Category Archives: Life Thoughts

Late Night Ponderings

In my head, I destroy things.
I see myself, the anger that flows through my veins, spurting out in an open wound.
I can no longer take it. I take the chair and throw it through the window.
Once it was a mirror, glass on glass crackling, creating designs so fragile I saw my soul within.
I see myself punching people.
I walk up to the ones who have wronged me, the ones I still have not found the energy to forgive.
They preach forgiveness, but how do you forgive the man who killed one of your best friends?
Is it even possible?
I can say I forgive you all I want.
But in the end, I still see myself, a parallel universe me, walking up to him and punching him in the face.
The blood spurts from his nose.
His head jerks back.
I smile, content.
And walk away.


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Late Nights

I’ve been avoiding this.  I’m so far behind.  I’m exhausted.  I really haven’t been doing any writing, so it’s all been building up inside of me and I’ve been thrusting it back down, until it creates a new layer of dermis.

But tonight, with my plans to go to bed early shattered, and no one returning any texts– it’s what happens when your Saturday night is everyone elses’ Wednesday– I find myself in need of an outlet.

I could discuss Great Expectations as that’s next on my list, but as much as I enjoyed Pip, I do not think I could keep my mind on him tonight.

Truth is, I’m unsettled.

I started reading Game of Thrones and… I just… no.  That’s my reaction about every fifty pages or so.  The feminist in me objects.  The humanitarian in me objects.  The animal lover in me objects.  Every little bit and a new part of me objects and I begin to feel… unsettled.

It’s why I’m still awake as the clock ticks even closer to midnight.


There’s a reason I moved on to the so-called Classics.  Modern books tend to piss me off.  They try to be edgy.  They try to take risks.  But no.  They are poorly edited.  They just make me go “That was a waste!” (I’m looking at you, Suzanne Collins!)

And then other books and authors *ahem, Wally Lamb* seem to think “Hey, what is the worst thing that could happen to my characters?  I’ve done that already, so what next?” and make an 800 page tome (I almost wrote tomb… sometimes it feels like that…) turn into a long slog-fest of drama, drama, DRAMA!  We get it.  Your character’s life sucks.  Can you cut out 200+ pages of whining and unnecessary “God is pissing on my life!” events, PLEASE?

And now I’m just rambling.  You can see what I mean by unsettled though.  Is this even coherent?

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“Take the Darkest Hour / Break it Open”

– Toad the Wet Sprocket, Windmills.

In my head, John Green and I are good friends.  He writes books that speak to me.  I first read his novel, Looking for Alaska, within the year following my friend’s death in a car accident.  I needed that book.  I put it on my list of “Important” books, the books that emphathise with you and save you if read at the right time.

This past summer, Fate struck.  I wanted to read The Fault in Our Stars.  The library loan line was longer than I care to discuss.  Sorry John Green, but I didn’t really want to spend $18.00 on a book (I’m cheap; I bought 3 new CDs on Black Friday and NONE were full price).  So right when I began to contemplate this conundrum, what should happen but Barnes and Noble emails me a 40% off teen bestseller coupons.  I reverted to my inner teen, squeed, and purchased the book.

My inner geek was satisfied.  Not only was the title taken from a quote from Shakespeare (warning: my writing and thoughts may get scrambled; I’m having a convo with my friend about grief, and sharing some things with her I didn’t tell her about 5-6 years ago, and I’m literally crying now… But we’ll get to this subject in a bit), but he also made reference to Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot.  I squeed even louder, snapped a picture, and sent it to my English major friend.

So The Fault in Our Stars did have me crying.  It’s about a teenage girl with terminal cancer who falls in love with a boy she met at a Teenage Support Group for Those With Cancer.  Right away, you know this story is not going to end well.  It’s just a matter of Who Dies?

I was going to go into my own story, but the words aren’t coming.  I know I’ve alluded to it before, about a friend dying.  I just… right now I can’t find the words.  Instead, I leave you with this, and the hope that one day, I can take a deep breath and tell a story worth telling. 

People You’ll Never Really Know
Somewhere along this long and winding road
Are the places you’ll never be and the people you’ll never really know.
And as much as you’d like to find those places,
You’ll never really know where the truly lie.
Life will take you where it goes—
You’re only on for the ride.
The people you’ll never really know will startle you and take you by surprise,
Only to completely be understood by you at a later point in time.
The people you’ll never meet—
Both lost and gone away—
Will show up to you at sometime,
Maybe this very day.
The places you will be at
Though seem long and old,
Will rejuvenate themselves,
And give off tales of yore.
And the people you will see,
Who live you day and day,
Will show up unexpectedly,
Through to show you a certain way,
Of which that road long and narrow,
Winding, straight, and wide,
Will come to a point at last,
And thus on Earth ends your time.

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Spring Cleaning

It’s spring, which means the annual decluttering of house and life.  I re-organized my to-read pile of books, and discovered it was quite larger than I thought:  not only is every shelf stuffed, but there is quite the pile on top of the case as well.  I’ve been reading slowly, but mostly, my time these past few weeks has been spent draining my soul.

I am going insane.  My job is really just getting to me.  Not to the point where I am having panic attacks like I did a few months back, but I am really really dreading going to work.  Things haven’t been working out, I don’t feel supported, and I just need a break.  I need to spring clean my life.

Which means I need a new job.

But it’s like a Catch-22.  Looking for jobs is frustrating, so I don’t want to be frustrated while doing it.  But work gets me so frustrated that I can’t calm down enough to look.  And yet, because I’m getting frustrated is why I need a new job.  This is really not going to end well.

When I calm down emotionally and mentally– let’s just say crying on the job has totally happened– I’ll return to blogging.  A few of the next books are emotionally draining in and of themselves and I can’t do them full justice when I’m feeling like this.

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And the Disillusionment Continues…

What is it that draws me to the books where life pretty much sucks and, after being bored and unsatisfied, you find yourself stepping out of society and being screwed?  I seem to read those books a lot, when I think about it.  Right before the end of 2011, I continued with my trend to become even more disillusioned– seriously, you should see my mood swings right now: they are BAD and often involve me getting frustrated of my place in life that I want to throw things– and read Albert Camus’ The Stranger.

It was a simple read, a quick read.  He goes with a girl, but doesn’t love her.  Works at a job that he’s not really satisfied in but doesn’t care enough to do anything about it.  Has a mother, but doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass about her.  He basically is an empty shell, going through motions.  It sounds oddly familiar.

I’m not an empty shell– not yet at least– but I can see why people do it.  This constant inner fight is exhausting.  I squelch it all down and it seeps back up.  I try to get it all out and I’m working on squeezing it out for hours.  And then I wake up thinking about life and everything is so busy in my mind that I cannot settle.  My dreams will not settle.  My mind yells to get up and I do.  Groggily, I glare at the world.  This is becoming a daily routine and it, frankly, sucks.

I sometimes just want to curl up and, as Billy Joel says, “Forget about life for awhile.”

And then I come to realize I don’t think I even know the main character’s name in The Stranger.  And it, as Wikipedia has just informed me, is Meursault.  This is what happens when the book is first person and you get so entwined with their thoughts.  As the days pass, I can’t always tell you the names of an important character, but I can tell you the emotions he felt or I felt.  And that is always the lasting impression: not the names, not faces, but how we felt.

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I’m Closing in on the Post-Midnight Thoughts

I end up on a lot of Half-Price Books binges.  I don’t mean to… it’s just that I get it in my head to look for a certain item and next thing I know I don’t have the item and have 20 other things I realized I wanted to look for.  I fail at this not browsing in HPB.  I tell myself I won’t and then…  And then I find the supernatural display and seriously, all hope is lost.

Just ask my copy of Strange Phenomena by Peter Henshaw.  I swear the book called to me, saying “IKKALEE! CHOOSE ME! YOU MUST READ ME!”  And so, its demands were abode (I had to look up the past tense of abide as apparently, abided really isn’t a word…) and I made my way through the very illustrated and not-too-in-depth Strange Phenomena.

It was a good overview: I learned of things I had never heard of before as well as cases I didn’t know existed.  But my curiosity was not satiated.  I want to know more!  It’s actually why I get so attracted to ghost stories based on real events.  I don’t give a damn about whether or not the ghost is going to attack the idiots that provoke it– seriously, don’t piss off a ghost.  I really do not suggest it, certain TV shows– but what I do care about is the history.  Who were the people who lived here/touched here?  Why are they supposed to be haunting?  What happened to them that could make a part of them still be here?  When they talk about legends, I have started to search old newspapers to try to figure out WHO the legend is based on.  I want to know about the people– and then I get depressed with the thoughts that like them, I too will one day disappear and there may be a chance no one remembers who I am.  I will be but a corrugated legend, if that.  More likely than not, I will be dust and who I was will not matter.

But I digress.  And I’m flashing back to Auschwitz– those pictures were staring at me. That’s my defense for running out of there like mad– and all of the people who were there that we will never know.  Many names have turned into masses of people or bits of legends, and another person is lost to the dust of history.

Strange Phenomena wasn’t just about ghosts; that was actually a small chapter.  But like ghosts, all the crazy things of legends we do not always know the origination.  And we have to realize that, no matter what we wish, not everything can be explained.  Call it a higher diety.  Call it a miracle.  Call it a whatever-you-want, but nothing is as simple as we like to believe.  There is so much out there– so much unknown, so much misunderstood– and I rue knowing I will never be able to learn all the secrets of life.

Though maybe that would take some of the magic out of living.

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I understand things that most others are confused by.

And I am more than confused by the things that everyone else understands.  This is the story of my life, my thoughts brought to you today by the song “Champagne Supernova” by Oasis.  I mean, how difficult is it to understand the lyrics: “Slowly walking down the hall / faster than a cannonball”?  It makes perfect sense to me, but apparently, according to music websites, critics don’t understand.  And yet I do.

Is this why I’m so attracted to the “difficult” books, and a wide variety at that?  Is it because I see beauty in complex places, making it a simple concept for me?  There are some books I read– and Proust, which I am reading, is especially guilty of this– where I cannot tell you the plot as the words themselves are so beautiful.  I read The Bhagavad Gita in college.  It was the first book I read after one of my closest friends died.  I cannot tell you what the actual plot was– according to everyone else, there was a plot.  But I… the language was so beautiful, the advice it gave so necessary, that I forgot to look at the big picture, existing only for each individual stanza.  I was saddened we did not discuss the beauty of the stanzas in class, so confused by the plot the people were.  I didn’t give a damn about the plot.  That language– it was all I needed.

As Natalie Merchant says in the amazing song “Wonder,” which I consider my song but am sharing it with Toddler-friend as I think she’ll need it, “I’m a challenge / To Your Balance.”  I’ve always felt like that.  I don’t do what I’m supposed to do.  It’s sometimes like I can’t.  I don’t fit in in most classes.  And now at my job… I have no idea what I’m doing.  I feel like I’m constantly making mistakes and yet… I think my way works for me.

When I was applying for jobs, I felt like all the employers could see my differentness, could see that I was not a 9-5, take a seat and do the work! kind of girl.  I know I’m not; I’d be deluding myself to say otherwise.  I’m me: I have random conversations with strangers on the bus while reading Proust.  I don’t limit myself to genre.  I get so frustrated, so annoyed, with how society is.  I just… I don’t fit in.  And while I prefer that I do not…  Some days, some days, it’s hard.  Especially when you understand something and no one else does.  Then there is no one to talk to at midnight when the thoughts and emotions attack me and I, I have no where to turn but in.

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