I'll Be Back in Time

     You know how you have those days that are just...empty? There's no real joy nor contentment,  neither sadness or anger. It's as though you have failed to live and now merely exist. Lost in your thoughts, though you're not thinking anything. 

     Am I alone on this one? Perhaps it's just me. Anxious and nervous for no reason in particular. 

     The idea frightens me a little bit. That I may have become so apathetic that I cease to live. That I may have become so emotional and concerned that my worries and fears are in control. 

     Regardless, I'm leaving you. In hopes of resolution. Off to the most therapeutic thing in existence, God's own creation: nature. It's high time for a little self-evaluation, don't you think? I'll be back in full swing, loves. 

'Tis a fine time 

To leave everything behind.

Sweater dressed and

To the mountains

I'll be back in time, but

For what or whom, I still don't know.

I'll Send You a Quote When I'm Nervous

     Sometimes, the Golden Rule doesn't exactly work.
     In fact, I don't remember the last time it did.
     But, then again, I don't remember much.

     I am nervous today. For what, I can't be sure. I do believe it's the blasted ADHD medicine that's the culprit of my anxiety. It makes my heart race, hands tremble, arms fall numb, and stomach twist itself in knots. But, that list of ever-growing complaints is for a later post.
     Writing has always been a way to release whatever stress or worry I have. Patchwork poems, questions, one-liners, and quotes have all been scribbled along the margins of my notebooks (I used to use my phone, but my "technologically handicap" tendencies proved detrimental to my privacy). Raw, rough, and ragged. That's my writing style when I need to let something out. On days like these, however, I send approximately five people (usually ones I don't think will respond) a random quote. Then I close my eyes and pretend that someone sent me this lovely little message. No one sends me quotes, but I pretend they do by sending them. Sort of tricking my brain. But not. It's like how I put Twitter on my phone so I think people are talking to me all the time. Today's a lonely day. And it's raining. I'm in one of those moods.
     I think I'm going to go to bed. Goodnight, loves.

Whit Happens

The Old Wicker Tree

Three a.m. poetry...I'm going to bed now. When I wake up I'll call it abstract, as nothing is ever really logical at these wretched hours.

Toss your shoes
Behind the old wicker tree.
Forget your worries,
Leave your anxiety
Tucked beneath your laces.
Sink your toes
Into the soft, cool earth.
Run 'cross the dewed grass and
Release all your troubles.

Don’t look back.
We’ll return soon enough.

Close your eyes,
See the world with your body.
Absorb the sun’s rays and
Flow with the wind
That rustles the leaves.
Let the sun melt your doubts,
The breeze swipe all suspicions.
Submerge yourself
In the gentle current waters and
Drown your uncertainties.

Don’t look back.
We’ll return soon enough.

You tell me that
Soon enough is not fast enough.
Your clothes are sticking,
Shoulders burning,
Eyes drying,
Toes bleeding,
Personality chafing, and
Your shoes could be stolen.

Don’t act so naïve.
We’ll return soon enough.

But soon enough is never
Fast enough for you.
There is no such thing
As spare time.
Silence does not exist, and
How could it?
You have so much to do,
Your mind never rests.
Sleep is optional,
They have pills and beverages now
That force your body to be alert.
Knowledge comes from
Books alone.
Rewards are only received
When you stay in the lines,
Cross no borders,
Do what you’re told,
And work hard – nonstop.
So this is why you must go back.

Don’t grow up so fast.
Play pretend with me once more.
Feed me meals of bark and leaves,
Bring treasures on board our ship of clotheslines and sheets,
Save a damsel in distress, or
Fly to the moon.
Just don’t leave me yet.

But no. . .gather your things from
Behind the old wicker tree.
Your burdens still lie just
Beneath your laces,
Dragging you down with your
Medications,
Cups of coffee, and
Paychecks.
Was it worth it?
Eating without tasting?
Sleeping without dreaming?
Speaking without thinking?
Hearing without listening?
Breathing without living?
My dear, you’re thriving in knowledge,
But knowledge is nothing
Without wisdom.

Don’t grow up so fast.
That, love, will come sooner than you think
And you can’t go back.

The Worldly Classification of Popularity. AKA: Why You Suck and What You Need to Change.

     Where am I? I think it's more than obvious that I'm not at the top of the social food chain. Google tries to be nice and create a pyramid, but we all know it's a food chain. Let's face it, whoever is on the top feeds off of the bribes, desperation, and special favors of everyone at the bottom who doesn't want their social status cremated. In a traditional high school, the 'Preps' win over the teachers, the entire student body, and any mindless clones who happen to make eye contact with them. The 'Druggies' are typically only admired because they have direct access to the drugs that everyone wants to become at least slightly popular. The 'Skaters' can balance on wood with wheels and hide their greasy hair with ugly beanies. They're obviously only liked for their center of gravity. The 'Rockstars'...ha! What? Why are they up there? What does that even mean? Uhm...people like electric guitars I guess. Anyway...the 'Nerds and Geeks' wear button up, plaid shirts, pants that are too small, and talk nonstop about dragons, video games, and all two experiences they've had communicating with the opposite sex. The 'Artists' speak in riddles and never, under any circumstances, take out their ear buds. The 'Goths' dress in black, purposely paint on a pasty face, and enjoy scaring kids as a weekend hobby. The "Emo, Scene, Outcasts, etc" don't talk to anyone, write profanity on the bathroom stalls, and frequently get knocked over by passing kids.

     Surely I'm not the only one who is ready to bomb Hollywood.

     Cliques and the "in-crowd" have been ever so slightly pushing my buttons of late. And it's not for the reason that most people think. Most people try to brush off my agitation with the same old, "You're just jealous you're not hanging out with them." And yes, the few people I do play with say 'them' as if they were discussing infectious tumors seeping puss out of clogging pores.

     Sorry, that was a bit graphic.

     But, here's the thing: I'm really not. Their existence in general just irks me.
     I'm tired of listening to dumb people talk.
     I'm tired of listening to cheerleaders gossip.
     I'm tired of hearing annoying sounds in the middle of a lecture.
     I'm tired of finding garbage in my locker.

     I'm tired of knowing that the traditional high school popularity food chain is slowly closing in on me.

     Maeser was once a place of unity and equality. The few cliques that popped up died out fast and each person was unique. Why else do you think it received an instant success? Students outside of Maeser claim that the only reason it's a good school is because they only let freakishly smart kids in. Really? Where'd you escape from?! It's a good school because they teach us to be individuals, to be independent, to question the status quo, and to discover truth for ourselves. Lately though, it's been falling back a little bit. Not incredulously, but enough to irritate me some. In two weeks there were three drug busts. Suspensions and expulsions are being handed out like China hands out babies. The bobble-head girls walk shoulder to shoulder in our four-foot wide halls making getting past them about as difficult as squeezing toothpaste back into the tube. And, to top it all off, lice has been reported. Nice guys. Heaven forbid, you could wash your hair.

     I get annoyed over small, asinine things.
     Perhaps it's my arrogance becoming a little more receptive.
     Maybe I'm tired.
     Maybe I'm hungry.

     Whatever the cause, I'm protesting certain people's existence. I have a list of all the people who send me into anxiety attacks. I'll stand in the hall, every day, for 36 days with my harmonica and poster board of whoever I choose on my list.
     
     I'm mad.
     I'm ranting.

     I think I'm all done now.
     Whit Happens