Day and Night and that time in between

There are a lot of things I want to talk about right now but what I really want to discuss is how my house is not a home and how those plush red seats in the back of a timeless theater are.

I want to talk about how my As aren't really As and instead of As they're mistakes and goals and dreams that were considered more than twice before they were pulled into the ocean.

I want to talk about how one minute I'm a furnace that can't stop burning away memories and thoughts and people and how the next I'm ice cream that's been left out in the sun for an hour.

I want to talk about how I wish that my bed didn't belong to me because it doesn't house dreams, it nestles nightmares between the sheets.

About how I think I believe in a God and how I believe in right and wrong and how that's good enough for me.

About how I like hiding in long quiet hallways where I can disappear for a few hours without anyone realizing I'm gone so I can pretend that the only things that exist are my feelings and the English language.

I want to talk about how I'm someone I never wanted to be, yet everything I've ever dreamed of at the same time, in the same place.

I want to talk about that train ride that went on for eternity with the man who'd just left the army and the woman who was studying to become a renown professor and that old couple who got home from their vacation and just want to go back home to see their dogs again.

Maybe it's dumb that I want to live in the stars but from that far away, you can't hear the sound of breathing that's just too loud in your ears and those words that are spoken so often it's like they've been recorded on a tape player that someone just keeps rewinding.

I want to talk about how I'm tired and exhausted with the curveballs that life keeps tossing at me over and over and over, throwing harder each time I start getting the hang of it.

I'm tired of measuring my day in smiles and breaks in brick walls which keep getting softer.

I'm tired of being so cold all the time and feeling like icicles are forming underneath my skin.

I'm tired of living more for people than the words they have to say and the stories they have to tell.

I want to talk about how I'm tired of waking up every morning and breathing in education and life but not at the same time because they're not the same thing.

I want to talk about how I love things that are real.

How I love people that have been broken more than twice and still wake up and get out of bed and put on a smile and act like they haven't wanted to give into that empty feeling.

How I love the fact that the reason my brother cracked his head open was because he was throwing rocks at the sky and how he's doing all he can to live instead of die like I did.

I love how secrets taste on lips before they're told and I love looking out the window and pretending my life is a movie because it helps me believe that my life is something worth hearing about.

I want to talk about how I love when you spend enough time in a place that it starts to smell like memories and the future.

I love the idea that I could make you feel those butterflies that only exist when you care so much about something that you think about it more than you breathe and I love the idea that I could save you from the voices in your head and the shadows and the broken glass and the things that tell you what you're made of even though they're lying and I love the idea I could save your life.

I love it when writers sew themselves into their words and tie up their packages with so much more than a combination of twenty four letters.

I love the feeling I get in my chest before I cry because sometimes my chest feels empty and it's a nice reminder that there's something still alive and beating inside.

I want to talk about how I'm always afraid and how one of the things I'm scared of most is turning into myself.

I'm scared of harsh tones and disappointment and verbal abuse because I get enough of that from the face in the mirror and hearing it from people only makes the world that much darker.

I'm afraid of outer space because it makes me feel so insignificant and I feel small enough already. I'm afraid that all of the big things and all of the space in the universe will make my happiness so small that it doesn't exist and the things I want temporary.

I want to talk about how I'm afraid of hushed voices in red rooms and that organ that I used to know so well but now it's something that I'm not sure if I trust anymore.

I want to talk about the fact that I hate that my voice doesn't sound good when I sing but I'm too lazy to continuously work on making it better.

I hate the fact that my mouth can't say the right words to describe the first snow at he beginning of winter or the way that a sunset wakes up a piece of my soul in a way that nothing else ever has.

I hate that it's the things that I want the most that I'm afraid of because I'm scared that they won't be enough and I hate that

I hate that I suck at taking photos and videoing things because I believe that they're one of the best ways to express yourself and to show pure beauty but I also hate that I'm too lazy and restless and unfocused to work on that either.

I hate that this post feels repetitive and it's probably not in a good way but I'm hoping it's a special kind of beautiful because it's the kind of honest that I've been trying to be all of my life.

But most of all, I think that I hate that I can't be allowed to live and feel free for more than a few hours because everyone is so busy trying to contain me that I can't just be.


So maybe this post is long and laced with the smell of coffee and fresh ink.
Maybe those butterfingers that I ate while writing this are starting to wear off and my stomach is starting to growl and maybe I'll fall asleep like I tend to do when I least expect it.
Maybe I do like the taste of air in my lungs when I break the rules or sneak out of my friend's house and nobody else knows.

Maybe this is more honest than I thought it would be but less honest at the same time and maybe I'll finally find my way home.