Why can't we see? Why do we want the things we want? and why can't we see the things that work and see how easy it could be to make them work. Instead, of obsessing over something that we won't work. We live in memories. Why can't we see past things, past those moments of brokenness? I want to and I did. And now I need to force myself to not see past those mistakes, to not think about you and to see you, past all of those mistakes. Now, I need to see past wanting this and find something that would work. I need to see past and find what I can't see, that works.

I don't want to see the person I used to see. I need to view the kid who doesn't want me and who didn't value me no matter what else. 

You are still so the love of my life, Christian.

"Need a roommate? I feel like this is mega-creepy, kinda craigslist, and super awkward, but I suppose I'll have to solicit the Schmooze for potential roommates, too. SO, a little bit about myself:

I'm a first-semester sophomore concentrating in the history of art & architecture, with a secondary concentration in the studies of women, gender, and sexuality. That means I'm gay. (Also, a feminist.) I worked for Hillary Clinton's presidential campaign last semester (politically, I'm left of center), in New Hampshire. That means I'm comfortable with rural/small town folk. (Also, appreciative of people who aren't.) I'm originally from Ohio, but moved to Florida when I was young. I'm clean, organized, and spend a lot of my time outside of my room. I wake up as late as I can, and go to sleep as late as necessary (sometimes not at all). I have a semi-extensive movie collection and a wide range of books (from Atlas Shrugged to works by David Sedaris to Standing Firm, Dan Quayle's terrible autobiography)."

So, I ask you, give me "Something."

It has become as custom of mine now, not only a custom, but a bad custom, to sleep to ignore life. And so when I am at my most nervous, most disappointed, most uncertain, I sometimes find no other solution than to sleep. When this drug-like sleep does take over me, it is not of great depth. On the contrary, I can see life happening as I sleep and I try to live it, in that other world where it seems more justifiable or possible. Lately, it all seems so tiring, that I feel it driving me to leave. I need to hope for "Something" else, for "Something" within the outside that can give me a certain breath of impulse. But it all seems like a custom and routine. And somehow, amongst it all, I seem to pass by unwanted and unrecorded. There is "Something" so large lacking in this fulfillment. And knowing, how much another did matter, and realizing that whatever I am to you, just didn't make it that far, did not make it on a list, is, sadly, still disappointing. 

So here I am, asking for "Something". 

Untitled.

I meant to write a short piece about me, not so much about me, but what matters to me. We could maybe call it: what I am made of. But I've got nothing. It seems undefined. And in the course of those few hours that I waited to write this, a lot happened and I simply lost the thought. In some way though, its not that I lost the thought, but more that after all of this time I can't answer. I cannot pinpoint what matters to me. Some people love music, some people love art, and some people love writing, but for me, maybe because of my lack of memory retention, because of my inability to research or to download, I don't love. I can't say I love, because I can't truly and profoundly love; to love is to know. And I can't say that I know about something, because I don't know about anything at all. I detest the idea that I, sincerely, don't know about anything. I can't tell you about anything. I can't tell you about art, about music, about history, about poetry, about philosophy, because I don't know them. I am blank.

But I don't feel blank; there must be something with in me. It is just not complete, so much to the point that I can conclude, that I don't know anything. I could say I love art, and poetry and philosophy, but how can I, if I don't know them? 

I'd like to go back to writing poetry. I'd like to go back to having those vivid thoughts that I so constantly described with picturing metaphors. But I can't. When I call for such a description, it never comes. I guess, my being, the 'me,' will remain untitled, because it is blank. I am blank, and untitled.  

Her.

Sometimes, when I hear her poems, I just wonder off, away from her words. And, as her critic I wonder if she'll change her topic or her style. But inside I wonder more. I wonder when will she heal? When will she be able to let go? And when will her memories stop being in animation and become static? Because to constantly re-live them, is perpetuation of a wound, the creation of a scar. Let her find a new topic, let her see something new, because now, its time for both of us to heal.

Ok, here we go again, just trying to clear some thoughts, and see the result.

There is something missing.

You see, when I asked you if you wake up at odd times and and feel it missing? I meant it. Something left us, something gone. I wonder if we could find it. No, I wonder what happened, to then wonder can we re-construct it? or can we begin building for the first time? can we search for it? can someone give it back? I need to know what happened first to fix it. And truly, I don't know if we lost it. I don't know if we had it, because I can't remember. Was it her memory that took it away? or was it just me that saw it and when you looked it just wasn't there? It seems like it could be a game we played. But then again, I don't want to play games. I guess my mind knows that our time is getting too short for that. Because you see, friendship is fine and all. But what else is there? And don't tell me that what is there is what we see at night because that, well, that I didn't feel. And maybe that's the thing, I need to feel. Before any of this I need to feel. But I don't know what to feel, because I don't know what you feel. Sounds ridiculous now? Cause we can't base how we feel on a parameter of how much can I feel compared to you. This shouldn't be about an equal amount, like at the flea market. Yet, now it is. Because I cannot deny to myself that I am afraid to do this again and to end up hearing the lines that expressed that the feelings were just not equal. The funny thing is, I still wonder how you could have said that to me and I wonder if it is so easy to let go of that, just because I want you here with me. I need you to make me think its ok, to let me know its ok. I need you to be someone else, to be real. But you, my friend, yeah cause that's all we should end up as, friends. Well, you my friend just don't want to do that and just aren't that way, at least with me. This is then more upsetting, because it is just with me, because with someone else you cared. And you say you care, and I want to take you for your word, but its about showing it. It's about giving me time in your time. It's about giving me attention, but then again when I want it I wonder if I am just being a baby. All the while wondering, if I could throw this away, and throw away something that I might want later. Do something, well, like you did. Is this about time? Am I supposed to give it time and just expect my little mind to be working 24.7 to see a little sign that its ok? If you would at least give me that, I'd wait. But maybe we are just missing the spark now a days and there isn't even one picture to show that there ever was.