Dusting Off My Blog

So I don't know who I'm speaking to. I'm essentially speaking to myself. I doubt anyone reads this shit, but that's not the point. I don't didn't write for other people, I write for myself; and I've let myself down. I used to write all the time, almost every day, if not by blog by personal journal. In fact I used to do a variety of things that qualified as "me time", like finding new music or researching subjects that interest me. But I don't know the last time I've done any of that - connected with myself - and it's not okay. I've lost touch with who I am, let myself go in an abstract, metaphysical sort of way. Writing brought me solace, clarity. I understand myself better when I can read the words that pour from my finger tips. But I gave it up because of that great thing we call 'life' getting in the way. I'm re-prioritizing.

Being in a foreign country, I'm discovering my lost independence. I'm being placed in situations I could have never imagined, and being tested like never before. (For example: the airline lost my luggage. This is day two of me having no personal belongings. They say it's coming, but that's what they've been saying, and I'm not holding my breath. As a result, my once-in-a-lifetime European adventure has occurred in my only pair of clothes.) But being finding myself in positions such as this has truly helped me grow as a person, realizing that clothes aren't the end of the world and I can still visit the country of my dreams without needing to wear the cutest outfit in my wardrobe (to look snazzy in all the pictures I'm taking, duh). What's more important is where I AM: one of the oldest cities in the world and my most lusted after destination, Rome. And I want to let it all out, to share what I've encountered, even if it's just my laptop I'm speaking to. I don't care. But it's time to dust off my blog and go back to my roots. It's 4 AM here but my thoughts are bubbling and I must keep writing..

I'm going to start writing about my travels. If that doesn't interest you, don't bother reading. But I'm going back to my roots, and writing about what I've learned.

There are bigger things

So today I got laid off from the best job I've ever had the opportunity of working. In turn I went to the beach and split a six pack between a homeless man and myself.

The alcohol helped but the real difference was made by walking barefoot in the sand, feeling the cold, invigorating ocean wash over my naked toes.

We discussed nature and "what is God?" and the magnaminities of life altogether. If for just an afternoon, my problems were quieted. There are bigger things.

I'm not sure what makes me cry more: when people are really, really mean to me, or when people are really, really nice..

Strange

Imploding

I am on the brink of implosion,
the weight of it all is heavy,
so heavy,
and drags me to
a central pinpoint
of nothingness.

Self-banishment

Wipe not these tears from my face but rather the image of my memory from your mind.

There is a blizzard inside my head

A vicious storm,
Flurries of blistering emotion
Lash cruelly about.
The icy snow
Whips at me,
Leaving me stung
And becoming numb.
So heavy does it fall,
My vision is obscured
And I cannot see.
I don't know the way.
Ambiguously I trudge on
Without direction,
My only aim being
Refuge from the enclosing chaos.
I fear the peace I find
Once I'm finally warm
Will only be the eye of the storm.

Trying

I try to write about how you make me feel.
I can't.
It's not that I can't articulate, that I can't remember
strong hands, safe embraces,
salty kisses and the
scent of your skin.
I can.
But the thought makes me sick.
And it's always highlight,
erase.

I'm trying.
To write, to talk,
To be normal,
Resume.
I can't.