Well everything I write is a question.

Well, I'm home. It seems I'm taking a vacation from this journey I've started without you. I'm searching for truth for you. I'm writing it down for you.
But everything I write is a question.

I may argue, I may speak unilaterally but the truth is that I forge convictions.
I may be close to realizing that I don't believe in answers.

I wish I could say that I've lived for you what I've kept you from, I wish I could deliver you answers, conclusions, certainty in these precious moments of your life -- but all I have are questions.
I've missed you.

But Julia helped me to realize something.
Every picture perfect thing she did, every scripted thing she said, it was a perfect portrayal of who she wanted to be. She played it perfectly. She knew she played it well. And she construed it as security. There was no discrepancy between her and her ideal self. She was content because she played her role in such away that achieved the perfect balance between art and accuracy. Julia was an artist and an engineer. Julia was a character.
We are all characters. Every person I've met that walks this planet is a mirror image of the lives they've lived, the people they've encountered. We do what we see. We are what we see.
People will try to convince you that there's more to them than their actions. But we run what we do by our egos -- and we do what we are.
But love, are we what we do?

Expose? People guard their identities and protect their secrets and build and build on these things until there are whole parts of them that are perceived by no one but themselves. Is this who we are? Is this fabricated set of ego foundations the revered and acclaimed self that we pride ourselves on possessing?
Do we possess this?
And for every bit of knowledge, is there someone, somewhere who doesn't want it to be percieved?
Whose duty is it to expose? And whose is it to advocate?

Every question is an opportunity. An opportunity to recognize, to plan, to implement, and to evaluate. To come closer to arriving at an answer, which I have come to find is often no more than a slightly more specific question.
Tell me, how close is close enough?
Is it close enough to have the question lying asleep cradled in your arms?

I am cradled. I have always been cradled, but I am only one.
My hand has always been held and my soil has always been rich. I have been nourished and manicured. And weaned into growth. I have been imprisoned, but before I could realize it, was set free.

I have been taught to lean, but not to fall. I have been taught to bargain, and to never sell myself short. I have been taught to ask, but not to answer.
In fact, there are either infinite things that I am or am not, or there is nothing that I am or am not.
I am all or nothing.

Oh love, are we all, or are we nothing?

Defeated

Good morning, beautiful, haven't a coffee. Have a headache. Have a workload. Haven't a shoulder to lean on. Haven't any money.

When you only ask to feel a little better than slighted.
When the food's bad, you're cold, and there's no heater.
When you're stressed.
When you've been used and what goes around isn't making its way back around.
When the light at the end of the tunnel is visible, but dim and dull.
When you're straight up in limbo.

You know it's a bad day.

Everything I have touched today has turned to shit.
Every pick-me-up has brought me back down.
It's not funny anymore, I usually laugh this shit off.
But today, it's not fucking funny.

I don't even know what else to say. I can usually find comfort in my own thoughts and ramblings because no one can tell me that they're untrue. But today comfort is nowhere.
I don't have time to hit reset, dad. I can't do that today. I have grades to make.

Let the patheticness of this post be indicative of mood.
Done.

Sleepless nights.

And that's the fucking truth, it's simple and easy.
It's the way it never is, but it's the way that it should be.

Lyricising has been happening a lot lately in this very room where I sit, tired but restless, exhausted but sleepless in a pile of blankets and unorganized thoughts.
I have a test tomorrow. But my deviation from the normal [out-till-one having hella fun with awesome kids] mentality has been fucking with me emotionally.

I hope that's what it is. God I hope this feeling of unaccomplished stress is just an [I-have-a-test-tomorrow-so-I-haven't been having enough fun lately] kind of thing. Crazy how things take it's toll.

I spent a lot of time in the past few days thinking about the delicate balance between fun time and alone time. I think I achieved the balance last week when I saw Jupiter from the top of the RLM building and followed friends to the art building to waste time just...being. Those are the kinds of things you live to tell about. Not the 96 on the psych test. Don't get me wrong. That shit's awesome, and I need to do that. But I will NOT sacrifice growing and learning and BEING experience for that calibrated bullshit.

Oh yeah, I went there. Thought I've been having a lot. Calibration. What bullshit. Who's to say you can demonstrate your thorough knowledge of a subject by spitting out exactly what learning objectives one professor thinks you should know. I'm not blaming the professor. I'm blaming society for not realizing the irony in using a system of simplification (A/B scale) to measure depth of understanding.

Always get to thinking about that. One time I met someone who agreed before I ever introduced the idea. "Maybe we're the idiots, because we see what's going on, but we still submit to it."

On the other hand, I don't want to be a sinking boat. I don't want anyone to be a sinking boat.
I know a sinking boat. I just didn't know he was sinking.
I wish he wasn't sinking. But I think all I can do is wish.

I have to be content with myself before I can invest said self into anyone else, right?
And I know where I want to invest that self.

But I digress.

The point of this blog was to say last week was awesome and this week, so far, is not.
And to put me to sleep.
I might not sleep well until I feel like myself again.

Khuda fuz.

Defining the Line

Remember that one time I started a blog and thought I would be able to keep up with it?
Ha. Right.

I'm going to spare myself from spewing the minor details surrounding the bridges I've built and burned and crossed and that have fallen and crumbled and come undone.
I've come undone.

I'm a lady. It's recently dawned on me that I'm a lady. Like, I know I'm a fucking girl and shit. But I'm also a lady. I get special privileges. I get shotty without having to claim it. I get into parties. I make eyes and score free things. You know, the things that matter?

It's also recently occurred to me that, since I'm a lady, I don't get the thrill of romantic pursuit.
Since I'm a lady, if I do the seeking, I'm a pathetic desperate bitch.
I don't feel that way, but the simple truth is that I'd much rather feel bored and uncomplicated than as if I was looked upon as a dumb slut.

Boys get fucking everything. I think I know where Beyonce was coming from with that dumb ass shitty "if I were a boy" song. It's so ridiculous though. No matter how much I hang out with the bros, sit like a bro, talk like a bro, I can't escape the confines of this "lady" bullshit.
I'm really mad at the women before us who decided to sit pretty and cook and clean and sew and fuck while the guys were out pursuing exactly what they wanted, and getting it.

And to think people say we've evolved as a people. Ha. Letting guys pay for us. Open fucking doors for us. Walking on the inside of the street. Waiting for them to call us. Getting pretty for them. Socially, everything we do that makes us women is to cater to the wants of guys.

I know I'm not the first one to think this. That's why I'm not going to be on the spectrum -- the one that has these subservient ignoramuses on one side and the radically dike-y barely-humans on the other side.

My solution to this, which I feel would maximize personal gain, is to disregard the spectrum altogether. Disregard the rules and the spectrum and seek what I want, like humans naturally do, and would, were they not conditioned to feel like they had to set limits on their desires. As if greed is a bad thing.

Don't get me wrong though. I know that taking chances means passing others up. And I fully expect for that to happen.

It's funny. I've been working on this fucking blog for like 2 days now. When I started writing it, I was joined outside Big Bite by a really wise friend of mine who gave me a lot of insight as far as gender roles and romantic pursuit and even sex goes.

With that, a paragraph about sex. Word is I've been missing out on some bomb-ass sex. But whatever. I like my chastity or whatever you call it. I honestly feel like it gives me the power to know that whoever I'm with likes me for who I am. And no one I've ever cared about is worth submitting that power to, honestly.

It's been a good weekend so far. Last night I sat on a couch. Honestly, that's all I did. But it's awesome. The room is clean, my inbox is accounted for, all my tests are done, my daddy's in a good way with the job sitch. I haven't felt this stress-free since I moved to Austin.
As much as I love this city, there's a lot of responsibility that has to be exhibited with all there is to do.

Anyway, I've had a lot more thoughts other than this feminism bullshit, but this is thematic and recurring. I feel like I've moved forward and acquired more conviction and I'm totally cool with who I am and the way I am.

Feels good, man.

It's complicated.

"Your flaunt cut my fingers in half--why are we eating these insane spirit chips? I've known Amalie since never. A statue is a thing a note with nodes would know. There's a bracket in my brain where thoughts should be. This night is a beef stew with too many ladles, I need this clever concentration."

I'd like to take a moment to appeal to artists. In the moments after our heads hit the pillow, when all of the days reminiscences are marinating in emotion and stimuli, we experience a few moments of consciousness where we inevitably stumble upon a fantastic idea that we're simply too tired to get up and write down. It's far too pleasant a state of relaxation to overcome the thoughts that are telling us that it's too great of an idea to forget by morning. So we go to sleep, let our dreams carry to distant lands, and never stumble upon this idea again until the next night when it happens all over again, and we realize we have no recollection of the magic that was happening in our minds the night before.

Last night, I won.

The "artistic ideas" are at the top of this post in quotes. What the fuck, right?

I don't know yet. I hope to find out. I feel like I must be capable of knowing the origin of these thoughts, because they came from my mind. But I'm not sure how to access them.

I guess the reason I'm posting this is because all this time, when I thought I was having incredibly deep thoughts and making artistic love with my brain, I was really spewing subconscious nonsense. The phenomenon, I would argue, lies in the regard with which we hold these pre-sleep ideas. I guess the brain being switched off kind of has its own implications there... but it's still sort of hard to say. I don't know much about the brain, but I'm pretty sure the ability to type this into my phone makes me more awake than if I hadn't. So I don't know how much of the conscious thought is contaminated with subconscious or unconscious thought.

The fact is that it's still my thoughts. And whether they were conscious or not--let's hope not--they mean nothing to me at this moment in time.

It's hard to say. I guess I rest my case. It's funny though. A beef stew with too many ladles?

New Perspective

Hello, blog. 

Despite mono, I made it to college three days before class started. Turns out I'm too well to be a sick person. Still not fully recovered though, give me another couple of weeks. Maybe I'll start a fitness regime or some shit like that. Probably not.

This life is surreal. 

My camera broke. I'm not sure if I care too much. I understand that a picture says a thousand words, but in the meantime, here are some captions or whatever.

My family plus Trent unload boxes from the car to the cart to the dorm. Everything begins to look settled.

"Ami, Jake won't come out of the study lounge because he's too sad that you're leaving."

My family plus Trent and Tracie gather around the beach themed waterside restaurant table and enjoy fajitas. See also: the Last Supper.

My father's eyes well up and we embrace and time freezes as I realize, this is growing up.

Lights are bright and shit is trippy. But I'm with my girls, that's all that matters.

Running shorts + backpack + pedestrian = college.

It's always sunny in Philidelphia.

Best friends and their roomies and suities. Best Gyro Ever. $4.82 Enough said. 

Slushee run leads to Neda's apartment leads to kitty cat rescue mission leads back home. Sabeena sleeping leads to me in Trent's room, leads to me lulling him to sleep with my guitar, leads to finding something else to do. Leads to a random apartment with a kid I barely know, leads to good company, leads to 4am sleep-drunkenness. Impulsive and whimsical, how it ought to be.

Book fail, book success, salad with celery. Realize I've lost all sense of time. I need sleep.

Floor party in the lounge, guitar party number one.

Communications party. "Oh." Free pizza.

Asian food, of which I have none. 

The Tower is illuminated, hands are in the air with the band music. I'm a Longhorn.

Jammie Jam in laundry room. Me, Trace, our guitars, our voices, whoever else. Tuesday nights at 8. Made it a thing. 

The Diegos. Gotta love them europeans, amirite?

I couldn't think of a better way to do this. I need to start remembering when I have thoughts beyond mere observation of superficial analysis. 

But no need to ferment too much. I like this high.

Bis dann.

Ready for take-off?

No, I am not. 

This should be a blog about having cold feet, or being scared of the unknown and what's to come. About how I'm about to spread my wings and embark on the biggest journey of my life. About how for the first time in my life, I'm going to experience the world without a shock collar. About how I'm going to learn things about myself and how I'm completely scared of who I might turn out to be. 

In a parallel universe where I didn't contract mono, it probably would be. 

But it's not.

It's mono-world. In this world I find myself waking up at rude hours of the night, flipping furiously through the cable channels in search of something that doesn't cause tangible damage to my brain. I pop 3 800mg ibuprofen pills to keep my throat and head from stacking enormous quantities of pain on top of the fatigue that I'm inevitably experiencing. I scour the internet for advice, tips, any sort of information I can get on this horrible illness characterized by uncertainty and unpredictability. 

I sit while I am "lysol"ed, trying not to vocalize my borderline offense.

It's funny cause in the corner of this bedroom are all my belongings, strategically placed in crates and boxes, taunting me with the reminder that I'm supposed to be leaving in 3 days, moving in on my own, beginning the nesting process. 

Meeting with my counselor, figuring my schedule out.

But I haven't the energy. 

Even if I do physically heal, and this happens, I still feel drained of mental energy. So it's like some more watered down tired version of me is experiencing this move.

Not me. 

I'm interested to see how this all plays out.

Until then, CNBC marijuana documentaries.