Is love a tender thing?

Since Beowulf days, where the stories that were told were finally put to paper, there has been just a few topics that have stood the test of time. War, Power, Currency, and the epic one... Love.
This word is known throughout the entire world, whether it be: حُب, 喜爱, láska, kærlighed, liefde, armastus, rakkaus, amour, die Liebe, αγάπη, szeretet, ást, sayang, amore, 愛, 애정, mīlestība, meilė, kjærlighet, zamiłowanie, amor, dragoste, любовь, láska, ljubezen, amor, kärlek, aşk, or simply love. That's right, 28 eight languages, and 28 different words that mean that very same indefinable entity that rules our lives, almost 7 billion people.
Have you tried it lately? To define it? Ask yourself, what is love? It's a feeling right? How does it make you feel? Sit back right now and come up with some adjectives. Warm, comforting, invigorating, healing... But nothing quite fits does it? Don't worry, you're not the only one.
For centuries, poets have been trying to define this very thing. Today, song writers haven't developed a new topic yet, either. I just searched "love" on my itunes and found 115 results with the world love in the title. Yet, the most accurate description that I've ever found is Shakespeare's Sonnet 116:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

This is what I think love is. This is one of his definition poems, and I feel that he hits it head on. Yet, I do have to say, that this is simply a poem based upon what love does and withstands, not what it is. Not the very supernatural or metaphysical existence of itself. To be honest, I have no words to define it. It does not exist in my head and although I did feel that burn in my chest every now and then, I don't believe the heart which pumps blood to the rest of my body, also holds love. I don't know whether it exists within ourselves or is perhaps housed in our auras. Perhaps it's simply a metaphysical energy that is created when two people are in close range with one another. I don't know.
I would like to, because the very reason for this particular blog is because I was staring at myself in the mirror a minute ago. I was staring, noticing the certain detachment that has grown in my eyes, and realized that it's been a hell of a long time since I felt it. There's the platonic family love, sure. But I don't feel that. I just know it's there. When my mom brings me home dinner, or my friend calls to chat. It makes me smile, but I don't feel anything. At the DIA today, I felt excitement for the first time in awhile and I almost mistook it for anxiety.
So I guess my question here is, do other people feel this still? Does love exist for those over 20 years old. And for that matter, does love exist for those who have already lost their love? Their Big, True, whatever-adjective-you-choose love? Can you feel those butterflies again, the dropping of the stomach, can't eat-can't sleep-die without you love?
Because all I keep thinking is that I had that. I had it once. It was real, and I felt it. I felt it somewhere inside me. And that part is dead now. And I'm just throwing this question out into the universe, a general wondering, whether or not I will ever be able to revive that little part of myself. Is this punishment? I had it, and I let it go. I didn't fight, I didn't fly down there and confess my love. I just let it go, without so much as a phone call afterward. Am I being punished because I made one cowardly act? I say one, because I did fight, a lot, before. I grew up believing that love could save us all, and with love, anything could be done. I once believed that love was enough, and I fought like hell to keep it. But at the end, I don't know, I must have been worn out, beaten down, and perhaps disillusioned. And when I was beaten, I told myself that I would never let it happen again. When love failed, I turned to reason. Love is not a real thing. It didn't make sense for me to fly down and be with him. I have responsibilities. And I stuck to that. I guess that I still am with questioning the definition of love. Because somewhere, deep down inside, I'm waiting. I'm waiting for that boy to look at me with severe eyes and say, "Alicia, I love you. You don't have to do this anymore."
But I chose Reason, Rationality, and Education. Does love even exist in this world? Can I really tell myself that I believe in something that does not have any real structure, format, or concrete evidence? Can I trust something that is so easily broken and walked away from? Can I truly believe in something that was never reciprocated? I guess we'll find out.
As for now, I guess I'll stick to telling myself that love spelled backwards is evol, and Shakespeare said it best when he wrote, "Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous; and it pricks like thorn."

Una Propuesta Formal para la Anexión de un Día Llamado "Donday"

"A Formal Proposal for the Annexation of a Day Called 'Donday'"

Let me begin by saying that I am a fan of the seven-day-week, or at least I used to be. In theory, the-seven-days had everything that one needed. A dreaded Monday, where everyone is excused for being grouchy and fatigued. A Tuesday, which usually is a bit better than a Monday, so most people call it a success. A Wednesday, which is a nice hump-day. A Thursday, which incorporates the best TV show night, so, enough said. A Friday, which signifies the end of the work week and is a little celebration all in itself. A Saturday (which used to be my favorite day), as you could sleep in, and spend the rest of the day not worrying about the following day's events, as you would usually have that day off as well. And finally, Sunday, which (please excuse my limited and hopefully inoffensive definition), is a day for rest, given to us by our gracious Lord.

To many, the seven-day-week is manageable. Insofar as you are a person who has a five-day-work-week, or a five-day-school-week. Yet, I must admit, with our glorious nation's love for capitalism, companies have challenged this five-day-work-week in efforts to maximize profits and feed off every last individual who happens to have a day off. Retail, Restaurant, and realistically any service-industry company have now opened their doors (count it!) seven days a week. And what does this mean for the public? No. More. Days. Off.

To me, I can recall fondly the days that I spent working for GM. I worked Monday-Friday, 9 a.m. to 6 p.m., and respectively had Saturday and Sunday off, my little vacation time. Having attended school during this period as well, my five-day-week was considerably crammed from sun-up to sun-down with appointments. Yet, I would spend my days dreaming about what the weekend had in-store for me. These two days were much needed to soothe the hardships that I had to endure all week. The weekends were my tranquility. I would spend them, more often than not, doing absolutely nothing. I would sit, and read, or watch movies, or, dare I even say it, go out with my friends. The weekends would recharge my delicate little mind with its tranquil environment enough to give me the strength to go out and conquer the world come Monday.

And then I got a job in retail.

Having to work in the service-sector is not very enjoyable. The work is easy, mindless even, and I get to spend the entire time just talking to people, and yes, shopping for them. To any like-minded female in their early twenties who is finishing up college, this is an ideal job. And yes, I would have to agree. They work around your schedules and, yes, at first I was excited, have weekend hours. I was very enthusiastic about this find, as I was going to school most days and needed the extra hours on the weekends. However, as I look around me today, I see the poor American struggling to be stress-free.

In my humble opinion, Americans work too damn hard. Other countries such as Spain have siestas, which is a nap taken in early afternoon. In Serbia and Slovenia, especially among older citizens, it is common to observe the so-called "house rule," requiring people to refrain from telephoning or visiting each other between 2 p.m. and 5 p.m., as people are supposed to be resting. Afternoon sleep is also a common habit in China and Taiwan after the midday meal. This is called "wujiao (午覺)" in Chinese. Almost all schools in Mainland China and Taiwan have a half-hour nap period right after lunch. This is a time when all lights are out and one is not allowed to do anything other than rest or sleep. Some Japanese offices have special rooms known as napping rooms for their workers to take a nap during lunch break or after overtime work. In Islam, it is encouraged to take a nap between Dhuhr (midday) and Asr (afternoon) prayers. What do American's have? Cat naps, and only if you're a stay-at-home parent, because lets face it, we don't have whole offices for sleeping. If we do, please let me know, and I will go work for them.

I digress. The average person spends 43 hours at work a week. 80% of workers feel stress on the job, nearly half say they need help in learning how to manage stress and 42% say their coworkers need such help. An average of 20 workers are murdered each week in the U. S. making homicide the second highest cause of workplace deaths and the leading one for females. Consequently, heart disease is the leading cause of death in the U.S. and what do you think the leading cause of heart disease is? Stress.

And there you have it, work is stressful, stress causes death. People in America need to calm the fuck down and take a breather. We work longer, harder hours to gain wages to pay for bigger and more expensive houses. Literally 90% or more Americans are living above their means. Everything is credit and floating around in this fictitious universe. And for what?

This is why I propose what I like to call, Donday, which will conveniently slide right in between Sunday and Monday. Since Saturday and Sunday have both been invaded by the mean, angry, soul-crushing, capitalistic punks, this day is for the feeble, lonely, voiceless Democrat to take back what was formally his; a day off without slaving to The Man. On this very lovely day, nothing, and I mean nothing will be open. The local CVS's will close (oh my goodness, how will I ever buy my greeting cards and shampoo?!), the retail stores will shut down (no doorbusters people, sorry!), gas stations and liquor stores will turn out their lights and shut down their pipes, and, yes, heavens forbid, Meijer employees will not have to work that day, either. TV stations and radio programs will cease to broadcast, and the internet will, dare I say it, turn off.

On this endearing day, one will simply have to be. I say be instead of live because I feel that, in America, one lives by working, doing things for others, vacations, etc.. On this day, this wonderful Donday, one will simply be. One will exist and feel the presence of themselves. They can sit outside and enjoy the luscious gardens or green grass that is usually such a hassle to them. They can sit and read a book all day. One can run and bike ride and fly a kite in the park. One can walk their dog around the city. People can sit, while making their own coffee, and discuss politics or literature or philosophy. One can study or brush up on something that they've put off. Paint a picture, learn a language, play with their children, teach their children, make babies, pray, write, and lay longingly looking up at the clouds pass.

This is not laziness, people. This is a necessity. We need this day to relieve our stress levels and give our Prozac and Xanax a rest. We need this day to give a giant middle-finger to America's wealthiest as they sit on their asses all day, everyday. Here's to a dream in which everyone, I don't care if you're red, purple, yellow, black, green, blue, or white, will have their own day to recharge which will never, and I mean never, be overtaken by McDonald's wanting to sell people $1 cheeseburgers, forcing the rest of us unruly souls to slave away while they make a killing.

This is but my humble opinion, so I challenge you to consider how much you would benefit from a Donday.

Oh yeah, and if we switched up the weeks, and added more days to the year, maybe the time-space-continuum would fluctuate and we all wouldn't implode in two years. Just a thought.

On the way home, this car hears my confessions. I think tonight I'll take the long way.

I haven't written anything of substance lately. From movies, to my secret love of Sylvia, these things seem trivial in light of what is really happening in my life. So I figured I'd write it. Because, let's face it, writing is my therapy.

If you know me at all, you probably know that my father is ill and my mother is well, without job. I will not go into detail on these since, for their own privacy, I feel it inappropriate. All I can say is that I keep repeating the phrase my mom says, "God wouldn't give you more than you can handle." Yeah, venture to the nearest psyc ward. I'm not sure if I believe that, if there is anything or anyone up there at all. My prayers have never been answered, I've never been heard. I stick to concrete things, like what I'm going to do tomorrow or what I'm going to eat. Anything above that is simply too much for my fragile little head to wrap around. I'll be sitting somewhere, just staring and minutes will just go by and I have no motivation to move. People will start talking to me and all I can think about is when they are going to stop. I've noticed something lately, that 90% of what people have to say is just pure complaining. [yes, this is included right now] About the most meaningless things, too. Like about what someone (who I absolutely do not know) said to them about someone else, or how they're not sure if they really like their boyfriend, or how someone pissed them off at work. People, WE DO NOT CARE. Most of us are in our own heads, either waiting for our turn to talk, or your turn to shut up. This may be harsh, but I think that people need a reality check. If you have nothing intelligent or meaningful to say, keep it to yourself. Silence is golden people.

And speaking of silence. Why is everyone afraid to sit with on another without talking. We're not going to explode if you sit in silence for 10 minutes, please stop contriving things to talk about. And speaking of, when is the last time you've actually heard silence? Think about it. What's going on your room right now? A radio, perhaps, maybe even a fan or two. Shut it down, shut it down and just enjoy the fact that your ears are not straining. Honestly, lately I feel like my ears are just tired and have begun muffling everything. My brain is being protected from imploding. I don't know, maybe I just feel with the mood that I'm in lately that anything I do or say is just fake because in all honesty, all I want to do is sit in my room. Literally, just sit and not do anything. Not even think. Just sit and try to concentrate on not hating everything and feeling like I might suck the happiness out of anyone I'm around.

However, I have started writing Chapter 2 of the book. And I'm only a page in, but it helps. I've also started reading "Eat, Pray, Love." I was given it a few years back from my mom as a Christmas gift, but thought it looked silly. Yet, I felt the strangest urge to pick it up today.

I equally have the strangest urge that I want a relationship. I know, for me, weird. I mean, right now I could really use someone to get me out of everything, my head included, and take me back to reality. To first dates, runs in the park, and the laughter that you only have when you first get to know someone. Obviously, I'm a hot mess right now, but someday. I have faith (in something) that someone will come along and all of this misery and pondering and hopelessness will not all be in vain, but will simply be a character building exercise so that when I actually do meet Mr. Right, I won't be a hot mess all the time, locked up in my room suffering from Female Hysteria yelling at my yellow wallpaper (if you get that reference, I commend you). As for now, I will sit listening to Alexi Murdoch, while laying on my floor awaiting winter. Things always happen in winter, good things. I don't know why. But I just love winter. Its cold, and quiet. Desolate. Maybe it mirrors me. Now that's really depressing. But when it's all hot and sunny, I just feel.... I don't know, uncomfortable I guess would be the word. I want cold. Snow, white, sterile, jackets and hoodies, jeans, converse, my leather jacket.. oh my leather jacket I miss you. And to sleep, to finally get a good night's rest covered and burrito-ed in all of my blankets trying to keep warm. Oh, winter, how I cannot wait.

Breathe, just breathe. It's really all that I can do right now when I feel as though the entire world is pulling me apart. I've lost some of myself. And I want it back. I want to be selfish and not devote all my time to making others happy. None of them seem to give a damn about me, or how I'm feeling. They're all caught up in their own dilemmas, nobody would even notice if I left.

[Entertainment?] Weekly

Okay, I am aware that there is a massive catastrophe currently happening in the Gulf as 3 million gallons of oil spill everyday. I am also aware that Obama needs to get his shit together, turn this off, and clean up, then hand BP the bill.

However, I want to discuss something much more disturbing to me, notice the slight sarcasm. My mother graciously brought home this week's Entertainment Weekly because TrueBlood was on the cover. I thank her for that, and out of pure boredom because I had just read two 400 page books in two days (The Hunger Games, Catching Fire--amazing!), I had nothing else to read and thus read this cover to cover.

And then I saw this, THE CHART, of the top 20 movies out right now.
1.Shrek Forever After, 2. Get Him To The Greek, 3. Killers, 4. Prince of Persia, 5. SATC 2, 6. Marmaduke, 7. Iron Man 2, 8. Splice, 9. Robin Hood, 10. Letters to Juliet... etc.

I don't even care to continue this list. All I have to say (right...) is WTF?! I swear, you know there must be a problem in the movie industry when a fat, green monster takes the first. I know Shrek is popular with the kids, and I'll admit I liked the first a bit, but four... common Dreamworks, think of something else already. And speaking of this, Iron Man 2, and Sex and the City 2... does anyone left in film have any original ideas?

And I admit, I like sequels, on occasion. But the reviews of all of these are horrendous. The quality in films have plummeted. They all simply try to appeal to the mass audiences without taking a break to work on a focus group. Disney movies now contain ideas and issues that children should not even been exposed to yet, and certainly cannot understand, just to sell tickets. This may be a good thing, you ask? No. I'm sorry, I want to watch a movie that has some depth, some pain, some compassion, and some real, raw human emotions. I do not want to see a collaboration of every issue ever between humans, aliens, men, women, children, financial crisis, race, sex, etc. Start centering your audience! Not everyone wants to see Megan Fox's body thrown about with rushed action sequences.

I equally do not want to see Katherine Heigl, ever, again. The Killers actually gave me a headache. I was sitting in the theatre next to my best friend (who asked me to go, and I said yes only because I'm a good friend, and there was NOTHING ELSE I WANTED TO SEE) in the theatre willing myself to go to sleep so that I didn't have to kill any more brain cells. If I see one more romantic comedy with her or anyone else (that means you, Jennifer Aniston!) where the girl is portrayed as a needy, dumb-on-purpose, uncomfortable in her flawless body woman, I am personally going to Hollywood and hit them over the head with Atlas Shrugged. Seriously? Let these women have some power, have some actual, intelligent lines, and maybe, yes, maybe, even let them break out of this stereotypical "I will succumb to the man's world" attitude. I thought we had a winner with Angelina until she decided to marry Hollywood's Golden Boy and adopt a freaking country of children, and then made Changeling, where she spent the duration of the movie crying and getting herself put in a psyc ward because the men didn't want to give back her kid. It's what, 2010? And we're still portraying woman as these feeble little feathers. And don't even get me started with Megan Fox, parading around with nothing on, pouting her lips and fighting crime? No. Just leave.

All I can think of is the joy that I felt after watching Garden State. I literally was crying at the end of that movie simply because of it's brilliance. I honestly haven't seen a good movie since. There has been a couple of smart indie films which I enjoyed, Sunshine Cleaning, Remember Me (minus the awful ending), Into The Wild, The Hurt Locker, Atonement, and Becoming Jane, which instantly have moved up the ranks of my movie lists. However, nothing has come out in the last 5 years which has really made me sit up and say, "WOW, that's a freaking movie." It's sad really, these kids are going to grow up thinking that a movie must consist of a superhero, Megan Fox, and CGI action sequences to be good. This breaks my heart. Gone are the days where you literally want to watch the movie again right after, simply because your heart aches that these characters are no longer in your life. Gone are the days when you hear a line, or see a scene that makes you think differently about life, they will never show you the beauty of living anymore. Instead? We have four women going off into Abu Dhabi buying Prada and producers pillaging through the Literature section at Borders and settling for everything ever written by Nick Sparks.

After this devastation of summer movies, I may have to quit my quest for a secondary education certificate and write a decent script. But wait, my writing usually doesn't consist of Ogres or super heroes.

An Evening with Sylvia

"-With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone it is dead. But you can't start over with each new second. You have to judge by what is dead. It's like quicksand... hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough, not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already, I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash, come and are going, continuous quicksand. And I don't want to die."

-Sylvia Plath, August 1950.

So here's the story. I bought this book, "The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath" a few years ago. I had already begun writing my first journal, and felt the need to look at what her's had said. I became engrossed in the words of this great writer, she was feeling what I had been feeling, and thought what I had thought. Knowing how she later dies, I felt that I needed to put this book down for awhile, I didn't want to end up there. So I shelved the book. When I went back one day to begin again, having distanced myself from the mental similarities as best I could, I couldn't find it. I looked everywhere, car, under the bed, basement, closet. No where. I went back to borders to buy another, and the bookstore was sold out. Why didn't I just order the book online, you ask? I have this thing where I don't order things online unless it's completely necessary. I feel that it takes away from the wanting of things, or the pure joy that you get from actually finding them hidden.
Thus, for the past three years, I've been looking for this book. Every time I enter a bookstore, I dart straight for the P's. I felt that a part of me was waiting.
And then today, gift card in hand, I looked with Paige on her birthday extravaganza (to the Hard Rock, a trip around Detroit) at a large bookstore in Dearborn. Nothing. Furious, because I felt that today was the day that this book, lost for three years, would slowly meander it's way back to me, I went to the Borders by my house just for kicks. Nothing in the Literature P's. Nothing in the Biography section. Then I had the brilliant idea of actually getting someone to help me, and after she rechecks the biography section, she asks me, "Didn't she write a lot of poetry?" Smugly, I answered, "yes." "Well, let's try the Poetry section, I remember seeing this book somewhere." "You have a poetry section?" "Yeah, it's just a shelf, though." "Oh." And low and behold, this freaking book was literally teetering off of the shelf. In plain sight, waiting for me to find it. I was so excited, of course I screamed and hugged the girl. I told her she made my week and walked to the line, clutching this found treasure with the gleaming allure of a dazed expression on my face. I immediately got home, showered, brushed my hair, and sat in bed, reading with a furry I haven't felt in awhile. I started at the beginning.
I have a thing with the first line of a book. If it's not captivating, I will put the book down.
For instance:
Example of good first lines:

• "He nearly called you again last night. Can you imagine that, after all this time? He can." -Seven Types of Ambiguity, Perlman.
• "Everyone now knows how to find the meaning of life within himself." -The Sirens of Titan, Vonnegut.
• "Who is John Galt?" -Atlas Shrugged, Rand.

Basically, you know these are going to be good books, just by these first lines, and they all are, I can assure you. These lines make you want to continue.

Examples of bad first lines:

• "What's it going to be then, eh?" -A Clockwork Orange, Burgess. ( I know this one is a cult classic, but with a first line like that, who the hell is going to want to read this book? I know I sure didn't, thus I quit after page 2.)
• "A few minutes past one o'clock in the morning, a hard rain fell without warning. No thunder preceded the deluge, no wind." -The Taking, Koontz. (I'm pretty sure that Koontz should have stopped at those first two sentences, they are all right, but seriously, no one would care what happens next, so what, it's raining? Do you usually get a siren to let people know that rain is about to start? No. Rain falls without warning all the time, this is not novel, Dean.)

And the point of this whole bookshelf-searching list is to provide you with Sylvia Plath's first line of her journals, "I may never be happy, but tonight I am content." Pure, clean, simple, honest. This keeps me wanting to read more. I feel this way most of the time. Tell a simple truth, something that you believe in, and readers will follow. Even if it seems completely insignificant to those around you, to anyone other than yourself, write it. It may mean something to someone else someday.

And backtrack to the quote I put at the top of this long digression. Those words, "Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass" Well, I am no Sylvia Plath, and I will never be able to write one line of good poetry, but I can feel this, I can feel the slow, beating of loneliness she later describes, I've written about it. So many lines I mindlessly highlight because I relate, "I like people too much or not at all. I've got to go down deep, to fall into people, to really know them." So many lines, and I am that girl, a hundred years from now, alive, writing, and reading her work. And one day, hopefully, some girl will read mine and feel the same. Some moment, defiant of space and time, she is sitting at Smith College writing this, thinking that no one, in her wildest dreams, will ever read this. She is completely and utterly naive to the fact that she will later become one of the single greatest female writers of her time, of all time. She's just writing to write. But the greatest thing, she lives on tonight, as I read her words silently to myself. And this is the epitome of what every writer aims for. Legacy, creating something that will outlive them, something that will change or impact in some small way the lives of others, even after they are gone; Relation, the fact that someone, some 50 years later, feels the same, and can actually connect on a mental level with a spirit of the past; and Fame, something she never experienced, yet we all know now when we hear "Plath" we only think of one thing, her work, or as those who never read, her suicide. Which brings me to my next point, the last part of that excerpt, "And I don't want to die." These words were chillingly haunting. I stared, just glaring, finding the little imperfections in the typed ink on the uneven little divots of the paper.

[Brainstorm] take me away from the norm

I was having the discussion, which later manifested into a heated debate, with my mother over the question of whether or not people change. She believes through her mildly bleak and extremely adult disposition that people do not change, they simply bend in a given situation to benefit themselves and acquire their needs above others. I, on the other hand, dove deeper into the realm of my consciousness and understanding of humanity (yes, here we go), and believe that people are constantly changing. Thanks to my in-depth studies on the Persistence Through Time theories and the research that I conducted, I am a firm believer that people do change.
Simple. Fact. People change, not all at once, no. But there are small subtleties, small shifts that over time, someone becomes a completely different person. You won't realize it all at once. You won't even realize that you are changing. One day, you will just wake up and see the shift that life has made. And one day, maybe, you will begin to see the tiny little shifts that happen daily, that follow us around. That change not only shifts the people around us, but the world as a whole. Everything is in constant motion (the river is everywhere right?), and it is literally impossible to stay the same, for more than a millisecond.
Now don't get me wrong, it's not a bad thing. It's life, people need to change. To start over, fresh, to adjust to any given situation. Biologically, we are changing all the time. Our bodies are constantly changing and moving. Cells die and regenerate, hairs fall out and grow, nails break and grow, and our skin changes darkens or lightens. Blood escapes and recreates, and our eyes move and moisten. Nobody is the very same person from one day to the next, from one second to the next. If I made a decision today, and was asked the same tomorrow, I may choose differently. I learn, and I adjust.
So with all of this given evidence that people are changing constantly, why does it hurt so bad when we wake up one day and realize that the person we love has changed, or worse yet, that we ourselves have.
I began writing in a journal again, and in hopes for inspiration, I dug through my bookshelves to find my old journal. I actually wrote in one for an entire year, filling it up, I call it Vol. 1 now, since I found inspiration to begin a second. Anyway, sorry for the digression, but I began reading Vol. 1. It was astounding noticing the differences between myself then, and myself now. I was a romantic then, I believed that love conquered all, and that love was ultimately enough. Well, in light of the events that happened last year, that theory was shot to shit and I am now a relationship-phobe who hates all things that remotely resemble feelings. I have mastered the fine art of pushing things away, so it only seems fitting that I can push images and feelings so far back into my subconscious, that even my brain will physically not allow me to retrieve these thoughts. But looking back on this past Alicia, I miss her. I miss the relationships that I had then, not only with him, but with others as well. I miss the connection. However, a part of me still believes that Domino saying, "At that moment, I promised myself that I would never invest too much emotion into one thing. It's always a set up to the pain of losing them."
Anyway, the other night I went to Sara's boyfriend, Tony's house. I met some people, and although I had just met them that night, everyone just seemed to fit. The weather was nice, the bugs weren't biting, and sitting altogether outside under the light of the citronella candles, I made human connection, and everything was all right in the world.