Rainstorm growing pains

I feel like a foreigner
in my own country
as I make my way
home.
I wonder, where is my home anyway?
Where can I find it?
It'd be nice if someone
could point me somewhere
and tell me to stay put,
I think as I slog through the tunnels
in your purposefully-decimated boots.
Slish, slosh,
they are filled with puddles.
I look at my reflection
in the window of the bus
as I confront this old, familiar feeling
made new in light of jarring information.
What am I doing.
and
Why am I doing it.
and
Will I continue to
torture myself this way.
I want to be your best friend,
I tell my reflection.
You don't need anyone else.
Fuck 'em all---look what they've done to you.
I gave my last five-dollar bill
to the friendly bus driver
and before that
I gave one to a man
who told me
that he was schizophrenic
and recited a poem.
A self-conscious man
stomps his boots
in an attempt to be noticed.
Another broken wine bottle
adorns the floor
with its shards of glass.
Don't try to comfort me.
Don't try to reassure me
with pats on the back.
You're part of the problem,
and I hate myself for letting you into
my life
so willingly--
I've crossed borders
for you.
It was bound to happen eventually.
I realize that
you're just as unhealthy as me
and wonder whether this
is comforting
or disconcerting.

A few things

These past few days
I've learned a few things
that I'd like to share:
I am overly attached to my personal library,
inspiration can be found absolutely everywhere,
painting is a beautiful exercise,
and it is easier to feel sexy
without a bra.

First day here

Moved in yesterday. Am I questioning my decisions? Yes. Am I wondering how I'm going to survive all of this without a plan? (I'm groping for one.) Yes.

But, as silly as it sounds, I have this feeling that everything will turn out a-okay.

Journal snippets #2

5/28 (was a poem-filled day for me)

If good happens, good.
If bad happens,
even better.
What difference?
All distinction lies in perception alone.
How I long to feel indifferent, content,
grateful,
and steady on my own two feet.
Remain still. Remain steady
and everything will become clear.
Of this I am convinced--
you will bask in the insignificance
of all things
and your mind will be
unbelievably liberated.

---

My life is a flash of colors,
all blended.
Some magnificently bright,
some very dull.
Some lingering longer than others.
Only when I concentrate fully,
mind focused on a
single point,
can I place it all
in a context
with some significance.

We mesh together
like well-worded poetry--
no one can tell
where one thing stops
and the other ends
they are amazed
by the whole
that we are.
Our message is what matters
to those who look on as we
nuzzle and chat
on these subway seats
laying
beneath us--
a muted blue.

Look at my face
and you will see not a trace
of a care in the world.
Dig a little deeper
and you'll see the
bubbling magma.

---

There's poetry to be heard
in the way our feet
hit the pavement,
in the way a childhood friend resurfaces again
and looks away shyly,
groping for comments
on memories long gone.
How far we have come,
both of us now grown
and harboring obligations to the world;
maybe this is a sign for me to slow down
and enjoy my youth.

---

Trains leave this place every two minutes,
and where are we all going?
I watch as a man frantically chooses numbers
from a brightly-lit screen.

He bets eagerly
on a sense of security
that does not exist.

He doesn't know the odds of this game.
Those who understand the odds
do not play.

---

5/29

I turn the pages of my notebook to a new one--fresh start. Yes, today is a new day, and I know that having an uncertain future, with no plan or direction in mind, is a surefire way to run into excitement.

I await it with an open mind.

---

"Penn Station Observation"

All of these people in suits
rushing to and fro,
they have people to see
and so many places to go.
And here I am,
negotiating with my breakfast and
learning how not to spill coffee
on my white dress shirt.

Empty

Let me start off by saying that you did nothing wrong. It's me, it's all me.

Isn't it sad how I sit here, aching to revisit last night, pining to feel alive once again? I keep saying that I'm through with it, I'm done, I don't want to see you again. I want to sever all ties. But it's a lie; deep down, I know that this isn't true, and I'm cursing myself for getting involved in this whole thing in the first place.

And why? We had a fantastic time last night. It's all because I was expecting something else, something more--as I always do. And, time and time again, I end up feeling as disappointed and empty as I feel right now.

I'm sitting here, sketching halfheartedly. I can hardly force myself to bring anything to a finish. I'm restlessly jumping back and forth from one task to another while revisiting scenes from last night--my legs curled around you, your body against mine, your cold lips pressed against my chest as we hide from the wind.

My mind won't sit still. What more could I have done? I ask myself. I want to talk to you right now, more than anything. But I would have nothing to say to you. We usually let our bodies do the talking.

The other night I went through a drawer in my nightstand where I kept all of the love letters I've accumulated throughout the years and threw all of them in the garbage. Interspersed with the letters were some journal entries that I wrote in high school, and almost all of them were about girls. My life back then revolved around romantic relationships, much as it does right now.

As much as I like to think that I've matured emotionally since then, these journal entries spoke of the same exact feelings I'm experiencing right now--despondence, emptiness, and general despair--all because I felt ignored by someone I longed for. The fact that I haven't changed in terms of the way I view my interpersonal relationships saddens me deeply.

I have always been extremely susceptible to heartache. I'm beginning to think that I'm a sadist, because I pursue unsatisfying relationships like ours and push away those people who accept me completely.

I find solace in words when people can provide me none. And this is something that people can never fully do for me; at the end of it all, it's up to me to make peace with things. No one else, no matter how loving they are, can help me lead a fulfilling life.

It's a scary thing to resign to the fact that we all are, essentially, alone in all of this. But this is something I have to fully realize. Until then, there is no rest for me, and I will continue to suffer.

Conversation with guru

"Fire. There's a fire burning inside of me," I say. "I guess you could call it a yearning,
a longing for something." 

I smirk a little.

"There are buildings in Europe that are thousands of years old,

structures in Egypt and Latin America

even older than that.

Civilization has run its course for thousands of years, 

honey,
and that's not even taking the rest of the universe into consideration," she says.

This woman sitting across the table from me,

she's peering.

Peering into me.

She sees it all

in the way the lights bounce off the lenses 

covering 

my pupils.

These lenses--so penetrable,

so open

to those who know how to peel away the layers.

And this woman,

she's doing it with magnificent precision.

She's seeing things in me that I wasn't even aware of,

accessing different levels of my psyche,

giving me advice

that I didn't know I needed.

"So tell me," I say. 

"Tell me more."

And now, 

she's telling me to let it go, my problems are made up.

It will all work out.

There are higher forces.

And you expect me not to grip the table
and scream in her face?

That's my gut reaction, baby, I'm expressive.

I'm dying here,

and I don't want to fizzle out. 

Roman candles and all that.

But we've been through this before.

I silence myself.

And she just sits there with the kindest eyes you'll ever see,

looking right at me,

through me,

and bouncing it all back.

"Oh, you think you are clever." She chuckles.

"And you are. But did you ever think of this…?"

No, no, I hadn't thought of that. Hadn't even considered it.

I soften, lower my gaze, let my shoulders sink

as I think.

"Quiet the mind," she says.

She smiles sweetly,

pleasantly, 

and closes her eyes.

I look up at her, feeling all my energy
surge back, electrifying my fingertips.
I twitch.

Is she crazy? Why am I here?

"How can I quiet a mind that's in a thousand places at once?" I ask,
incredulous.
"The world is falling apart
at our feet.
Blood covers the streets.
We're being murdered, our dreams betrayed,
every day,
people like you and me.
Life's beating us down incessantly.
Suffering! There's no rest.
Yet you sit here smiling
as if you have not a care in the world."
Her eyes remain closed.

Her smile widens.

After a period of silence, she responds.

"If you wish to be given everything,

give everything up."

"Moby" unfinished

This is what I spent the afternoon working on:

This is far from the original image, it's far from beautiful, and it's far from finished. But I'm okay with all of that. I am trying to teach myself, and I see that I am learning.

I treated this as an experiment with blending and color. I like how the shading of the nose came out--it's my favorite part of this piece so far. I really, really enjoy painting. I got lost in the process today, and it felt so good.