The first time your calloused palm made it’s way to my neck I was petrified.  The first time your cigarette coercively pushed against my thighs I was relieved.  I quickly grew accustomed and knew what to fear and what to covet.  For the majority of the time I’d rather have your cigarette scorching my clean skin than your grip bound across my throat.  They represented the choice between mortal and lifeless placed at my hands and feet.  No one should have to convince themselves one monstrous act is better than another, that one will lead to vitality and another to apathy.   

You remind me of my morning coffee. I know if I try to drink too fast I’ll just end up getting burned but no matter how many times it happens I can’t stop myself.  I know coffee is sweeter the more sugar you add to it which is why I know to be nice to you…most of the time. Coffee is strong but it has its off days too, when something just isn’t right.  Over time people get sick of the same coffee day after day which is why I know you might get sick of me too.  But in the back of my mind I know that you’re like my morning coffee and no matter how hard I try, I can’t get enough of you either.

I’ve spent so much time trying to become exactly what you aren’t.  I’ve spent so much time trying to fight the feeling of “insignificant”.  

In trying to avoid being like you I became similar.  While my grip isn’t on someone’s neck; it’s on their mind.  It’s the words I say and the way I twist them to make it seem as if they’re the slightest bit significant in my life.  

Although not always present at times I’ve always had underlying feelings of guilt, resentment, and sadness.  It is so extremely hard for me to feel things for someone else and no matter how hard I try to force it, it rarely happens.  I have no high but I have many lows; if I feel anything at all.

While physically I am not abusive and I am nothing like you; I am just as terrible mentally.  It’s poisonous and repulsive, and I disgust myself most of the time.  

I’ve wasted so much time trying to be “ideal”.

This feeling is not love, it isn’t passion. Is not wild, isn’t desire. Is not hopeful.

This feeling is of closeness-, is of comfort, is safe and is of fondness. 

This is moving.

This is friendship.

This is not fleeting, 

                              tiresome.

But is of humor, and of

                                     happiness

and of patience -.

This is priceless. This is us.

I’m still constantly searching for a plan.

-Who I want to be and become

-What is love? I think I’m pretty close.

-Keep good friends close

-Learning, still, from mistakes and past experiences

-Teach others (especially Gianna) to love her life and take care of herself.

-DON’T settle or put up with other people’s crap

I am nervous,

I want constant happiness (possible?)

I am proud of myself.

I need to spend more time with my family, friends too,

I’m really in love with Doug, sometimes it makes me nervous.

I want these feelings to last.

I want to fast forward, sometimes I’d kill to stop time…and save moments.

One of the best parts about writing is the face that it is a part of you-you own it. Writing, to me, is similar and comparable to photography. Clearly a photograph is more or less stable and unchanging-we are all presented with the same image. The interesting part is what we do with that image-or rather-what it does for us. I like to write about feelings and moments because they are sometimes so profound-yet so hard to hold onto. They can be life-changing, even, and still fleeting. I’d like for my writing to be able, somehow, to retain the spurts of good (and bad), the beautiful and outrageous, the meaningful and trivial moments of my life as they have been experienced and interpreted…by me.