klena | And this is the way it is

I've been thinking...About everything. Maybe this is what 5 straight days in McDs and a day off does to you...

I'm sorry I'm ungrateful. I don't think I deserve your attention or that you should think about me. I don't understand why people find me worthy of their time and energy and love. I think sometimes, 'yeah, OK I'm a dork and you still want to hang out with me and that's so cool' and sometimes I think 'why? Why do you think of me?'. I believe that people already know how I feel - and that that's why I'm alone sometimes or why people look at me funny.

I'm not making much sense even to myself, am I?

And sometimes I wish I could be more - I wish I had the energy to chase everyone down and make sure they're OK and if I can help them out. I wish I had the time. I wish there was a way I could show people that I cared. And I don't think I can.

I have so much to say to people and when I'm with them, I end up saying nothing or, as in the case of me and June (and Libby) in Belfast last week, I start saying what I feel and I made both of us weepy. I didn't mean to, but I need to get these things off my chest because...

Because. I'm leaving my home in half a year. I'm growing up. I don't need the support I used to. I do need the support. I need to be comforted. I need someone to tell me to wise the fuck up. I need someone to tell me that it's alright to get emotional when I think of taking down my photo wall. I'll need someone with me when I pack up my room. I need someone to prompt me to draw porn to get my mind of things. I need someone to say 'just chill - it's alright.' I need someone.

I feel so stupidly isolated and then I feel really connected and...I don't know how I feel. And I'll listen to everyone, because I can't not listen. It's not in my nature too.

Fuck.

I'm sorry for this. I didn't realise I was going to ramble like that. I didn't realise how much this was all getting to me. Sorry.

Emily Dickinson for

trowicia

I Died For Beauty

I DIED for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,” I replied.
“And I for truth,—the two are one;
We brethren are,” he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.

One Need Not Be A Chamber To Be Haunted

ONE need not be a chamber to be haunted,
One need not be a house;
The brain has corridors surpassing
Material place.

Far safer, of a midnight meeting
External ghost,
Than an interior confronting
That whiter host.

Far safer through an Abbey gallop,
The stones achase,
Than, moonless, one’s own self encounter
In lonesome place.

Ourself, behind ourself concealed,
Should startle most;
Assassin, hid in our apartment,
Be horror’s least.

The prudent carries a revolver,
He bolts the door,
O’erlooking a superior spectre
More near.

It Was Not Death

IT was not death, for I stood up,
And all the dead lie down;
It was not night, for all the bells
Put out their tongues, for noon.

It was not frost, for on my flesh
I felt siroccos crawl,—
Nor fire, for just my marble feet
Could keep a chancel cool.

And yet it tasted like them all;
The figures I have seen
Set orderly, for burial,
Reminded me of mine,

As if my life were shaven
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key;
And ’t was like midnight, some,

When everything that ticked has stopped,
And space stares, all around,
Or grisly frosts, first autumn morns,
Repeal the beating ground.

But most like chaos,—stopless, cool,—
Without a chance or spar,
Or even a report of land
To justify despair.

I Heard A Fly Buzz - When I Died

I HEARD a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.

The eyes beside had wrung them dry,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.

I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable,—and then
There interposed a fly,

With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz,
Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see.

He Fumbles At Your Spirit

He fumbles at your spirit
As players at the keys
Before they drop full music on;
He stuns you by degrees,

Prepares your brittle substance
For the ethereal blow,
By fainter hammers, further heard,
Then nearer, then so slow

Your breath has time to straighten,
Your brain to bubble cool, --
Deals one imperial thunderbolt
That scalps your naked soul.

Success is Counted Sweetest
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.

Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of Victory

As he defeated-dying
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!