a blog.

over the years, i've kept many diaries-its fun to find one and add a new entry to the previous random compilation of feelings and thoughts.  is a blog the same thing?  a place to add random thought splurts that we don't have time to share with others or the conversation to lead it there?  At least a diary or journal or whatever is something private-something to keep to ourselves-but a blog opens up this sense of comfort in sharing information with other people.  why is it that blogs are so appealing?  I can't see or feel your reaction to what i'm saying-does that help me say something controversial?  blogs have popped up with topics of depth to the boring day-to-day processes of life.  there's event things like twitter where you literally say everything that is going on-why would people want to read that?  why are you reading this anyway?  is it because you want to know my thoughts?  why not just ask me?  but apparently I feel the need to share with you without talking.  The internet has opened up ways of keeping in touch without knowing anyone-like being friends with someone on facebook that you've met once-shortly-if that.  Yet somehow there is this connection from seeing their photos and you feel you know them.  well...we don't.  We don't know people anymore as long as the main source of communication is through things like this without direct contact.  Somehow this typing rant of thoughts is entertaining and good for both you and me-so i guess its worth it.  if only i could see your reactions...

Blue

Song lyrics from a bit ago that never got a song and the "you"s refer to different people as the song progresses:

Everyday going through the paces

of the ending endless life I'm not living.

The day is hazy full of ambiguity

never answering my questions

nor giving what I need.

and then i walk outside

and its bright blue

and I walk over to you

and see my world is true

and there's something that's worth doing

in this time that we have left

the blue day comes.

well i see the world around me

carrying on through the glass

and i'm stuck in the world of flat colors

full of people looking for depth

and they can never find it in the beige of the ceiling

and then i walk outside

and its bright blue

and i walk over to you

and see my world is true

and there's something that's worth doing

in this time that we have left

the blue day comes.

They search for darkness

and dawn their fake black

that has no more inspiration

than the pit of nothingness inside.

Then there are those who search for happy

and come back with the matte blue:

with nothing more than the reflection

of the color they are looking for.

and i walk outside

and its bright blue

and i walk over to you

and see my world is true

and there's something that's worth doing

in this time that we have left

the blue day comes.

For hours staring at the sky

watching patterns pass me by

the colors fade from dusk to night

and I dream you're holding me tight

loving the wondrous depth of the world

surrounding me, surrounding us

and then its back to gray.

The Weekend

I wrote this poem a while ago but oh well:

Weekend parties,

time with friends,

school-free,

or so I've heard.

Time Passes,

words dropped

upon the keyboard,

sitting, staring, all alone

except for the constant thought of the

Weekend.

Rest from life,

no rest at all,

need to do,

to do no thing,

that's all i've heard

and think about

The week ends.

To Talk?

Last night my mom got mad at me.

Now this may seem like a silly statement because teenagers are supposed to have arguments with their parents and whatnot and this is just another moment of teen angst that I am blowing out of proportion.  However my mom and I have a good relationship and although I may get annoyed with her a lot, most of the time its just insubstantial garbage.  Nevertheless last night she was so annoyed that she came to my friends house and took me home right then.  The reason for her anger: that I hadn't told her that I had a slight change in plans, that I hadn't told her exactly what was going on in my life.

Of course I tried to talk in the car but that went nowhere fast-she said we would talk about it in the morning and I spent the night feeling guilty for something I didn't feel I should feel guilty about!  Now don't worry this story has a point.  When we talked in the morning, the anger quickly left and we both left understanding the others point of view.  There was no major punishment and everything was fine.

So why is there all this fear surrounding "talks"?  We talk all the time, but the moment someone puts a name to it, it becomes something scary.  So why call anything a "talk"?  because we want to say something important?  because we need build-up to whatever we're going to say?  and what if its just that we want to talk, does that need to be alarming?

There are so many little things that we choose not to tell each other and all the little lies eventually will trip us up.  Maybe the things we keep from each other keep us from being the way we want to be.  So when its time to "talk" we become afraid of what might slip out or what might become apparent.  So would the truth set us free?  Would you be willing to tell the truth to me?  especially if unsure I would to you?