we did, we wouldn't have the time to complain about our lives. This town and this room are beginning to feel like a massive stagnant pool of water. I don't want to live my life here.

It's 2010 of March, I'm eighteen, and I already feel like I've entered my mid-life crisis.

Maybe that's a good thing.