"...and what her mind melts."

woke up at a party.
friend walks in the room and goes "shit someone wrote a novel"
he's holding a pile of post it notes.
here's what was written that night. in the raw. unedited. bear with the spelling.
i bet you feel special:

So she sat in the kitchen, Drinking black coffee, unsatisfied with the high. Caffine could stimulate her text, but not her libido. She was brilliant when she was drunk. Mindless in her reverse. Numb with diaologue. No one cares when your drunk. It's assumed your thoughts are manicured. Blanched with liquor - that ignites inhibition, honesty, and jealousy. So she relies on her pen to relieve herself in the midst of angst. Coffee and cigarettes a companion before the caloused hand of sober personel. People can only give you so much of what you already have. Problems you already had and have no time for. It's not nice to unsurface that old black and white childrens novel. You have wisdom thats too arrogent to enlighten and friends to stubborn to accept the voice of reason. Reasonably speaking - reason depends on the person. Coffee and cigarettes. Two of the greatest kicks you will ever be introduced to. You can feel sex in your thighs, man you can feel cigarettes in your calves. What 3:52 in the morning. Fuck steve. I'm smoking in the house. Everyone's asleep and she's drinking coffee and having the best damn cigarette she's ever had. Jessies neck is out, chen's being a friend, Liza ad Dodson are fucking and she's content. Lonliness is as asset. It teaches you to be realistic with yourself. Forces you to embrace shit and your own bullshit. Bordum can lead to great things for an artist. Take me. Had friends who worshipped the bible and played truth or dare at birthday parties. Now she's fucking every week, addicted to caffine, and drinks brandy to relieve emotional instability.
But thats the cost of beauty.
Fuck.
Dropped the cigarette in the noodles. What the fuck. Can't even flick a fucking ash and its in the noodle sauce. Fuck it it taste fine.
The sound of hot ash hitting a wet surface.
Ace.
5:59
4:00
Perfect.
Even. Even numbers fuck me up. What wants to be even. Being fair is bullshit. Why not fondle rucass. Being even has never taught anyone anything. The joy of winning, the mediocrity of falling just short. Never created war, never introduced democracy, or flaws in communism. Games, gambling, drinking, anorexia, divorce. Being even is the end all be all of history.
Being even to others will never introduce humour. We all fight to be more interesting that others, to impress. If we're all even then we're stationary. Everyone might as well be friends. Again, bullshit.
Smoke in the eye.
Balls.
Blinking it out. Gone. Thank Christ.
Stabs the cig in a wet plate.
Hisses.
Cat ticks behind her against the tiles.
And she wishes she had someone to come out and watch her. Someone who cared about her. Who understood and got her art. dillusional art. Who she could play demure to but really by super fucking flattered they showed up and started a conversation dispite sleep sickness at 4:07AM. She wishes that person was reckless and impulsive. A night and morning person. Had a taste for everything. Respected their parents but found away around guidelines.
And she's at a loss.
She doesn't wish she was prettier, she just wishes she had less pimples. She doesn't wish she was skinnier, she just wishes she had a better metabolism. She just wishes, fuck, a guy or girl could read her mind and share her electricity for life. Pessimism is old and 90s and Nirvana. She just wants to live the best life she can and won't let a bad moment or money or disbelief inhibit her from running as fast as she can. High. Down a street. Covered with trees. Alone. Dodging. Hitting branches. Getting scarred. Acknowledging the blood. Making her self better. Learning. Moving on. Craddling every moment as a chance experience. Pure oxygen.
No. No one will ever understand that.
Ever.
It's too real.
And we're 17 and we live in disney. And we're trying to find ourselves and we live in a fog of opportunity and personalities and no one knows what belongs to whom. But She does.
She's found hers. And she's lonely. Because the ones she loves will only find it in another few years. And she'll have to live alone that much longer. Perhaps a change of scene will spark a new title of bodies. Who may know her, and what her mind melts. But who knows.
No one knows how to chase what they love.
She will chase it until she is blue in the face. Until she is crucified.
Know what you love, love what you do and do it for the rest of your life. That's real. That's adolesence. Not trying to escape your house and find yourself. You've already found yourself, the next step is embracing it.

-**********
4:19
Dec/2009

take away for today:
www.brettisagirl.com
awesome artist. my favourite is togetherness. i bought a few prints for my friends this xmas.

Be Afraid

I have a close friend. Who has healed more wounds for me than she will ever know. And has exposed me to myself, without fear. But sometimes I am afraid for her. She follows a wave which has an luxuriously peaceful high and then a tragic low. In her deepest hollows I suppose there isn't much to say. I would like to hear and sort out her matters for her, but I am not her mother, and I am not her conscience. To be at conflict with ones own psyche is a confrontation that must be met. Without exterior characters trying to build ones own character. One can only find peace when they are able to find realism in their own issues and second guess their own opinions. When you create a smarter, more intelligent self beyond bones and skin and blood.
I love her. I don't think I've ever loved anyone else more than her. She is striking and captivating and inspiring and truly unscathed by culture. She patriotic of her own domain. She is lost in an era years beyond the one she was born in. One with class and dignity and chivalry and experiment. She is a never ending cycle of occasion, with a persona that never settles in one suit for too long. She is challenging and mocking and curious. She is morning noon and night and the time in between does not exist because she doesn't have the time for it. She breaths sweet simple one line melodies. Absolutely the most impossibly lost person I've ever met. But in that lack of, she is perfect. To her I say, if you're cutting with a knife the gentlest gesture you can give beaten by the bat end. Whether you return the strike with a counter blow means a few fist full of apprehentions hugging your curves. Both ends have bitter endings, both ends are open ended. Will he decide to cut you or force you. Every white limbo has a corner, but the colour spills often just a few paces from where you began to feel watched. Running makes you more obvious and walking is an easier target. So is standing. So you're fucked. The best thing to do now is not exists, but unfortunately you are made of matter, and until you blow space between your atoms you'll continue to feel. Fear is the most unacknowledged emotion. Not that we ignore it, we are aware of it, but we can't just hate it. Because we hate too much of what's necessity already.
Fear will help you. Let it build a scent. Let something hunt you. Listen to its hunger. Listen to it's thoughtlessness. Find it before it comes out.
Be afraid.

Take away for today: http://www.myspace.com/wheatiemattiasich

Listen to Sugarcane.