Composed by daylight, falling apart by night.

On Approaches.

I need a new approach.

Used to pour my soul out, then I stopped, neither work.

On Whatever.

I came home from an amazing day.

It's 2 AM.

My mom's being pissy and cussing in the other room, but whatever.

I see my photo album on the computer desk, and remember the stolen pictures I've hid inside of them. Someone, please, tell me why we have pictures of dead fetuses? My mother was pregnant with two twin boys before I was born. Their umbilical cord broke, and the suffocated in the womb. They were still born, meaning my mom birthed them but they were already dead. They had a funeral for them. I have three pictures. Two are of the twins, and they're incredibly morbid. The fetuses are small, shriveled, black (due to lack of oxygen I assume), and almost unhuman looking. The third picture is of my mom, dad, and sisters in front of a tiny coffin in a cemetary. Why do we have these? It's so terribly morbid. When I look at them, my stomach sours. I can't help but wonder if my mom's hobbies had something to do with their deaths...

I don't know why I'm writing about this; I guess it's just on my mind. It's not something I bring up often. I don't understand why I stole the pictures, I don't understand why the pictures were taken in the first place. But when I look at them, I'm completely absorbed, and completely disgusted. When I think about my past, and my family's past, I feel completely disgusted. I keep using the same words over and over, but I don't know. I'm not really in a great state of mind right now.

Meanwhile, my mom just got up and puked. She's been sick. I hope she's okay. I guess. It's weird, and it doesn't make sense, but I'm just annoyed with her. I only hope she's okay because I don't want to have to deal with her. Seeing her bent over in pain just makes me feel like she's pathetic. Why am I so heartless?

Well, I don't think it's anything serious. And if there is something wrong with her, well, I'm sure there's a reason she could have helped that got her sick. But still, I'm heartless. I feel terrible.

But at the same time I just don't give a fuck. I can't. I'm so past the point of caring about her. I know she can't help throwing up right now but I'm annoyed with her for doing so. I am probably not a good person.

I just can't even bring myself to care. Why? Should I care? I don't know.

On Storm Observations.

When a storm arrives, especially at night, the first thing I feel is fear.

How bad will this get? Will the house be okay? What if there's a tornado, or a flood, and I'm asleep? I can't sleep now. What if something bad happens? What if my mom doesn't wake up?

This fear may be rooted in the fact that I used to watch The Wizard of Oz on repeat when I was a child. But I think the main reason I feel fear is because I don't KNOW what's going to happen next. The weather is out of my control, for one. And I've never been in a tornado or anything too drastic like that, so I don't know what will happen, how I'll react, or if life will ever go on.

It seems like the thunder is there to laugh at me, bursting when I'm the most insecure. The lightning flashing vividly only to show the outside in a different light, if you will. The rain and wind dancing together in a frenzied pattern that only adds to my anxiety. My heart pounds like the rain drops on the window panes.

Now, if I could just relax and... what's that saying? "Embrace Nature."
Forget about myself and my house and my possessions that I wish so badly to protect.

Well, one phrase comes to mind.
"A flower never grows if you hide it from the rain."

This is what I experience when I don't hide myself from the rain (hahahah I just called myself a flower!!!):

I feel small, and insignificant. As I should feel, because I am.
I feel like I'm at the mercy of nature. As I should feel, because I am.
I feel slightly amused... How we could spend our whole lives building our skyscrapers and monuments and little manmade things, when this storm could destroy it all in an instant. The things we value so much could be gone if nature had its way with them.

I almost wish that would happen.
Then I could "live deliberately, and front only the essential facts of life."

If all manmade things were wiped out, we would surely rush to build our "civilization" again, but I don't think I would want to. I would enjoy having nothing but the Earth to see and to love. The nature I experience in my home town is tamed, manufactured, and mass-produced. Just the way we like it. I suppose a storm is the only true, uninhibited form of nature I could truly experience here, and for that I am thankful. Even though it's possible to make artificial clouds (pollution and cloud seeding), but that's a different story.

A storm is my only chance to really see nature. There's nothing I or any other human can do to stop it. So I guess the fear comes from lack of control and security.

When the storm settles down it is peaceful, and I can relax. I like the gentle rain. It's like a reassuring voice that the weather will clear. Perhaps the chaos of the storm can be seen as a warning, or a wake up call. It's meant to make me feel afraid and anxious. But if I would realize that the things I really value cannot be washed away by rain, I would not feel afraid.


This is way too fucking long. :/

On Reality.

Okay, so I thought about all this last night and now I'm just trying to piece it all back together.

Everyone has a different reality.
There is no such thing as one reality; rather, there are tons of different realities.
How I am in my reality is different than how you percieve me in your reality.
So what's real?

Well, that's for each individual to choose for themselves, I'd say.

I see these realities as our electron clouds... We are the nuclei, our realities are the electron clouds. Our bonds? Yes, those are in the form of art and communication- Literature, Fine Art, Language, Sound, Movies... so on and so forth. They are how we try to share our realities with one another. Of course, it's really impossible to truly share them. Even if you are in the same room as someone, witnessing the same things, you see them from different angles and have different thoughts running through your head that influence the situation. Ya know?

And as for everyone having different realities...
Things exist in my reality that may not exist in other people's based upon subjectivity.
Isn't that weird?
How, for example, Henry David Thoreau has been ingrained in my thinking process...
But to some people he doesn't even exist?

I find that to be fascinating, and diverse, and while I cannot experience everyone else's realities, I sure love to try to make those bonds (covalent, ionic, whatever you like), and try to get glimpses of the perspectives of others.

Another thing, along the tangent of existence and non-existence based on subjectivity...
It's impossible to imagine new objects. While you can create cartoons or drawings or even fictional characters, these are simply mixtures of all the things you've seen before. So our imagination is used for mix-and-matching things we've already seen, or creating scenarios of events. We cannot, however, imagine the unimaginable. I thought about this A LOT last night, and it kind of makes sense to me. But if anyone has any exceptions I'd like to know (I just haven't imagined any exceptions yet...).

I suppose everyone realizes this, and it's kind of common sense. I just find it fun to contemplate, even if it was at 2:30 AM last night.

Simplifying is a matter of making things go away. To do so you must understand them, which often involves complexity at first.

Junior Year Satire.

“It’s 7:15, I really think you should wake up now… You’re going to be late…”
Yeah, Mom.
I roll over as she shuts my bedroom door again. I check my phone. There’s 20 new messages from twitter, none from real people. I snap it shut with a sigh, and sit up in bed. Dizziness rushes over me immediately. Meh, Wednesday morning.
After staring into space for a few minutes, I stumble into my sister’s old room that my mom sleeps in to grab some clothes. Any old clothes. While I’m doing this, my mother knocks on my bedroom door again and opens it. She’s calling my name confusedly as I walk into the bathroom behind her. In my mind, I can clearly see her jumping in shock as I shut the bathroom door.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re on the road, steadily approaching my doom, I mean high school. She never shuts up, my mom. I need a license.
She drops me off in the bus loop. I walk excitedly towards the doors of the school, optimistic and prepared to learn something new. However, this attitude swiftly changes as I enter the building and head towards my locker. Groups of thugs and sluts have been strategically placed in every direction, all ready to stare me down.
I mean, I don’t blame them.
I don’t completely understand their negative reactions. I suppose it could have something to do with my frizzy, frazzled hair or my frumpy, too-large yet size extra-small jeans. Or my wrinkly olive green t-shirt with the word ‘SIMPLIFY’ markered on it. Or the way I walk in a discursive path, taking my time to enjoy each step.
Yes, that’s me. My appearance only shows half of the nerd qualities I have to offer. And I think I like it that way. I treasure nerdiness. And because it is a treasure, than it must be searched for to be truly enjoyed, right? These thoughts carry me through the hallway, and they only remind me of a Math the Band song titled ‘Karl Marx the Spot.’ I chuckle aloud at the beauty of this pun, but my bubble is soon burst by the death glares of those strategically placed conformists.
Whatever, though. They may stare at me as I loaf on by, but they undoubtedly forget about me as soon as I’m out of sight. Soon enough, I’ve reached the safety zone of my locker, only to find my best friend kneeling down before (well, halfway inside, to be honest) her own locker, struggling to remove a book from it.
“Hey, Macy,” I greet her, entering my combination into my locker, which neighbors hers.
“Morning…” She grunts.
I put my lunch box on my top shelf, grab my English binder, shut my locker, lean against it, and slide down to the floor (except not all sexy-like how they teach you to do on America’s Next Top Model). By this time, Macy’s won the battle against her locker. With her book securely in her arms and her cheeks sufficiently flushed, she turns and sits against her locker, too. She sighs.
“Don’t breathe too deeply,” I caution her. “Floor dust.”
She nods, and sighs again.
The Spanish teacher whose classroom is next to our lockers walks hurriedly past and tells us to ‘look alive’ in a cheery voice, his everlasting grin dazzling on his young (‘joven’ en espanol) face, despite the fact that he’s 50. Oh, Colombians.
“To be awake is to be alive,” I mutter to Macy, yawning the whole time. She remains silent, undaunted by my Thoreau quoting. For this, I am grateful.
Five uneventful minutes of silent people watching pass before Macy and I decide to head our separate ways. She dawdles off towards Algebra, and I walk the opposite direction to A.P. English.
Then, Josh appears eagerly at my side. He waves at me, a look of desperation in his eyes. I wave back, and sigh. If only I could tell him that It’s Okay, He’s Not Alone, and that The Mass Of Men Lead Lives of Quiet Desperation. But… I try to limit the Thoreau… This school isn’t exactly tolerant of my dear Henry. He’s got his ear buds in, tucked behind his utterly indescribable hair that creates its own wind. But the ear buds are merely a façade; he is not discouraged from talking.
“So, did you start your essay yet?” he asks.
“Nah,” I reply, fully aware that he’s not interested in my response, but rather, he just wants to talk about his own paper.
“Me either, really.” He says arrogantly. “But I found some sources. I think I’m also going to use Dante’s Inferno in my intro…”
At this point, I’ve stopped listening. But I continue to nod my head to humor him. Unfortunately, he’s also got English first hour… So he strolls into the classroom right behind me like a dog. I feel myself feeling slowly more embarrassed with each step, knowing that my teacher can see me talking (er, listening) to him in broad daylight.
Fortunately, this classroom contains an odd, but charming, assortment of desks and couches. Unfortunately, Josh’s couch is in close proximity to mine. Close enough for him to continue his babbling as I sink down next to my peer Rita.
“Oh, Rita!” I exclaim in disdain.
“Is he being a glibquack?!” She whispers loudly to me, glaring at Josh. I nod in a defeated manner. Josh, who just now realized I wasn’t listening anymore, stares at me with contempt. Desperate contempt. He sits on his couch silently, fuming with anger, and attempting to look sophisticated, or something. I’m never really sure what he’s going for, but it always ends up looking pathetic. I grin at his present lack of vocalization.
“I don’t even WANT to do this essay,” Rita moans. “Mr. G is just going to find some way to fail me!” Well, she’s got a point. He tends to grade her essays much harsher than everyone else’s. Maybe if I lent her a Thoreau-related t-shirt, he might warm up to her…
Really though, I don’t blame Mr. G. He probably just hate’s Rita’s defeatist attitude. “He’s probably just jealous of your ‘tude.” I tell her.
She laughs. “I have a ‘tude? What the heck, J. Ray?! You never told me this!”
“An awesome ‘tude,” I lie.
She giggles and tucks her knees up on the couch. I ignore the disturbed feeling I get when I see her legs, wondering why she wears couch when it seems like she hasn’t shaved her legs for weeks.
“So, I was texting Josh last night,” she says indulgently, lathering her boyfriend’s name with deep emotion that is meant to impress me greatly. Josh looks in our direction, ready to deny any such textual relationship with Rita. “Not you!” She groans. “My boyfriend Josh.” He rolls his eyes.
She tells me all about her unimportant conversation with boyfriend-Josh, and I don’t realize that I’m not paying attention until she’s halfway through a story involving cowboy hats or something. It turns out, something else has caught my eye. And that something goes by the name of Carter Benson….
He slumps into a desk behind Josh’s couch. His dazzling blonde hair and radiant eyes shine through his tired appearance, which seems to be more awakened by his neon green shirt. He sighs, and slides a folder out of his massive back-pack.
“J. Ray?” Rita asks, sounding slightly disheartened.
“What? Oh…” I say, snapping out of my… whatever that was.
“Yeah, well…” Rita continues. I try to listen this time, I really do, but she’s too far into the story for me to catch on anymore.
Luckily, Mr. G’s words are much more captivating, even with a Wednesday morning stupor lurking in the room (like that damn elephant). I listen, somewhat half-heartedly, to his lecture on Invisible Man that he undoubtedly stole from Spark Notes. How’s that for plagiarism?
“So,” he begins, touching the tips of his fingers together in what he believes is a profound fashion. “The narrator says he’s not going to run anymore. What does this mean?”
Silence.
“His feet are tired!” I shout excitedly.
He laughs, because I’m fucking hilarious, but I can also see disappointment in his eyes. He wants us to be serious and apply ourselves, but in all seriousness, it’s mid-May and we’re all sick of school. I glance towards the windows in the back of the room. There’s a clear blue sky outside, but my view is obstructed by Sheldon. His eyes are closed and his head is resting against a framed poster that contains MacBeth in its entirety on it. He calls this Learning Through Osmosis.
Mr. G, bless his soul, continues class in the same desperate attempt to get through to us. A few kids offer up answers and grin smugly afterwards as if they know everything. But my poor teacher remains unsatisfied, and there’s nothing anyone can, or wants, to do about it. In a perfect world, we would all be bald tycoons like him. For an instant, I too share his wish that the class could be a bit more educated and passionate, and that he might receive the respect he deserves. While I find him to be a complete oddball, I must admit I’ve never learned more from life under the guidance of another teacher.
But, it’s mid-May and I’m through being sentimental.
Mr. G drinks his coffee silently as we exit the room at the end of class. Now I head to Pre-Calculus, watching Carter in front of me as I go.

On Going to Hell and Back.

Lots and lots to worry about;
"The Future Freaks Me Out" you could say.

Tonight, my uncle got a DUI.
Not his first. Probably not his last.
My Aunt (his sister; he lives with her because he can't get his shit together)
Is too drunk to drive to the police station to bail him out;
And she hates talking to police because..... She's got something to hide too.
So she got my mom to do all the phone calls.

But guess what?! The bail is $1,490.
Nobody has that much money.
Not even my grandparents, at least not on hand.
Ridiculous.

I know I'm being indulgent with the details but... Why not practice my story telling skills in the process? Try to make the best of a bad situation?

Well anyway. What does this have to do with me? Nothing; and I won't let it have anything to do with me. I'm disgusted. This is my family. BUT GUESS WHAT?! This does have something to do with me. Now my whole family is going to be in debt. Ya see, my uncle finally got a good job. And he's been paying my mom and me to watch his three kids (Oh YEAH, did I mention, he has three kids?! All too young to take care of themselves; hence babysitting?!?!?!?!).

Well he's going to lose his job; he lost his van already. And he's going to be dirt poor the rest of his life. So there goes any extra money we might have got around here.

Money. I hate it.
I hate asking for money.
I have been wanting new shoes for about 4 months, but haven't had the guts to ask for them. The only thing I've bought is tests....... and lots of meals at restaurants because I don't like eating at my house because I Don't Like My House.

But why am I afraid to ask for money?
I mean better that it's spent on me and not drugs right?
But what if the money's all gone soon?
What if she has to choose between drugs and my things?

........What if she chooses drugs?
The reaction I've gotten from people when talking about this is that she's fucking stupid.
Well yeah.
But.


What am I supposed to do then?
I can't get a job. I have a full schedule once school starts. I'll crack.
But I might just have to try anyway.

It seems kind of like the whole world is against me.
All the odds are against me.
How am I supposed to pursue my dreams when I have such big dreams, but even bigger baggage that's not even my fault?

I don't know...... But I'm going to anyway.
I will not let anything stop me.
Money is not something to get worried about; I will be fine.
There are people who love me in this world (believe it or not), including myself.

My sister told me it's only me that I have, but this isn't true.
However, I'm going to act like it is just to show the whole world,
And mostly to show myself,
that I can.
I can do anything.
I don't know how I'll manage that yet,
But it will all work out.

I'm pissed off at my family. Extremely.
But what's the anger going to do? nothing.
All I can do at this point is be better than them for myself.

Nothing is impossible except impossibility.

I refuse to live on Earth, but rather WITH Earth. How much easier life would be if we worked with nature instead of against it.

On What I feel like.

I feel like being artsy, wordy, and creative.
I feel like making others hang on my every word.
I feel like doing something that nobody else can achieve.

But feeling like it isn't doing it.
I feel like writing an epic poem.
Or just a poem.
But what to write?

Sometimes my brain just lets me pile words together and it's not half bad.
This, however, is not one of those times.

It's hot and stuffy in here.
I'm sweaty and lethargic.
So what am I going to do?

Nothing good.
Waste of my last high school summer.