Midnight hours leak through the pale moon
Date: Nov 29th, 2005 9:48:02 pm - Subscribe
Mood: Holding onto the good times and watching as more role right in
Music: \'Coyote and the Moon\' by Petracovich

There it is. I can feel it.

I can feel it crushing my shoulders, suffocating me from the inside where I can't try to tear it away as with every tentative step it grows heavier; hissing in open ears that can't tune it out no matter how hard they try.

"Give up," it whispers, causing clumsy feet to trip up the stairs. It begins to laugh horsely, grinning at what it did; soaking in the snickers others give like a dark tunnel with no end in sight. But when I begin to laugh it hushes, staring at me like I had just grown two more sets of arms and was now hanging upside down on the ceiling; peering down at a reversed world.

I will not be defeated.

"Give up," it commands, words firmer as it messes with my emotions, plugging and unplugging the wires in my brain; rearranging the links to memories that so long ago I've held close but now find impossible to recall. It presses that little red panic button, firmly labeled 'do not touch' in several languages- including my own- repetitively, each pound sending another shattered question into my head.

What am I going to do? Did I say the right thing? Who am I going to tell? Should I even tell anyone? How is this going to effect my life? How is everyone going to react when I tell them my decision? What is my decision?

Why am I thinking these thoughts?

Confused, It pushes the button again but it's too late- the steel wall is up. Angrily, it tries again, banging on the poor red button so hard it breaks, spurs and wheels flying everywhere. Well, at least they're free.
Cursing loudly, It's mind rushes to beat me down.

I shouldn't be thinking like this.

I have to get this thing off my shoulders.

"Marina? Is something wrong?"

I nearly jump out of my skin, wide eyes looking at the person who had spoken.

The mask goes on. I'm in the lime light. It's my script, my scene, my steel happy mask.

"No, no!" I say, fake smile and carefree laugh fooling everyone around except me and It. "I'm fine! Just....spacing out again."
The way the lies fly out of my mouth without a hitch; without a tripping of the tongue scares me a bit. I know it's the mask speaking for me, formally rusted steel hinges somehow finding a way to move without the need of oil. It's my voice, but my heart screams confined in it's icy cage; it doesn't make a sound.

It's back again, this time crawling through my brain like a bed bug, sucking away the intimidating figure of the wall- reducing it down to nothing but harmless dust.

Once again the laughter starts. It's beyond proud as it leans down to see what else it can do to destroy it more. But it stopped as a piercing scream interrupts it's joy, the seemingly harmless dust flying into it's eye and mouth; suffocating it's words, blinding it from the shadowy, shaking figure standing above it.

The good news is building, the worst is over. You may stick out your foot and cause me to trip up the stairs once more in front of everyone. You may block out the rest of the world's cries by screaming until blood is pouring from my ears and all I hear is the dripping of it onto the white papered floor.
You may cause me to fail, and you may cause my emotions to make me more insane than normal. You may cloud my vision from the invisible things that are the best things in life and you may suck until there is nothing but a hollow shell... but I will not submit to you.

I will not be brought down....

I will not let you control my life....

I will not slip to the ground....

I will not...

Will not...



Comments: (3)

Life is like a movie, and we\'re all characters in it.
Date: Nov 10th, 2005 8:19:45 pm - Subscribe
Mood: Asleep at the wheel
Music: \'Destiny\' from the X soundtrack

Sometimes I like to think of life as a movie.

Strange, I know. But when there are times when life seems too hard, or too bleak, or too lost in a deep pool of lies and wars, it helps to think that life is just one moment projected to the millions that sit in that tiny theater; hanging on every word, reacting to every moment.
The same goes when something different, or amazing happenes; it's just another chapter in the movie of life.

I've been doing that more often now, my brain sometimes thinking of the words before my hand has a chance to grab a pen. My eyes became my camera, recording every moment that went on in the means of a day. Up or down, sideways or diagonal, zoomed in or out, the movie continued, growing longer each day.

Sometimes it would happen as I walked down the hall, engulfed between all the students; I'm that little drop in the middle of all taller than me.
Usually it was just after seventh, as my brain tried to prepare itself for another day in Global- dreading, yet determined to fight no matter what would be thrown at it.
I would pass kids that I knew, but more I didn't.
Some were smiling, some were laughing as they strolled down the hall with their friend, while others had a more serious expression on their faces. One or two would give me a knowing smile and a nod, or a wave if they could, and I would return the same gesture. But most days not a one saw me as I made my silent way through the crowd.

I passed the girl in the hall with her white earphones in and a smile across her face that told you she was loving life at that moment. I passed the boy leaning on a locker, waiting for his girlfriend to come up and give him a hug that made it seem like they haven't seen each other in forever and a day.
Turning the corner I would find more swarms. Some passed me by closely, our shoulders nearly touching as I made certain to hold my books close while others made wide circles, avoiding me as though I was the bubonic plague.

But when I finally got to my seat, the people in the theater were confused, munching on popcorn, whispering to the person next to them; wondering what was going on.

It's often how I felt each day. Constant confusion racing around my head as I tried to sort out everything that seemed to be slowly swallowing me up; my converses scuffling through the fallen autumn hues of leaves; the crackling sound calming me like my favorite book.

But, it's not like I'm complaining.

Sometimes confusion has to be there in order for people to understand everything. We all have our own views on the world, and someone else's view might be the most confusing thing of all to comprehend; if you can comprehend it at all.

But perhaps one of the topics that makes my head spin the most is friendship.
Weird huh?

For so long I haven't been able to determine whether someone is my friend.
It's hard, not knowing whether a person looks forward to seeing and talking to you everyday, or dreads the moment you open your mouth, annoying things flowing from the jumbles of letters that are floating around in your brain like a pan of alphabet soup.

I try to pay close attention to those feelings of others, thoughts computing through my brain like I'm some kind of a super computer. But lately it seems I need to be updated, as my skill level becomes less and less of the fastest technology out there and new ones come to take my place, each one better than the last.

In making new friends, I'm a complete newbie left in the dark; trying desperately to remember how to open up to someone and completely trust that person. I haven't done that since meeting my two best friends, and that was back in grade school.

Am I scared? Scared to open up again only to be crushed and betrayed? Afraid to think I have a new friend when I really don't? Terrified to get my hopes up? To the tell the truth, I don't know. Maybe somewhere deep within my subconscious mind that fear hides, eating away at my conscious thoughts; feeding off my everyday blunders and slip-ups.

The people in the theater are laughing now, and I hear every chuckle under the breath, meant to be polite, though it stings just as much. But I know they're right.

I stare off into space now, hand in cheek, foot slowly tapping against the sides of my desk trying to cure that annoying beat in my head from this mornings' Jazz band practice.

It's not like I'm looking for pity, or anything of that sort. In fact, that's the last thing I'm looking for. If I'm searching for anything, it would be honesty; the truth behind all my questions. That way maybe one less thing would be clouding up my mind, my vision, my ears, my mouth. That way maybe the truth would set me free, and my heart could pour open once more. My closest of friends seem to have the same trouble, trying to determine what is right, who is right, and what would be better left unsaid.
They admit they're lost in a state of denial; drowning in it's clutches, but they don't want to do anything about it. And then there's me, finally beginning to break out of that steel cocoon I've been lost in for so long.

Uncertainty is a strange thing. Denial seems to go along hand in hand with it, as both love to laugh and watch in glee while they tug on those invisible strings they've attached to your body, stringing you along like a soulless marionette.
The problem is, we as humans are not soulless.

I hope I can find an answer to my question. But if I don't, I guess I'm along for one hell of a ride, just like all of us are.

The people in the theater are silent now. Not a shuffle of feet, not a whisper to a partner, not a crunch of popcorn. The eerie quiet torrents over the people, but they don't seem to notice; they're too fixed on me, waiting to see what I'll do next. Whether I'll mess up or say something stupid, or perhaps someone will come up with the words that could set me free by making a smile cross my lips, or breaking that thin layer of ice I'm on and sending me down to the cold waters below.

The people in the theater are silent because, like me, they don't know what's going to happen next.

But whatever happens, it will be great for the movie.

Comments: (2)

Darkness, my old friend
Date: Oct 19th, 2005 9:56:40 pm - Subscribe
Mood: lost
Music: 'All at Sea' by Jamie Cullum

It's like that feeling you get right after you turn out the only light in a dark room. The halo of the single light-bulb you had stared at for so long mirages in front of your eyes in colors of red, yellow and orange; replenishing itself with every blink until it depletes into blackness.
You half consciously move your hand in front of your face. But the only way you know it's there, flapping away, is that your brain is telling you, hoping you'll listen. Or maybe you finally move it so close to your face that the six sense in the bridge of your nose tingles, or you end up hitting yourself right smack in the eyes and suddenly an array of red lines and blue orbs appear.
But when they disappear, you finally realize the darkness has completely engulfed you; silence ringing in your ears like a chorus.

Most of the time, I find this calming, and actually look forward to shutting off that blasted light and for the arrival of my old friend dark to come in and sweep me off my bed of troubles and stress.

But lately my best friend has become my enemy.

And now darkness has found a way to take it's long, bony fingers and wrap them around my pale neck, squeezing as hard as it can; it's claw-like fingernails digging into my soft flesh, trying to draw as much crimson as it can before a scream can pass through my windpipe.

"It's going to be okay, Marina. Everything's going to be fine. You wont notice a difference, and after a while he'll be up and walking again, just like old times. See Marina? Nothing's going to change."

Liars, all of you.
Why are you telling me something you don't even believe yourself? I can see it in your eyes- the fear, the redness from crying, the way you seek for other subjects to talk about and wince every time you hear those voices from the other room. It doesn't make sense. I'm fifteen now, I can handle the truth- I need the truth, can't you see that?
But no, to them, I'm still a baby- sitting there mute, dumb, and blind; speaking in my own language; oblivious to all that goes on.

I keep a straight face on as I enter that back room, trying to act as hopeful as everyone is faking to be. But the proof lies on the bed, and there's no denying what my thoughts tell me when my dark orbs lay upon the contents.

The truth is in front of our endless black holed eyes.

They talk about it upstairs as I type away in my lair. Every night they speak as though I always have music blaring in my ears and can't hear how they talk- about the problems they're too scared to say in front of my little sister and I, or even how they talk about me.

Yeah, sure, sometimes it hurts. My quench for knowledge always leaves me parched in this family. The truth is always hidden behind thick vines of white lies and false hopes- out of sight, out of mind- and I only have my ears and silent footsteps to use as a machete.

"See? He's doing better today, Marina. Why yesterday...."

Yeah, sure. By that point I tune you out, just like all teenagers do; knowing full well that your voice is cracking not because of a sore throat, and your eyes are red not because of allergies.
But my heart tells me to nod and be the pillar of strength and blindness to your lies; a pillar one could tell any and every problem to, and whether it knew it the whole time or not, would act as though this was the first time those words had ever been uttered on the face of this earth.

I know people look to me for strength.

Some are silent about it, others tell me to be, and then some just thank me over and over for being the hollow shell who stands up when they'd rather be falling, and allow them to crash to the ground without a second thought.
There's a part of me that doesn't mind being like that anchor on a stormy night sea voyage, but, of course, another part of me is screaming and hitting the interior of my forehead, commanding me to break down right on that spot. But that voice is only victorious when I lock the door to my room and am alone with my once again close friend.

But, if there is something I never minded about being that anchor, it's when other people tell me their problems, or tell me what is really wrong. It gives me the chance to forget about my life, to forget about all the lies, the fallacies, my fears and focus on anothers'.
I'm constantly telling people, or wish I had the courage to tell some that no matter what, they can come to me when they need to get something off their chests. Whether it be a problem, a secret, a worry, an anything, my quote that I use to break down their phobia of coming to me always is- "I like listening to other people's problems, so go right ahead."

And with that I offer whatever they need.

Secrecy is always a given, my lips becoming metal bars, impenetrable by any force.
I give them a shoulder to cry on, a pair of ears to never turn away, words of advice, condolence, support, or ones that never come out for they have no need to.
A similar story, or just a nod of the head, I want to do what I can for other people; especially ones I feel don't deserve what comes their way, or ones I don't even know personally- doesn't matter to me.
I try to be all these things that the person wants, ready to give that individual what they need and no one else is willing to give.

For some reason, I've never found it a problem, always receiving comments like, "You should become a psychologist."
Heh, yeah, sure, I'm just glad I could help.

Still, there's that little voice again who wishes I had someone I could let my guts fall on the floor to and not worry about picking them up or shutting them down forever. Someone I could bury my head into and cry for as long as I needed to, and they would simply place a comforting hand around me and tell me everything was going to be okay, even if they didn't know the whole story.

But, my time will come someday, I know it, and I fear it.
For someday I wont be able to keep this straight, strong face amongst the tear-streaked ones of others.
Someday something will happen that causes the waves to crash down so hard that the anchor breaks off from that metal chain and causes the mighty ship to go crashing down into Davy Jones' locker- never to sail again.
Someday, that irksome little voice will win, and it's influence will come streaming down my face as I fall to the ground.

I only hope that someone is there to catch me.

Comments: (3)

Up and out
Date: Sep 22nd, 2005 8:13:12 pm - Subscribe
Mood: mixed
Music: \'Remains of the day\' by Danny Elfman

I don't think people realize how much they can mean to someone.

It's a strange thought to contemplate- that maybe someone you hardly know, who you simply small talk with really appreciates you paying them the time of day.
But sometimes just a smile can send someone up to the top from the bottom of the pile. Sure, some people would say it's love, but our definitions of love are all so different, all so unique that it can easily get confused with something that it's not.

To this I wont explain, for my words could get twisted into ways I never intended them to be. I'll simply leave that topic with that.

I sighed, closing my book and setting down my pen, only to have my fingers tap nervously at the desk, my eyes falling to my watch, willing time to go faster and get this eighth period pit of a place over with.
I needed that bell to ring so I could rush home and pick up the one thing I truly loved.
I grabbed my pen again along with my books, holding onto them as a definite beat of some made-up song played in my head- the chords and beat repeating in my ears and coming out my pen like someone had turned up the sound to a never-ending ocean wave.
The whole day had seemed to drag on as my head was already full of so much junk I knew there was only one way to clear it.

The bell sounding off key caused my song to be put on pause abruptly as I jumped out of my seat and raced out the door.
Today was not a day to pause.
Today was a day to power walk.

My black and white low-top converse shoes quickly lead me upstairs to my locker, as with a quick 'Excuse me', I was in the middle of two guys that were in the same grade as me- our lockers so close together that it didn't allow us much space.
I didn't mind it at all, however, the guys there were pretty cool, and actually knew their manners.

Huzzah for that my friend, Huzzah for that.

But I barely had enough time before my locker was closed and I was on my way down the stairs, once again music playing in my endless voided mind. In a flash, I was out the door and on the sidewalk- and then, a lot later than I wanted, walking into my house.

As if I was a robot, I let my messenger bag full of all the things I needed to get out of my head fall to the ground, not even bothering to take off my shoes as I raced down a small flight of stairs, and into the garage, taking a small turn, a close of the door, and another flight of stairs to my sanctuary.
I paused at the bottom of the stairs, my one hand resting on the railing.
I breathed in deeply, letting a satisfied smile cross my face before I slowly walked over to my little corner, three old friends greeting me.

I picked up the first one- a junior Yamaha acoustic, just small enough for my ten year old hands at the time I had started. But now sitting down with it, blowing some dust off it's hollow body, and playing a few blues scales with my fifteen year old fingers I couldn't help but chuckle as I missed a fret, only to have my F fall sharp.
The wood felt so worn and old, yet so familiar as I played some simply chords-D, G, C, D7- over and over, the warm acoustic sound forming from the old strings echoing off the walls of the room, reminding me of some old times I hadn't thought of in a long time.
I let the last chord ring, smiling sentimentally before placing back on it's stand, it seeming to be a lot happier than it had been moments before.

My hands picked up the next one- a dark blue and black Ibanez electric acoustic with a cream trim that I had gotten at thirteen. This one also had some dust, though not as much as the first, as it's full sized body seemed so strange in my hands after handling the other.
But my fingers soon began to explore the frets, a few jazz scales and chords singing out from it's shell, the strings purring with a feeling of pure comfort. The smooth neck allowed me to go up the frets easier than the other as I stopped at the seventh, playing a E7+9, though I was only half conscience of it at the time. My fingers were doing all the work, allowing my brain to kick back and enjoy the show.
My fingers stopped moving after it had let that last A minor chord play it's worth, causing my eyes to slowly open, a content sigh passing my lips as I set it carefully on it's stand, the strings calling me to come back, though I had to ignore it so I could pick up one last one.

A sly grin tugged at my lips when I did, it only tugging more as I placed the black Fender solid body electric's black and white strap over my shoulder. Flipping a switch, electricity flowed through a small, but powerful tube amp and up my fingertips, exploding into panatonic scales that ran up and down the rosewood neck faster than I had ever played them before.
Power chords followed, suddenly the ripping solo turning into that same song that had been stuck in my head the whole day.

Then the room disappeared, a dark stage appearing where I stood, an awed crowd watching my every movement, hanging on my every note. Lights hues of white, blue and red shone on me like a spotlight, but I was bathing in it.
Words flowed out of my mouth, more solo following, the huge weight disappearing from my shoulders as black wings sprouted from my back, though I didn't notice.
I was caught in the moment.
I was flying up and out, though my feet never left the ground.
And now, whenever I feel stress building to the point of breaking, I find my true love- my guitars, and everything disappears and only I am left.

Me and my guitars, concurring the world, one note at a time.

Comments: (1)

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