#Second draft

Time is unconvincing. It doesn't convince me it's real. Time is the blood of life as space is its bones. All mean nothing to me. All don't convince me they're real.

 

 

---

 

It's been weeks since I opened the drapes.  I just stare at them, hopelessly, endlessly. I’m so tired, so bone-achingly tired. The drapes are heavy eyelids that sink heavily into their sockets.  I can feel the eye underneath the lid moving, searching with quench and hunger. I don’t know what it’s searching for. I don’t know what it wants.

 

 

When I was small, my grandpa read me the story of Alice in Wonderland. He was so animated, my grandpa, so alive and real. He told me excitingly about Alice's adventures, about her falling into a rabbit hole and finding a whole new world that she, bravely enough, seeks to discover. Adventures are always easy as a child, so open and wonderful, he used to say. My grandpa read of Alice’s journey through madness his eyes would twinkle as if he himself was seeing this new world.

 

 

I can't look outside my window. I can't look across the other building and see everything that I wish I could be; everything I lost and everything that was meant to be happen. I can't look across the window because I can't fathom understanding why I can't be her.

 

 

Who is she, anyway?

 

 

The apartment was dark a few days ago. Empty. It looked almost haunted to an imaginative mind but to me it was just a dirty empty room. Until it wasn't.

 

 

Until I started unpacking and moved in.

 

 

I was smiling, so enchanted with happiness and joy and I've never seen myself so excited. I unpacked and I unraveled all these boxes and the apartment brightened, content to be polished and loved.  Every day, I'd watch myself across the building, unpacking more and more, and every day I'd see a new person come and visit. I'd see men and women and children and families. One day, though, I saw a man sneaking behind me; I saw him surprising me. I dropped this vase I was holding, this vase I got from one of my birthdays, and I squealed as I was startled. When I noticed who he was, the flabbergasted look on my face disappeared and I jumped with glee as I hugged this strange man. I looked at this man. I didn’t know him myself, but she did. I could see on his face every bit of memory she had with him. I could see why she wanted him, why she lusted for him, why she was angry and sad and happy at him and I could feel why I loved him.

 

 

Every day, I'd watch myself through this window. I'd watch myself read, and pet this cat, and eventually I watched as the man I loved moved in with me. I watched as we stayed young and in love. I watched as we decided to have children and I watched as we painted the new nursing room.

 

We never aged.

 

 

I didn't open my drapes for a while.

 

 

Weeks past as I continued my life. I drank coffee, I worked. I'd come home and stare at those drapes.One evening, I couldn't stop myself and opened them again.

 

 

There was nothing.

 

 

There was a bulb light and the shadows of cobwebs and dirt lingering and the wallpapers scratched and gone yellow with age.

 

 

I closed the drapes.

 

 

Months passed, and I never opened those drapes again. I came home only when I had to, and avoided it as much as possible. I didn't wonder about how there was suddenly a lightbulb or why the apartment was vacant. I didn't wonder at all.

 

 

When I did wonder, though, I wondered if maybe I saw my future. I wonder if maybe I saw a parallel universe which I happened to glimpse on a happy coincidence. I wondered if I was insane.

 

 

One night, I opened those drapes, and I saw my own eyes.  I saw myself smile and wave, and I thought, I'm wearing my favorite white sweater; it's made out of soft wool and I love the way it falls gently on my shoulder and the way it covers most of hands like a pair of gloves.  I watched myself wave and I watched as I turned around to pick up a knife. I watched as the man I loved went through the front door, I watched as I smiled and kissed him and I watched as his eyeballs fell from his head. I watched myself carve my own name on his forehead and I watched as I emptied his skin; his blood flowing like fine wine, his organs spilled from his body in waves. My white sweater was red. That would be difficult to get off, I thought. Or I thought. I blinked at her, I blinked and blinked and hoped to heaven that I was dreaming. Except I watched as my fingers closed around the eyeballs of the man I loved, and I looked as I brought those eyes to the window and as I smiled at myself. His eyeballs were actually quite light in my hand, and I brought them towards the window so I can see. His eyes were blue, angel blue. I grinned.

 

 

It never ended;never stopped. I would stare each day as I became her, as I moved in, happy and young, as I fell in love, as I had my children, as I killed him and showed his eyeballs to myself.

 

This is hell, I thought. This is hell.

Time to Move In

Time is unconvincing. It doesn't convince me it's real and and it doesn't convince me that it has to occur. Time is the blood of life as space is it's bones. All mean nothing to me. All don't convince me they're real.

---
It's been weeks since I opened the drapes. It's been weeks since that feeling of nausiea left me. It's like that exciting feeling before a roller coaster ride except without the thrill of an actual ride. It leaves me empty and afraid.

The drapes are like shadows of tears accross my window. They protect me, but they leave a trace of what they're covering. 

When I was small, my grandpa read me Alice in Wonderland. He told me excitingly about Alice's adventures, about her falling into a rabbit whole and finding a whole new world that she, bravely enough, seeks to discover. Adventures are always easy as a child, so open and wonderful and everything a child wants because it's everything that a child goes through.

I can't look outside my window. I can't look accross the other building and see everything that I wish I could be; everything I lost and everything that was meant to be happen. I can't look across the window because I can't fathom understanding why I can't be her.

Who is she, anyway?

The apartment was dark a few days ago. Empty. It looked almost haunted to an imaginative mind but to me it was just a dirty empty room - until it wasn't.

Until I started unpacking and moved in.

I was smiling, so enchanted with happiness and joy and I've never seen myself so excited. I unpacked and I unreveled all these boxes and the apartment gained new found brightness as if it was reflecting my emotions, a kaleidoscope of all parts of my soul. Everyday, I'd watch myself accross the building, unpacking more and more, and every day I'd see a new person come. I'd see a men and women and children and families. One day, though, I saw a man sneeking behind me and surprising me. I dropped this vase I was holding, this vase I got from one of my birthdays, and I squealed in surprised and jumped with glee as I hugged this strange man. I looked at this man and I could see on his face every bit of memory I had with him. I could see why I wanted him, why I lusted for him, why I was angry and sad and happy at him and I could feel why I loved him.

Everyday, I'd watch myself through this window. I'd watch myself read, and pet this cat, and eventually I watched as the man I loved moved in with me. I watched as we stayed young and in love. I watched as we decided to have children and I watched as we painted the new nursing room.
We never aged.

I didn't open my drapes for a while.

Weeks past as I continued my life. I drank coffee, I worked. I'd come home and stare at those drapes.
One evening, I couldn't stop myself and opened them again.

There was nothing.

There was a bulb lights and the shadows of cowebs and dirt lingering and the wallpapers scractched and gone yellow with age.

I closed the drapes.

Months passed, and I never opened those drapes again. I came home only when I had to, and avoided it as much as possible. I didn't wonder about how there was suddenly a lightbulb or why the apartment was vacant. I didn't wonder at all.

When I did wonder, though, I wondered if maybe I saw my future. I wonder if maybe I saw a parallel universe which I happend to glimpse on a happy coincidence. I wondered if I was insane.

One night, I opened those drapes, and I saw my own eyes.  I saw myself smile and wave, and I thought, I'm wearing my favorite white sweater; it's made out of soft wool and I love the way it falls gently on my shoulder and the way it covers most of hands like a pair of gloves.  I watched myself wave and I watched as I turned around to pick up a knife. I watched as the man I loved went through the front door, I watched as I smiled and kissed him and I watched as his eyeballs fell from his head. I watched myself carve my own name on his forehead and I watched as I emptied his skin; his blood flowing like fine wine. His organs spilled from his body in waves. My white sweater was red. That would be difficult to get off, I thought. Or I thought. I blinked at her, I blinked and blinked and hoped to heaven that I was dreaming. Except I watched as my fingers closed around the eyeballs of the man I loved, and I looked as I brought those eyes to the window and as I smiled at myself. His eyeballs were actually quite light in my hand, and I brought them towards the window so I can see. His eyes were blue, angel blue. I grinned.

It never ended;never stopped. I would stare each day as I became her, as I moved in, happy and young, as I fell in love, as I had my children, as I killed him and showed his eyeballs to myself.
This is hell, I thought. This is hell.

Lipstick is beautiful. It covers your lips like a new layer of cells; you’re different, you’re a whole new person. Lipstick is power. It’s a shade of seduction, a pronounciation of nature and an enhencement of beauty. It looks especially stunning on dead bodies. Then again, everything does.
Red lipstick looks the best.
Oh, she knows red is such a cliche; passion, blood. All the nonsense killers concern themselves with. It does not concern her. Blood disgusts her. Passion does not have a color. Red is elegance; it’s a finesse, an eternal classic. Black and white are far too simple, too plain to express art.
That’s why chess always bored her.
All the boardgame reduced to two colors, to position, to hierachy and need. She loved burning chess games, just to see the flaming red of fire consume it. To see it all end. Endings are beyond our control, a universal rule that is our destiny. Endings are erotic. She loved endings; endings were hers. She loved having one beautiful entity of her own to control.

Why bad movies are like good chocolate on a diet

Out there there are legendary actors that travel across several genres, actors that experiment with different style, pushing the physical limit, trying out the spectrum and variety of the acting world, actors such as Robin Williams and Robert Deniro, who always give a performance. The movie may be crap, and while no one may be rushing to remember Willams muesum movie fiasco with good ol’ Ben, he remains a respectable actor. Between the rainbow of success, there is always one fading colour that manages to exist. Henceforth, the success of Adam Sandler.
Yes, I root for all my jewish folks but Sandler is a dry toast that I could never eat. At some point you wonder if a guy like Sandler made it, is it possible that perhaps I can achieve anything myself? I can become successful, I can lose weight, I can one day be fucked by that hot guy from supernatural (you can guess which one.) The point being, Sandler is the black sheep that people love to see. He is the very living representation of every bad movie out there. So how does a guy as vaguely talented as my dog is when he runs away in fear from a spinning dradle make it into hollywood? The same way a bad movie does; through the back door of the unmentioned needs people have.
Businesses provide us with what we think we need. *Cough* Bullshit. Businesses use that as a coverup excuse; we all know we are more often then not being sold crap we do not need but perhaps may secretly want (like that Twilight vibrator that lights up in the dark. Every woman’s dirty pleasure, right?). Movies are the same. Yeah, we usually want see a movie with coherent plot and decent acting, but not always. Truth is life is spend in doubt, in mood swings as terrible as Joan Rivers face job, and there is always a need to feel better.
Bad movies generate shitload of money. Hello, you think Eddie Murphy willingly did Norbit? What sane person would? Bad movies generate the big S of dollars and the reason is split into two: One, we love making fun of shit thats so bad that James Francos hosting in the Oscars looks good. Prime example: Kardashian success. this amazes me because I see honest to Joel Mchale’s abs intelligent people, like people who do stuff that matters like science and computers and whatnot, who spend a whole day just watching crap television.
This leads me to point two, which is we like making fun of crappy shit movies and tv because its an escape from life and its an escape that makes us feel good about ourselves. Its the Houdini theory; an escapist fantasy land. Imagination is what saves us from insanity, but so is crappy movies and tv. It is an outlet that lets us judge as freely as we want because when you are watching a two hour movie about a woman with a fucking shopping addiction, you judge the hell out of that. Honestly, I am surprised by now that there isnt psychological prove that bad movies are the best of therapy. Although we probably wont get that since that might hurt the pockets of a few shrinks.
So really, when you feel like the world cannot suck anymore then it already does, take your pick of a bad movie. Its so ridiculous you will feel better; because watching Lindsay Lohan talking to a car is twice as bad when you realize the amount of drugs she took. Thus, bad movies are the new cheap therapy that makes life more rational and a bit of a brighter place because you can only feel better after you know that you are not getting paid to act in a smurf movie

A Point of No Return

I am angry. I am sad. I am emotionless. I am empty.
I don't know where i'm heading but I guess the point is to find out.

My life, really

There is a moment where your alone, where its quiet, when you take a step away
from life and look at it; you look at the moment that changed its course, the moment
you knew you found  something or someone special, the moments you were the happiest
and the saddest. I've lived in romania and I have studied in ibsb for 10 years, and I can say that
this place has been more then a school to me. It's been a place where I met the most amazing, inspiring people, where i've grown up and developed as a student, as a friend, and as a person.
I want to thank my friends, the ones in my past and the ones I have now, for being unique, caring people with an odd sense of a humour who embraced me and supported me  and for giving me the happiest of memories. I want to thank my teachers, for educating me and putting up with all those years of my continous chatter and for reaching out to me as supportive and wonderfulpeople. I want to thank my parents, who supported my education and believed in me and for loving me unconditionaly. Finally, I want to thank IBSB for being more then a school, for giving me a second home and  family.

Holy fuck time slow the fuck down

OK.ok.
Alright.
I'mma do this instead of studying.

I remember graduating from junior school to senior school. That seemed scary - but this is seriously twice as scary. It's scary because I've made a home here, in , I've met some amazing people throughout the years and I had some wonderful friends and had great teachers, and leaving all of this behind is hard. It' hard because leaving a home is hard. A home is where you learn and where you grow; a home is where you have your fondest memories and where you have those you care for.
And having a home means so much when you're first arrive to a foregin country. It gives you the sense of belonging and of comfort, and that's what Is has been for me. It's been a constant place in my life, it's been a place that's even better then a home because i
fuck i cant do this

Changes

the worlds my oyster.
id like to thank one friends thats alwyas been there and id like to slap myself for bottling shit inside like a goddamn camel. ill miss everything but im so ready and just sad but happy but waaaaah

if i die young
let my memories live
if i die young
i want to remember all those moments you were there
i wanna die remembering every memory i own
knowing every second i lived worth knowin for
if i die young
the pain will go away
my heart wil stay the same, loving and carin each person i know
its hard to believe but true hatred doesnt exist
my souls on fire and my llife doesnt exist it isnt real it isnt there
i hope i live to see another day
i thank each person even if they werent there for me
i thank them because they gave a part of themselves to me

Goes something like this

note to self: death by terrorist isnt so bad if terrorist sings.

goth girl: you have white girl problems.
white girl:like, what kind of problems would you have, freak?
goth girl: im running out of places to cut on my wrist, bitch.

other note to self: dinsouar sounds, porcupines fucking, and satan.

The feeling I have right now

Ive never had a dream. I have never longed for a sole purpose in life. Ive simply woken up and lived. Dreams define happiness, but not mine.
I always longed to be free.
freedom is interpertive, it isnt the clean cut dictionary definition. Its subjective. being free is to me the wings that spread and fly no matter what. there is nothing to stop those wings.
not a family, not responsibilities, friends, a life, nothing.
those wings fly high in the sky and see everything, they experience life differently. it isnt just about being adventrous, its about the feeling you gwt when you realise you are alive, youre living. wings represent that for me, the represent the feeling of being there, of existing, of there never being more then that one single moment. of the world bowing before you, of the sillyiness of daily lifes to dissapear in the clouds while you move without restriction.
guranteed, i dont know if i actually want to fly. im scared of heights, so being up there reallywouldny be that much of a pleasure.
when you do something you love, you wish it would never ends, even though it will. but the desperation of living the moment, of wanting to exist in your heart is when you realise you accomplished a small moment of life, which will somehow matter in the end.
it wont.
its not fair to sum up the value of something when in confrontation of death. obviously, everything seems to fade and pale in comparison. but this should be done. because in the end, do you want to die achieving something that you never really cared for?