I've been reflecting a lot lately, instead of writing, which I really should do sometime...

In philosophy class today, we were talking about states of consciousness, which led to talking about drugs. It seems that, if I've calculated this right, generally 70-80% of the school population, if not more, have done or are doing drugs or other types of narcotics. We were in a group of about 7 people, and definitely 4 of those people had done drugs, the other 2 didn't comment. The ones who spoke about their experiences also mentioned their friends who either sold drugs or had weird experiences doing drugs; Trippy experiences. Ah, yes. I am so up on the lingo.

In any case, this leads me to believe that I am the only one on the face of the earth (Yes, I am exaggerating a tinsy bit) that has not tried drugs or alcohol or what have you. Perhaps I am one of the few that is proud to be drug-free. But, you know what, I was thinking about it on the bus ride home and I realized that the reason I had felt pretty upstanding about not doing drugs was because society had taught me that they were bad. However, I realize now that I can make my own decisions, even if they may be fatal and criminal. I want to be in that crowd where they can go to the skate parks and trip out on acid and have hallucinations because they don't have anything better to do. I want to see reality melt away. I want to see the walls and the people melt away and the grids that hold up the fabric of reality that is the basis of our thoughts and dreams. Is that so wrong? Why shouldn't I be allowed to taste that reality?

God. I just want to be free for a while. I want to live in a different world. I wish I could recreate myself. These awful connections to everything. I want to shed off this skin, these attachments. I want to live and breathe and die in a haze. A blur of my existence. To see what lies beyond and have my own opinion of the world instead of letting the world tell me what to do, and who to be. Fuck the system for once. I want to be beautiful in a lingering type of way. I want to make out in street corners and fall in love with strangers. I want to live for the moment and melt away.

I feel like swearing, but I won't, just because that would take away from this incredibly incorrigible feeling I have.
Are there no boys out there with souls of poets? Who believe in love and taking risks? Who want to believe in lyrics stated out by so many great songs about life (and no, this does not include rap songs or the like about getting wasted and fucking around)?
I sometimes think, there must be some men out there that fit this description, or even one of not being a complete asshole because they've made so many movies and men agree to play the roles of these types of men and so they must agree that this is a possibility, instead of the triviality of getting wasted and doing drugs and degrading women? There must be men out there that have traces of great movie men that philosophize and love and write, because there must be someone out there writing these scripts! And what about the novelists? Don't they believe in what they write or is it women just pretending and falsifying all of the logic that is at our fingertips? Do we really manipulate what we believe to such a harsh extent?
Oh, I am sad for humanity on days such as these.

You say you live on faith;
The wooden pews,
The leather book,
The amens,
And hallelujahs.
But I've seen your flesh,
Ripped apart and torn.
I've seen the colours of your eyes
Under blacklight.
The translucency of your pale skin,
And the thin layer of sweat encasing it.
I've heard the words you whisper
In hunger, and the words you scream,
In passion.
You say that He is your savior.
You can't even save yourself
From the temptation.
Oh, Eve, how far you've come
To fall so fast.
You say you live on faith.
And I believed every word.

(A short reflection inspired by the boy on the bus I overheard one day and never stopped thinking about. I doubt this is what he thinks about on the those long bus rides home, but I would like to think it is. I'm not sure about the ending, but I felt if I had continued I would just keep rambling and not get any point across at all...if there is a point at all. I didn't want to make this into a story as I usually do, as there is no beginning really, or end...I just wanted it to exist for a while.
Mostly listening to Hallelujah, both by Jeff Buckley and Rufus Wainwright.
-Oh, and you may need a dictionary for some of these words. I definitely did.)



The light hit his face and scattered his emotions through the air, like particles colliding and reaching to the edge of the dark recesses. A million fragments that told the air of his perfection, the wrongs of his past.

His haunted face was a recollection of everything they had forgotten. His solemn expression built upon what he didn't know, the questions he couldn't answer. They kept repeating. Skipping on the wavelength. He blinked them away like too many bad dreams.

The recurring thoughts that plagued his mind were bypassed by the heavy connotations of tomfoolery and light air around him. He tossed back his bedraggled aurulent hair, dripping with streaks of sleek blond, and his estranged, but somehow beguiled, cobalt eyes became transfixed on the ghosts that streaked across the panes of glass. They morphed into creatures of unattainable translucence and vivid dreaming horror. He stared through their souls to the other side.

Off and again he was troubled by the atmosphere of his surroundings as he chose not to take part in the merriment and found, once more, that in himself were elements that could not be justified in an earthly manner. Ever since that day. The reflections drew him back to it and how he could never imagine the convalescence could be this strong and unwavering.

His ardent eyes revealed the nightmares he had late at night and now into the day. They were affluent and awakening. The things he had once been concerned about were now washed away as if by blood, except the surface was still rocky and he could hardly walk on the bone skeletons.

He had told them what had occurred but they paid attention only to it as a joke. A play on words that satisfied their lust for the games that play around in boy's minds. But he remembered the acidulent taste. He remembered the questions they had asked; his name, where he lived, all the information that can be regarded as necessary in a state of somewhat emergency. His eyes are fixed on those white halls where he lived or died. But it wasn't the halls that really scared him.

No-that night could've been anything. He composed that the world was spinning twisted, a rotten apple from the core out with parasites and disease. He had never wanted so much to step off.

The night was lyrical, in facets of blinking day that shot like liquid nitrogen into the blood veins encircling his body, wrapping around and squeezing tight like skinny snakes with virulent intentions. He was volant and graceful, feeling the rapture of the night that threw his mind wildly off balance. He compassed the time that it took to travel around the gutters, and see the dirt on the street as the dead skin of God. He was infectious and baneful. Whispering in secret languages to frightened vermin and screaming nothing to the tops of crumbling apartment buildings.

He couldn't remember how the world had finally stopped and let him off the terrible ride. He just remembered waking up to the barrage of questions that ceased his mind and caused him to vomit off the side of the table onto the clean white floor, except that there was nothing. He choked and coughed in a violent fit and those around him struggled to keep him calm, but the questions were stilling coming, filling his mind at an incredulous rate. He tried to focus through the fit. The only tangible words that slipped on to his tongue were words he had forgotten like beauty and zest; like existence and artistry. The combative words that played in his throat and caused his body to heave.

Somehow he had managed to answer through the sticky solvent taste on the roof of his mouth. He had told them the words that they wanted to hear. And then he had been escorted home. He didn't even mind the screaming, the tears. They were just words and emotions. He had slurred through his, wasted them on street lamps and sidewalks.

Three days had passed since then. The night still danced on the panes, faces twisted into ghostly grins and tortured him. He began to close his eyes against them, falling into the seduction of sleep and lethargic dreams that seemed to cease the impact of the hallucinations he had been privy to. He stopped minding the chants of friends that wondered where he was. He was past the games they all still played. He was a ghost, himself, afterall; transclucent and hovering between worlds. He didn't belong in life as he had seen the toll of death, and yet he was resurrected as if by a mighty hook that caught him and pulled him gasping like a great fish onto shore. He wondered if he belonged anywhere, or if there were any like him, drifting in limbo.

The light hit his face and scattered his soul through the air. He couldn't believe the formulas anymore; that the world was made of science. Because he had seen the white halls, and they had defied him and made him insane with thought which had never prevailed before. And all he could do was stare outward as his brain was drilled from inside with puzzles of existentialism. He believed that if he screamed his words would not get past the molasses of particles and wavelengths. His voice would not separate the air that seemed to move in slow motion. He pushed against it each day, fighting with something that he could not see to breathe through the heavy thoughts that drained his body both physically and mentally.

He hungered for the day when it would all stop. The apocalypse. He imagined even then he would still exist, waiting to be claimed by a Heaven or Hell which took bets against him. He often thought about what would happen if that night reoccured, and whether he would be accepted as an invited guest or a throwback to the hounds of Hell.

The worst was on the rides home when the reflections were everywhere. He could only stare ahead, the insects eating his optical nerves would soon tear away the flesh and blood and he would no longer have to see the images that seized his brain so frightfully.

Today I felt terribly tragic. I took an hour long walk with my dog after school to sort my brain. I never actually did sort it, I kind of just cleared it to actually look at the world for a while and to run without feeling the effects of a world gone so wrong.

Today a boy fell through a glass door at the bottom of a staircase. I was in philosophy. We heard a loud crash and it was followed by the doors being opened and several curious students running outside to see what had happened. The result was that a boy was laying on the floor with glass all around him and his face apparantly split open. I didn't see it, this is all just by word of mouth and seeing the door without glass on my way out to the buses. They said that there were people helping him. All I saw was a bunch of people, and a boy getting up to his knees and glass...
The question is, what happened to this boy? Did he trip and fall down the stairs and go vaulting into and through the glass door? But what about the wooden handle in the middle? The glass was broken everywhere, but how could he have gone through both sides? Was he a victim of something else? Was he sick and did he faint? I felt like the world was crashing because I couldn't know the reasons.

On the bus I heard a boy say that he had to have his stomach pumped after doing some drugs. That they had kept asking him what his name was and where he lived. He told the other boys the dose he had taken. Despite being vulgar and disgusting to his friends, this boy seemed like the subject of great writing. He sat with his back to the glass window of the bus, and his eyes seemed inverted, like he was thinking in some other universe. I hated that he wasn't the boy I had created in my head for him to be. He was just another jouvenile who did drugs and made disgusting jokes with his friends.

On the bus I sat beside a tormented boy. They laughed at him, called him names and laid down jokes at his expense to look cool infront of each other. I cried later for this boy, frustrated, that nothing I would've said could've made them stop, that I should've anyway, and that I knew that this boy was in some way my brother. I hated that. And I hated myself. And I hated the world.

In a way, all of these boys were the same. The boy who had fallen through the glass door, the boy who had his stomach pumped, and the boy who had no reason left to live. How can I explain how terrible this all is? How awful the people in the world are?

Why does no one philosophize anymore? Why is intelligence such a scarce thing? I could walk for hours and hours to the ends of the earth and never sort these things in my brain so that they make sense, but I want to, at least, write them down so I can remember precisely this, and that terrible, tragic feeling I have right now.

I had a moment of blurred ideas as I awoke this morning.
It was that I should write a 'postsecret' that says:
I'm afraid that love won't live up to my expectations.

Feeling...suspended in the particles that are moving so quickly around me.
Wanting....more, but not giving one half a damn to get it.
I need to be....that geek in the pink.