Partners in Crime

You're gonna leave someday,
but I hope I stay
Inside your heart,
even though we're miles away.
Cause what scares me
is the thought that you'll grow up
and you'll forget that I'm waiting,
the same I ever was.
The same I ever was. 

Blowing Bubbles

It was the eleventh day of the month twice after January, twenty-three minutes, scratch that, twenty-two minutes to the hour after five in the afternoon with some uncertain amount of seconds having passed when I first realized: bubbles are evil.

Manipulative, selfish, little creatures, bubbles are. And I'm not even talking about the searing pain, twice the heat of a thousand white hot suns, when the little devils pop in your eye.

No, I've always thought of them as a protection from the outside world, a shield. But if you go on thinking like that, they'll return the favor by locking you in instead.

That's why you and I will never be important. 

The inside babies the prideful. It praises the selfish, the rationalizers, the pretenders, the judgemental, and most of all, the liars.
And the outside lets loose the dirty, the sinners, the the rationalizers, the work-a-holics, and the reckless. At least they're honest about it.

So it doesn't matter who's life you save, or the amount of money you make, or the quality of your latest blog post. You will never make it to the hall of fame.

It's all because you're inside. You're the pride being babied, and so am I. 

But who said you couldn't pop the bubble? The splash might sting a little, but no one ever got anywhere without a little opposition.

If you're still breathing you're the lucky one.

Death is the permanent cessation of all biological functions that sustain a living organism.

"[But] suppose that people live forever. . .

With infinite life comes an infinite list of relatives.

Sons never escape from the shadows

of their fathers. Nor do daughters of their mothers.

[With life] no new enterprise is new. All things have

been attempted by some antecedent in the family tree.

[With life] no person is whole. No person is free.

Over time, some have determined

that the only way to live is to die. In death, a man or

a woman is free of the weight of the past. These few

souls, with their dear relatives looking on, dive into

Lake Constance or hurl themselves from Monte Lema,-

ending their infinite lives. In this way, the finite has

conquered the infinite, millions of autumns have

yielded to no autumns, millions of snowfalls have

yielded to no snowfalls, millions of admonitions have

yielded to none."

Death is the permanent cessation of all biological functions that sustain a living organism.

Life is the general or universal condition of human existence.

Infinite life is chaos.

A chaos that never ends.

So through the eyes of one living an infinite life, through the eyes of one who knows all, who has seen all, heard all, tried all, been all, there is nothing quite more relinquishing

than death.

Funny, seeing death as relinquishing when through the eyes of one who lives a normal life, death is adorned with pain. Every soul breathes its last breath, heaving through corrupted lungs before it joins the choir invisible, and perishes. 

The Stink of Think

Please believe me when I say it's not on purpose . . .
It's not like I saw the 'filthy stupid hobbitses' and thought of you. No, you're a tad bit too tall, and a little less than rough around the edges.
And that chapstick on the counter, well, you look nothing like it
yet I see you in everything.

And somehow everybody knows when I'm thinking of you.
It doesn't matter what I try-- rolling in mud, splashing through creeks, even keeping air-freshener sticks in my pockets-- the stink of think just wont. Go. Away.

And perhaps at one point that stink was more of a pleasant breeze.
A fragrant perfume, or the sweet-smelling flowers that grow in your yard.
But even fragrant perfume can be worn too much and sweet smelling flowers, though they fight,
         
                   striving
                                                                     reaching
                                                                                                             
                              begging and grasping for life, 

will succumb to the winter air.

So I suppose I do think of you. And I suppose at one point I might have called it love.
Yes, like the fairy-tales, I remember.
But those memories have turned sour.

Cinderella has gone barefoot
                      and Rapunzel now sports an afro.
                                           
Don't flatter yourself.
Because though I think of you

it's in a confused-newborn sort of way.

Stranger

Hello. I don't believe we've met before.
So I wave you in, and a sudden vision wriggles through my mind.
It leaves in a flash, and you step through the door.
Shuffling, from foot to foot, I take you through the hallway,
Images adorn the brown plastered walls.
You stop for a moment, pointing to that picture taken on a fall day.
It's of no particular importance to me, yet that sudden vision strikes again,
and leaves just as quickly.

We finally reach the dining room, a white tea set completes a long table
you smile, and take a seat two to the the right on the East side.
I was going to sit there, but I know you are old and sit where you are able.
Your grey hair is chopped, not cut, as if in a ricocheting battle with itself over which length it should be.
Your eyes are lined with wrinkles, and your hands worn from the instruments you play.
Though I'm not quite sure how I know you played an instrument, but perhaps you've played two, or three.
Perhaps I remind you of you.
We do seem alike.

But that means nothing, because that vision strikes again.
And this time it stays.

These visions are no visions, but our vision switching places.
For I am you, and you are me, and you are no stranger, which I suppose makes me no stranger.
This I can see clearly out of your eyes, my old, wise eyes.
This ballroom is no ballroom, it's a pile of dirt in the middle of the field.
And the last thing I know
is that . . .
I am reliving the moments I wish I could change, but cannot.
And that, that is why I am stuck here digging my own grave.
And we are the shovel.

Wee woo

I don't even hear them anymore. They come around everyday and everybody yells, "Wee woo wee woo WEE WOO," and runs to the window to see where it's going. But honestly, I don't pay much attention to them anymore, and I do not hear wee woo. Maybe wreeoo, or waaeeo, but not wee woo. When I tell my parents that I don't care they give me this look of disgust.
                                   "Somebody could be dead."
                                                                                         "Someone could've lost a family member."
And then my little brother chimes in.
                       "Somebody could have gotten their head chopped off! It's like that video game I was playing. Oh man, the guys on my team were crazy."
And they quickly hush him with a piece of cake and his favorite action figure. But what do I get? I get a lecture about how "empathy is so important in life," and how "without it we'll never amount to much." It's not that I don't care about the people. It's just that we live in Utah. And it's the winter.

Did I mention I'm sick today? I'm sitting here in school trying not to crash, but then this thought comes to mind. Maybe if I hit my head against the keyboard enough times I'll die. But then I'll end up in one of those wee woo machines and that'd be just as bad. This sickness is making me delirious.

Wee woo. Wee. Woo. Weeee woo.
On second thought, maybe I'll take that ambulance.

When Life Gives You Lemons

"She is the most amazing thing to happen to us..."
                                       "You sure are lucky to have such a sweet child..."
                                                                          "She is the most gorgeous baby I've ever seen..."
She came with a head of dark hair. She came with hazel eyes that hardly cried. She came pure and perfect.

Then she grew. 

"She is the most amazing thing to happen to us..."

                                      "You won't have her for much longer."

                                                                           "This type of cancer is extremely rare."

She smiled through the pain. The bruises covered her, but they didn't define her. No, her smile, her light defined her. That happy little girl fought and she fought hard, though she didn't even know she was fighting. To her it was just life. 

Then she was cured.

She was shy. She hardly made friends.
                         Yet she was truly, incredibly happy for a long while.
She wasn't one to look at clothing, beauty, or popularity as an indication of success or the ability to love.
                                                                              She wasn't society's robot.
Video games with her brothers intrigued her. Frisbee, long-boarding, singing. She was diverse in her talents...                          
                                    but no one knew that.
No one knows she can sing. No one knows she is incredibly funny, or that she will fight to keep you.
                             She'll fight for you like she fought for herself.
                                                                                                   She knows the value of life.

But no one knows that because she's shy. 

She's lived a lifetime of pain and still fights through it. 

She was cured of Leukemia. 

But what if she hadn't been.