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She will be mine one day. Her eyes will look up at me and encompass all I have to offer. They will capture me like I capture her. I will be their prisoner. As they glow I will glow. No night, no moon, no star can outshine. When I close my eyes I think only of hers, and her smile perks up like her eyes do. They are not light, yet I see them in the dark. I imagine them as green or blue, yet I know them to be brown. I see them brighter for what they do to me. They see into my soul I feel like. Into my heart. Yet I know they cannot see past my skin. She cannot see past my skin. That´s why she will never know my heart or soul. But they know her. I feel her when I close my eyes. I see her eyes again. I feel my breath. It is not short or long, just stronger. It´s filling. As if I could live off of it. Live off of her. I hope this is love, I would not know. It feels good to breathe now. I like the way she makes me feel. Whether or not I ever have her does not matter. What she does to me is greater than what she could ever do for me. I will not call this love. If I do I´m afraid I will never love again.

Mediocrity

Mine. She the moon illuminating my path. I walk nowhere and everywhere. Like a bad writer would, except my words have purpose. Not purpose as in there is something I need to say. Greater than that. Purpose in themselves. They will do and say much more than their words ever could. Not as if by chance, but by will. The moon will be mine. I want the goal and the path. But all paths end at the goal, or a goal. I will wait for greatness, I prefer it. I prefer to suffer in the lack of mediocrity for greatness. It is mediocrity that keeps me from mediocrity. I must first be great to have greatness. As I stumble along the path I will find much greatness. I will mark these spots and return to claim them. I don´t care what my words mean, only what they do...to me...for me...by me. Along the way words stumble too. Their ideas killed by their mediocrity. I must escape medioctity´s blunder. Face the facts and the details. Why is there a world beyond this notebook? That path I cannot see yet I follow it. Makes no sense, but sense has no place here. I will worry less about such things, if that is possible. The moon is blue or white. And it illuminates my page so my words can illuminate it back. But they are not my words anymore. Now they are the moon´s. Now they are the world´s.

Enough

Not true, that´s the fact. Not a lie. No more lies. Lies hold me back, yet they push me forward. They give me the impression that I can make up for the life I have not lived. I know I will not change on the inside until I change on the outside. Yet I am not sure I can ever be happy with myself. For moments I can, at certain actions. But ultimately I am not satisfied. Maybe God chose to make me that way. Maybe I was meant to be sacrificed for some greater good. Everywhere I live is temporary because I cannot stop moving. I get comfortable too easy because I see the obstacles which lie before me. I do not really possess the initiative to confront them all at once. I try to break them apart but some cannot be broken. Some obstacles must be faced all at once. Yet I feel like I make such obstacles bigger than they truly are. I empower them...This self indulgent drivel is beginning to annoy me. I am simply regurgitating the same crap over and over again. Let me write about something else now, something greater than me and my crappy self issues.

I am beginning to see a world through hate. I don´t know why. Contempt seems to be added to my list of filters. I find myself paranoid, if even for a second, about things which I truly know cannot be. Yet I claim to love the world, I occasionally even act on such claims. It´s as if I am trying to look good for karma so that she does something for me later on. Yet I am a good person, I feel it so I must be. But the world´s hidden rules have gotten the best of me. It´s almost like I feel that I am stuck in some second tier trying to prove that I belong in the first. But even in the first tier I would not be happy. I would want to take over it as well. I live as if I´ve been promised something grand and am waiting for it to be delivered. In the meantime I live this temporary life. But I don´t truly live it. I feel like I can´t. I will close my eyes and imagine this better place. I´ll try to determine if even there I would be happy.

My Love Is Like Me

My lips have never touched the lips of another. My love has truly never been expressed. One day I will awake to find my love has died without taking one breath. This breathless love has been waiting for one as big. For I love bigger than any other. My love is larger than myself or my heart. My love calls on powers which are not mine. My love is not boundless, for it is feeble. Despite its magnitude it is still light on its feet. My love is like me, in more ways than one. My love wants to be loved by that which cannot love it. It wants the impossible to prove wrong some untold story. One day when I´m loved back by someone who sees me. Past my mask and my filters, past my lies and my illusions. That day when someone discovers me and loves it. That will be the day that my love will be a tree. It will be green and new as if it had never been before. Yet it will know well the eternity it has been. It will, however, finally be immobile, and rest directly on the one that discovered it. It will be happy, all else will not matter. For now its self is loved. For now it is finally at peace. And all the pieces it´s left behind, all the darts that have failed to hit. None will matter because none were real. Since none were really thrown by me.

A Myth Can Never Be

The dance floor let´s me be. That´s a fact. It´s not imagery, or embelishment, or even a metaphor. It´s the truth. Anywhere else I am trapped. Either by myself or by others. Trapped by my shyness, by my doubt, by the fear of what others think of me. For a second, right now, I thought maybe it was the alcohol not the dance. But then I remembered that even the alcohol doesn´t help me break free anywhere else. It must be the dance, the moment, the music. The rules are different in the dance floor. Appearences are not as much of a factor on the dance floor. Is it because I can move, because I am fun. Girls like dancing with me, girls like being with me. I make them laugh. They think I´m real, I think. Yet girls don´t think about me, they don´t dream of me. They don´t write my name in their notebooks. To them I am almost asexual. I am a being they like to be around but can´t fathom the though of me as a man, their man. The tragic irony of this myth I have created for myself is that myths are not mortal. Only mortals hold the right to be with mortals. Myths have to rely on treachery. But a loveless act of love is as good as null. Maybe it is love that inspires me. In the end I am loved. I feel it, I love back. It is hard to help but love me. Am I the reincarnation of some tragic being, set to live another´s faith? I am loved by all yet by none. My tears would cry but wouldn´t know to who. There is none I can call and be myself to, maybe not even me. I feel myself not being good enough although all else points to yes.

First Exist part 2

Knowlwdge is not what will empower me to act. I need bravery, guts, cojones, truth. Most of the life I have lived is nothing but a lie. I must free myself from this reality that has never been. Then I can be free to be myself, the real me. The problem is that I am not happy with myself. I therefore am not happy with a girl that likes me. That´s why I always want what I can´t have. And that´s why when I have something I can no longer want it. I am an illusionist. I pretend to be someone that doesn´t exist. I have replaced myself with this me that has never taken a breath. I have become this person, or at least pretended to. So I cannot be real, I do not really exist. I sought out to find the world and ended up finding myself. Not without me or within me, but parallel to me. I must either stop fronting and truly learn to be myself, or I need to truly become the person I imagine to be. The latter, although harder, is the easy way out. But I feel that I´m not strong enough to search through my bullshit and find me.

I must either find myself or become the self I pretend to be.

First Exist part 1

I saw places I never imagined and went to places my imagination had already taken me. Now I lie in the ashes of the passage that once was and awate the next part of my journey. I look back at many missed opportunities and many things I should have done. Yet I can´t help but realize that I learned more than I could ever have anywhere else. I did somethings, many things, that I would have gone lifetimes without doing. And I planted many seeds that will grow strong one day, I hope. Yet I lie somewhat dissapointed at opportunities missed. It´s as if I have chosen to never mature. God keeps throwing goldmines in my path, and I keep dodging them as if I am waiting for a grand life that might never come. I should learn to live my life the way I have mastered acting like I do. If I was half the man I imagine, I would be happy without a doubt. I keep waiting for perfection even though it´s imperfection I desire. As I wait for one day I miss out on a million. Now that I think about it the trade isn´t worth it. I should live my life the way life is intended to be lived. In the now. Of course I´ve always known this, and I always will.