Note to self

Not everything I write has to be the most thought provoking, intriguing piece to ever be written by mankind. Sure I should aspire for greatness but sometimes it’s okay to not be great. It’s just fine to be average because this blog isn’t for the world it’s for me. It’s for me to let my feelings out and to see my thoughts in a different medium. It’s for me to contemplate life and try to understand it’s meaning. It’s for me to look back on and understand how I felt in a moment. It’s a way for me to talk when no one is around to listen. Not everything I write will be worthy of a Pulitzer, heck most things I write won’t even be worthy for the Tri-City Herald. But I’m okay with that, because although not everything I write will be great. Everything I write will be great for me.


Happiness seems unattainable it seems unreal, it seems like a mirage of fresh water at the edge of the horizon in a barren desert. Sadness is real. Sadness sucks you in and makes you feel every last emotion to the tenth degree. Sadness gives you a clarity for viewing reality which happiness fogs over. It’s sickening how addictive the pain can be, and how once you reach the lowest point you would do anything to numb the pain. Not alleviate it though, it’s too frightening to leave the sadness, to drift into uncharted territory. After this much time spent in the depths of depression anything else seems unfamiliar and you would rather stick to the pain. Only hurting yourself more trying to numb it. It’s a vicious cycle but sometimes it feels as if you have no choice.


I’m in the library and it’s quiet. Like it should be. Someone coughs in the distance while my fingers quickly tap the letters on the keyboard. I should be studying, absorbing information. I wish I were a cell and books were nutrients that could just move through diffusion into my mind and I could have a semi permeable membrane that sifted out the useless knowledge. I think that scientific analogy counts as enough studying so I’ll continue writing.

I like libraries, I like thinking about how much information they contain in those shelves of seemingly endless books. When I take a study break I like to walk to a random book and pick it up and read one random page. Sometimes I read about World War 2 or sometimes I read an official looking document or a page of numbers or even an excerpt of Mark Twain’s autobiography. Whatever the page is I read it, every word. Then I look at the beginning to see when it was last checked out. Most of the time it was only a few years ago but sometimes I find books that haven’t been checked out since before I was born. Over 20 years ago, it makes me sad to think that those pages of words was someone’s life work, the hours they must have spent piecing it together, making it perfect and for what? Here it is sitting on a shelf in a small town in Eastern Washington and it hasn’t been opened in decades. I like to think I at least appreciated one page of it before I set it back down and I can only hope in 20 more years someone else will do the same.

Not love

I fall in love with people before I even get to know them. I fall in love with the idea of being with them, the prospect of happiness. I fall for their crooked smile and the way their hair looks when they get out of bed in the morning. I fall for their words, their contentedness with life in that very moment. I fall for what could be, for the shell of a person and the personality I’ve created in my mind. I fall for the nonexistent and I fall hard. I linger on the thought of love while listening to raindrops hit the sidewalk. I’m in love with someone I don’t even know.


As I drove past the rolling  green and brown hills of the Palouse today I had an interesting thought, I could literally travel to any point in the continental United States by simply getting in my car and driving. Thousands of different cities and parks that I have access to 24 hours a day. It’s a daunting thought,  a few hundred years ago the average person would have dreamed of leaving their town let alone traveling across the country. They couldn’t do it even if they wanted to, there were no cars, no roads, and it was extremely dangerous. I love sitting in the passenger seat, looking out the window, and watching the electrical phone lines pass by. They swoop up and down never seeming to end and just behind them a beautiful landscape. I could sit and watch that for hours, perfectly serene and happy.

Anyone could pack their bags and just go, anywhere. Yet no one does. It would be so easy so very easy and we just sit on our couches complaining about this town. The world is so big and vast go explore it. No one is forcing you to stay, it’s your life do what you want. I know it sounds cliche but when you are 80 years old sitting on your front porch watching the birds play you are going to be wishing you had gone on that road trip to see the grand canyon, you are going to regret not floating down the Mississippi, you are going to be angry and frustrated that you didn’t once sleep under nothing but the stars.


The voice that comes out of my mouth is completely different from the one in my head, what does that mean? I can string an extremely coherent and compelling argument in my mind, even on paper but as soon as I try to say it out loud the words get lost and I barely manage to get my point across.

Sometimes I feel like I’m two different people, the person in my mind and the person everyone else sees. Most of my best relationships consist with people I don’t have to talk to face to face, because my mouth doesn’t cooperate with my mind. I seem so confident, intelligent and  funny through text message but I can see people lose interest in me as we start to see each other in person. I struggle to join a group conversation so I tend to sit there in silence trying to think ahead so I can say something but as soon as I develop a thought the moment is gone and even if I do, it never comes out right. People notice, and people think it’s weird. They slowly stop talking to me as they realize I am not who they thought I was.

I’m hopelessly lost within myself. Somewhere along the way I hid too deep and now I can’t seem to find the way out.

A drunken kiss

It’s dark and the music is loud. A stranger’s hands are wrapped around your waist, you’re dancing and laughing but you don’t really know about what. You feel the hands trying to spin you around and you follow their lead. You’re looking into the stranger’s crystal blue eyes and you know what’s going to happen next. You close your eyes and you feel his lips against yours and his tongue making it’s way into your mouth. Your tongues are dancing to the beat of the music. Everything is perfect, yet it’s nothing because in the morning you will still be alone.