don't read

in a state of flux, i find myself, as i do more often than not, not having any idea what i should be doing.

when it comes to the more simple things, those things that tend not to matter in the long run, things like getting a job and doing work for class, i know exactly what i can and should do. i need to get a job. there is no question. and similarly, i need to do work for my classes. there is no grey area...these issues are blatantly black and white.

still, while the things that aren't clear aren't necessarily more important (although they seem to be), they always seem to be more urgent, perhaps because there is some element of variability, some chance that what i do may affect the outcome, whether slightly or tremendously.

which brings us, finally, to the situation. and, more importantly, to the person it's all about, at the moment, anyway. she is beautiful, smart, and funny, in her own dry way. i enjoy spending time with her and talking to her. i feel like i understand her, somewhat, and she has probably figured me out. but i don't know what she wants. i have no idea, from one moment to the next, whether she wants me in her presence or not. it's not her fault. it's my own insecurity that plays at my perception this way. but it still bothers me that i never have a hold on what i should be doing. and i suppose that's the way it usually is. but something about her makes me feel like it's do or die, now or never. like if i slip, she'll be gone forever.

she doesn't want anything serious. and neither do i. but i have this problem, see? i find girls who i want to fuck all the time. i find girls who i can speak to intelligently less so. but a girl who i find extremely attractive and intelligent? it shouldn't be as rare as it is...but it hasn't happened many times in my life.

"fuck. what's that?"

"that's the pain of you shooting yourself in the foot."

the situation: an update

i sit here, in this computer lab in brighton, a small but bustling city on the south coast of england, surrounded by people i don't know. on the one hand, this realization is definitely frightening. so many experiences i cannot relate to, so many judgments to be made upon the way i look, the way i speak, the way i think from so many foreign vantage points. but at the same time, while the fear is sometimes paralysing, the excitement is palpable. so many oppurtunities to explore the vast humanity that embraces the globe, so as not to float off into space. so many clubs, so many classes, so many ears to hear me and minds to know me and hearts to conquer. it's a strange and exhilarating predicament. and i've just begun to accept it's magnitude. and i realize that it's okay to be scared, it's only natural to be anxious about this brave new world...which is actually the old world, but i digress.

i sit here, reloading my bank account statement, awaiting money from home. a poor student, on exchange in Europe. i don't have minutes on my phone but i can assure you, i am getting drunk tonight.

it's a grimy and hazy idealism. and i can't help but feeling like i'm on the edge of something epic. like i'm either going fall into oblivion or rise into the heights of existence. more than likely, though, i'm just going to have a really amazing year.

chloe & malcolm: a short story in progress

I. Malcolm and the Crying Incident

All that Malcolm had left to do was mail the damn thing. Hours of work, painstakingly crafting this, his altogether worthless show of affection: now what remained was the only part that mattered. Chloe slept in Boston...he knew that much. And here, in dank and gloomy London, the sun rising lazily over this damp February morning, Malcolm could think of nothing but her countenance; her visage overpowered his synapses and the terrible fury of her beauty ruthlessly expelled any hint of fatigue in him, eliminating any chance of rest despite classes resuming in a few hours.

As he carefully put his tongue to the envelope, sealed it, and peeled the postage stamp from its packaging, Malcolm felt a rare sensation on his face: a tear made its way from his eye to his cheek and slowly dropped onto the envelope, threatening to smear the return address. Strangely enough, it was only after the tear's descent that Malcolm realized what had provoked it. He had never been more sure of any fact in his life than the one that he suddenly became aware of now: his Venus, his Mona Lisa, his Heloise was most certainly not dreaming of Malcolm. As another tear escaped his clenched eye, he wondered whether she had ever dreamed about him or if he had led himself to foolishly believe his fantasies.

He looked down wearily at the postage stamp on the envelope, which was addressed in sloppy penmanship and blotched ink. It just so happened that FDR was Malcolm's second favorite president. Through another tear, Malcolm smiled weakly. He wondered, as he looked out the window, whether it would be sunny when he awoke in a few hours; the fifteen minute bike ride through the busy city was not the most enjoyable on slick pavement. Chuckling, he kissed the envelope softly and walked to his bed, shaking his head the whole time. He had no idea what to do.

II. Chloe and the Dream

As Chloe's eyes fluttered open reluctantly, she heard the usually pleasant chirping of birds outside her window. This time, however, the birds served as an unwelcome wake-up call on a morning she wished to sleep through. She was not particularly warm nor was she cold, yet a sleek film of sweat covered her smooth skin. As she touched her own arm, she remembered what she had seen in the middle of her sleep last night.

Dreams, to most, were merely indecipherable psychobabble, strings of images that illustrated deeper concerns in the most primitive of symbolisms. To Chloe, dreams were tools that contained advice on life from the subconscious. Her dream last night could not have been clearer. Chloe had sat on the quadrangle of Boston College staring into a pair of dark eyes; the face and body of the eyes' bearer were too blurry to make out. For reasons unknown to the real Chloe, her dream self had proceeded to look away from the piercing pair of eyes and walk in the opposite direction. As she did, the clear and beautiful summer day around her transformed into a rainy and windy night. She looked back and saw a withered figure, whose eyes had become dark and grey; this time Malcolm's features were clearly apparent. As she coldly walked away, she felt Malcolm fall to his knees just as she awoke.

Chloe felt troubled by the dream but dared not call Malcolm. They hadn't spoken since they met in Boston over the winter holiday and, besides, Malcolm had never understood her fascination with dreams. Still as she stumbled, hung over and confused, to her closet and began to undress, she had a throbbing feeling in her heart that her dream had not been far off the mark. She had no idea what to do.

To be continued...

the situation

i'm in a daze,
with all things simultaneously happening,
and not,
and, as my chest exhales its harsh condition,
we both know it's up to me,
no more.

the ball in her court,
her proverbial time is anything but up;
it pains me so sweetly to know,
that i, the weak romantic,
would wait for ages,
or at least until the age was up,
and i, with renewed vigor,
sought a new home for my needy lips.

the wall of flesh and bone stands upright,
blocking the way which,
in all natural beauty,
our hands would clasp and fuse,
into a glorious pile of flesh,
a holy collection of bones,
an infinite matrix of perfectly matching atoms.

as i sit here,
desperate for her warm gaze and her fleeting touch,
instead i settle for cold words on pages,
written about people who have,
for all intents and purposes,
figured out the complex network,
of loves and lusts and loves,
or, at the very least, have shut their urges,
down,

down, we descend,
will she follow me into this?
because, despite the face of stone,
i am nothing but straw, aflame,
held fast by water-weary clay,
a David of sorts, a Thinker,
a monument to humanity,
but most of all, to its flaws.

she don't think straight,
he can't see straight,
i don't think he...
i don't think i...
can do it on my own.

on my female fixation

it's one thing to like women and to be attracted to them. but i remain absolutely clueless as to why i need certain women to be in love with me. romantic prospects are lost and gained every day; why does my world collapse when i find that one of them isn't going to work? it might be an unhealthy state of mind in which the girl who catches my eye is automatically the solution to my problems. i think most of it stems from inexperience. since i've never really had one of THOSE girls that i pine for love me back, i don't realize, subconsciously, that they're love won't solve everything. i can't get past the primal problem of sex as an escape and realize that i have plenty of growing to do as a person.

first step: recognizing the problem. check.
second step: fixing it. in progress.

on girl number two

the girl shakes violently on the floor. not in convulsions, but in glorious contortions of pulsating rhythm. she rules over the dance floor just as she unknowingly reigns over my heart. i wish i knew what sweet nothings to enunciate in her tender ears in order to make her mine completely. as it is, i share her, unwillingly, with them and their ravenous eyes, them with their jester tongues, loaded with quips and laughter and totally devoid of the devotion that holds my longing eyes and waiting tongue in check. goddess, i am your devoted follower. when will you give me the exquisite release i long for?

on time

what is time? who created the second? why do we measure how emotionally mature we are by the amount of times the chunk of rock we live on has circled a ball of fire?