the pavement was thick
and my boots made
the most satisfying scuffing noises
when I walked up

the brass gleamed
like the lights strewn
throughout the fronds
and the house smelled of pine

One Summer's Day

It's 3:45 on a Wednesday afternoon, and I am feeling bittersweet.

Planning, (100!) Posts, & Panic

Since this is my 100th post on this blog, I tried to find some coinciding post to refer to. Perhaps I'd written a post on October 1st before, and therefore, I could use it to marvel at how much my life has changed?

But then I just ended up flipping through old posts and wincing involuntarily at myself. God, I was so pretentious. Still am, of course, but. . . god. So sorry about that. Of course, there's going to come a day when I look back on this post and sigh and shake my head, marveling at my idiocy and childishness.
 History's doomed to repeat itself, and all.

But the actual purpose of this post is to marvel about 100 posts! Wow!

Oscar-Worthy Imagination at It's Finest

I used to pretend my life was a movie.

There would be certain moments, just a second's worth, of something that felt vaguely cinematic. It'd be beyond fleeting, but it was all my young self would need- I'd already be singing the crude theme and scrawling fake names with a purple glitter pen- imaginary opening credits, into a notebook.
I'd flip through the pages, pausing on the ones filled with the creators of this imaginary masterpiece, and then I'd make a point of acting as if I was on film (but, of course, was completely unaware of it. My 7-year-old acting skills were really quite something).

I Always Wanted to be Snoopy

It's with mild anxiety fluttering painfully in my stomach that I write to this blog.

As I'm sure Future-Me (the sole reader of these posts) will remember quite well, we moved into the apartment with the tacky 80's wall paper in the bathroom, and the ugly floral couches (which, to their benefit, are surprisingly comfortable). I'm sitting at the table that I first did roughly a week and a half-ago, when my mother and I first came to scope out the place. We're here for 3 months, as I'm pretty sure I've mentioned before.

The issue that has compelled me to yet again indulge in writing here, is my meeting with my father tonight. My father has been. . . interesting, in these days of separation. His facebook page is plastered of melancholy statements about love, and a picture of a Lucy from the Peanuts pulling away the football as Charlie Brown goes hurtling, screaming through the air. His comment? "A grin of sadistic glee on her face..."

Nice. Real nice, Dad.

Only Rainbows after Rain

Well, I certainly took my own sweet time in updating this blog, of which I'd apologize for, if not for the fact that I highly doubt anyone actually cares. Which is kinda preferable at this point, in all honesty.

You see, I've been realizing that my theory on the benefits of online socializing, being yourself and not worrying about appearances, has more flaws then I'd expected. Because the thing is, I'm not 100% myself on this blog. Nor am I 100% myself on other websites; although I am certainly more myself on online social/writing websites, I am very different facets of my personality for different sites.

Copper Sand

I feel like time must be managed as if it were a set of scales: The past and future. If you fill your days with past, obsess over everything you should of done, all the bittersweet memories and regrets, then the scales tip, and the past ultimately becomes not only your future, but your life. Admittedly, history is always doomed to repeat itself. But if you live your life in the past, it brings it to a whole other scale.

On the other hand, there's the future. When you obsess over the future, over every moment and how it will play out, what you will do in life, where you're going and what must happen, then you cease living. You're not even taking in the present, not even bothering to admire the time you have now. You're just anticipating the future, focusing your every waking moment on your far off goal. And when that happens, you're just existing in a sort of half-life, and not living.

The obvious key of course, in this theory, is balancing the scales. A fool could deduce that. But the reason for this post isn't exactly to wage philosophical about scales and timetables, so much as my utter lack of "time management", so to speak. I'm either drowning in memories, consumed with things I should've said, should've done, or I'm obsessed with the future, with all my dreams and hopes and ambitions and sometimes how pointless and unattainable it all seems.

So. Remember the good times fondly. Take heed of the bad memories, in hopes you can learn things from then. Be excited for your ambitions. Don't dread, but anticipate the future bad times.

Try to balance the scales.

Mental Maps of Childhood Memories

You had your eyes closed on the drive home tonight.

It was almost 12, and you were leaning against the truck door, listening to Sky Sailing on your iTouch, with your blue and black Paul Frank earbuds, when you realized that you had a perfect mental map of where you were.