circle

peace: like "where the hell am i?" and "where am i going?"
that sort of peace. the peace where i realize the world isn't a massive orb but really a platform and a plateau and an everythingnothing inside out. the peace where you realize every thing is fucking insane and there's nothing you can do about it.
that part.
the part where you realize there's nothing you can do, but it's pretty as hell, and then you really really think about things and realize it's going to be okay anyway. peace, like when you sit back and think about how you can (and probably have) mess things up really bad, but are willing to fix them, too, with a little less sleep and a little more love.
peace like when he told me about his favorite musician and grabbed my leg and shouted along with beautiful lyrics, and wondering (and knowing) that that alone made it beautiful. peace in knowing things are true.
i've heard we can make our own heavens and we can make our own hells, and i heard that i am the decisive element, too. i've heard it pretty clearly like there's no other water to swim in, like there's no other song to dance to, but i guess i've been swimming and dancing elsewhere lately and maybe i should give these things a try.
i guess i've been putting too much faith in fate and less faith in my own actions.
i guess i believe i can't be enough.
hell, i'd be lying if i said i've found the holy grail and i've found peace, but i can see it and i know what it could be if i let it.
peace: like the beauty of just letting go, and i'm gonna let 'im fly.

the one that's about nobody in particular. maybe just me and jesus.

i have absolutely nothing to say.

it's eleven thirty, i'm awake, the television is on and i hate it more now than i usually do. i don't like the ringing that sounds quietly whenever the television is on, but it's going to be too damn lonely when i turn it off. it's a dilemma that is so awful and meaningless but it actually matters, you know? it's been a long day. i feel like screaming or crying or
fuck
anything really.
and the words are just running off my fingers like i'm going to get anywhere further than where i am once i'm done typing for the night. this sure as shit isn't getting me any closer to jesus. but, christ, god is love and love is real and the computer isn't getting me closer to anything lovely. i have nothing to say. nothing more than, "no, really, i don't like my photo being taken" or "yes, that's true, it makes the pain easier". i don't want the pain to be easier, i just want it to go somewhere further than the filth it's stewing in the pit of my stomach.
this is nothing personal and is nothing worth reading in to.
but it's still something right? because it's an itch i won't walk away from and they're just some words i can't get rid of and i won't shut down until i write and re-write and read re-readingly until they say something close to what i'm thinking. and sure, why not, i need a new job but apparently having an old man ask me every week if i'm a masochist isn't enough to get someone to help me the hell out of here fast. and i can't afford to quit, but he sure as hell can afford his starbucks every day. slick son of a gun, like i'm really serving more than coffee. it's men like him that make me want to vomit without trying.
i hate doing things alone.
or maybe i just hate telling the same story over again.
or maybe people just don't like hearing the truth- like if they ignore it or pretend it doesn't touch them... then it's not really real? i don't know, i really really don't.
i don't know what to do.
i don't know where to start.
i've got nothing to say, really. i might start with turning the television off.