Waiting On A Sign

There’s been a ghost in my apartment for the last little while. She’s female. Five-foot four. Long, straight hair that reached the swell of her back. I’ve caught her dart across the room once. She’s terrified of being in the same room as me, and if she is, she always stands just behind me. Every now and then, I could feel her presence around on my back and parts of my chest, like she wanted a hug. I may just be crazy though, but for a while it was comforting. I had company.

She never bothered me, nor was a problem. I’ve been merely curious, nothing more, nor less. What was she looking for?

I’ve wondered about a lot of things this week. The analogy of running to walking has still been fresh in my mind. I’ve found a lot of very pivotal answers, and signs that I choose to define as divine rather than coincidence. I want to run because of them. Last night however, was odd.

I went to sleep at nearly three am. It took me a few moments to fall. I usually never remember my dreams, but last night took a different spin.

There’s been talk of a reunion in Parksville for the Click to get back together, catch up, and laugh at the nostalgia. I’ve been interested, certainly, even though my mind is repulsed at the thought of being around specific individuals; those that changed for my worse, or didn’t change at all. There are so many faces I`d recognise. So many faces that would recognize me. Needless to say, I’d fear running into her.

But I dreamed of Parksville once more. I found myself on the beach, looking out to the starry night sky that I used to covet. Four am, and the world was asleep, just like I remember. This is where I would come to hide from the world. Sometimes I would cry. Sometimes I would wonder where my direction in life was leading me. Mostly, I left simply because I couldn’t handle the pain I felt being next to her. I was lying. To her. Mostly to myself.


And I dreamed that I was wandering, and once again hoping for the day’s break. The sunrise, I’ve seen less than a hand can count in my life. But one night I had stuck around a little longer than I was used to, and I was rewarded with calm. Beauty, really. A sunset is beautiful, but only for its convenience. Everyone’s awake to see it. The sunrise however… it’s a joy few share each morning. It’s something you never see. Something you don’t generally forget.

I kept walking. I’m not sure where I went. I could have wandered up and along the boardwalk a little longer. I could have retreated into someone’s house. I just know that I kept moving in my dream, and I didn’t pay attention to my setting.

But I ran into her. And we talked.

She’s appeared in my dreams many times in the past. Never as an act of affection, or friendliness. She’s been a messenger of sorts. She’s the only thing in a dream that’s instigated serious, or meaningful dialogue, which is remarkably contrary to the person she truly is. She’s spoke of feelings to me. She’s taunted me with empty promises and hopeful ventures. And she’s the only person in a dream that I truly speak to, which, once again, is contrary to reality.

She’s appeared before. I know that I hurt her. Perhaps not on the same level or playing field that she hurt me, but I caused her significant grief. I knew her better than any other, even her own family. She said it all but twice, but she didn’t need to say it any more. We both knew it.

When everything fell apart, I left for good. She’s tried in real life to rebuild communication with me, but each time, I’ve broken away. I took her best friend from her along with half the things I owned when I left her home the last time.

And every time she comes to me in a dream, we speak of us. But we speak of different us’s. She speaks of the friendship. She’s never had someone that had someone leave her on hostile measures. Just me. And I think that’s why she’s made movements in the past to bring me back into a circle of friends.

“Why don’t you ever talk to me?” She asked.

I didn’t answer. I remember looking away, hopeful that she’d understand. But she never did.

“You hurt me.”

“I know.”

“Why won’t you be my friend anymore? We knew each other.”

“We were never friends.”

“I thought we were.”

“Maybe for you, then.”

“You never come back here anymore.”

“I know.”


Our conversation continued in this ilk for a little. It almost always does. The only difference is my dreams are faster. We talk like people. We don’t pause for eight minutes, hoping the next bomb doesn’t go off in the other’s face.


“Are you going to come back soon? To see everyone?”

“I think so. I don’t know why though.”

“Will you see me?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why? We were friends.”

I remember her crying. She was smaller in my dream than in my memory. A few inches too short.

“That’s not how friends work. What happened between us ruined me. We were never friends. Friends are friends. Relationships are friends that grow into something more. Once the relationship dies, there’s no ‘friends’ left. You’re just two people who remember a lot of things. Two strangers.”

“I’m friends with lots of my ex’s. You’re the only one that doesn’t want to be friends afterwards. If I know so much about you, and you know things about me, why can’t we be? Why do you throw that away?”

“Because I’m not willing to cause myself more pain to make you happy. You can never be a friend to me, because I have memories of a different person. You can’t be friends when you remember what it’s like to be something more. It would just be another lie.”


And I woke up. I grabbed my notepad. I wrote everything I could down, in the most chicken scratch writing I’ve written since elementary school. I went back to sleep.

I woke up, and I gave it some thought while I was in the shower. Maybe this is another sign for me. Every time she’s in my dreams, I change the course of the path I walk. This to me feels like more a confirmation of questions I’ve had as of late. I’m glad for it. It makes me more certain about the choices I’ve made. Another step, a little faster, to finally running.

When I got out of the bathroom, something was missing. I couldn’t find the spirit in my apartment, but the feeling of arms around me still lingers. I think she has left. I feel a little down, but now, I feel full claim to my home. Perhaps it’s a territorial thing. I just feel once again that these walls are mine. My sanctuary. My home.

I think I will be going to Parksville soon. There's a sunrise I'd like to see.

Baby Steps

Yesterday, I woke up, and I wondered longer than I usually do, what it would take to be the “me” I know I can be, once again. Not to say I dribble away the mornings of each day wondering my accomplishments and what I should do, but the question felt of the upmost importance to me.

I shirked my volunteer work, and I stayed in bed for an hour or three extra. I drifted off a couple times from fighting the effects of the gravol I had the night before, but in my moments of clarity, I remembered staring at my ceiling, and being unhappy that there were so many bumps in the drywall. I wondered where in my apartment lacked those bumps, and that turbulence, when I was under the impression it was, for the most part, smooth.

But I got up, and I did my usual thing with a few exceptions. I showered, and I didn’t eat. My stomach feels to be a quarter the size it used to be, but I’m certain it’s the pills. None-the-less, it’s not of a great assistance to my general life. I sat on the couch, and I fumbled with my toys while keeping myself lost in thought. I was transfixed on Maslow, and his Hierarchy of Needs.

This theory, as ungrounded and ideological as it is, always keeps me transfixed. It makes a stepping pattern; a basic outline of what one should do with their life next.

Typically, I place myself on the X and look for the Y. So I did.



However, I wasn’t too interested. At least not compared to my regular self, who worships Maslow in some sick, twisted, hatred-kinda way. This time, my attention kept going up the pyramid a little bit more.

Self-Actualization.



I wanted to understand it better than I do already. This prime drive to be more than just you. It’s something… metaphysical. It’s the pursuit for the health of humanity, more than it is the pursuit for the health of the individual. It’s the best we can be. The writer writes because he has to, not because he wants to.

Sheer, untainted being. Interesting, if nothing else.

The pinnacle of human performance. The best we can be.

Of course, I was not truly in the mood to start grasping at understanding how this works. Honestly, I was hardly in the mood to shower, let alone roll the existential meanings of humanity around my brain for a bit.

But my Grandparents came by, and I had an appointment to go to, and I did. We didn’t talk much. Well, they did, but I kept quiet with a headphone in my ear and the occasional mumble of something to their conversation.

Laura sent me a song one day. She thought it fitted my old relationship well, and it did, which is why I started listening to some (or, rather, a few) of his other songs. And I heard a lyric, that got stuck in my head in that irritating way nursery rhymes do.

To want and to try, is the difference why,
Some people will walk, and some run.

And I got inside, and I kept replaying the song. I do that when I get something stuck in my head. I once replayed the Offspring over and over for a month. Not my finest hour.

I got inside, and I can’t rewrite what happened, not for confidentiality reasons, but simply because I wouldn’t do half the words any justice. She flipped my outlook, in a twisted way. I didn’t know I was so permeable.

And afterwards, there was this… awkward kind of silence, that I felt anxious about. I wanted to fill with questions and wonders from a woman obviously more wise then me. I asked her about self-actualization, and I mentioned the song, for some reason. I paralleled runners to people who are self-actualized. Fairly accurate, probably. I asked her what I could do to be that kind of person.

She told me that no one starts out by running. A runner is a person who starts off walking, and slowly picks up the speed, step by step, a little faster each time, until they’re finally running. She leaned back, and said “maybe you’re just warming up. Would it be okay to be in the middle of one of those steps, if you knew that you were getting ready to sprint?”

And I left afterwards, feeling… confident. Annoyed, a little, because Mittens felt tricked. But if that’s what it took, then it was worth it. I got back inside the car, and I went with my Grandparents to finish their chores.

Now, BC Transit has been… oddly good to me. I meet people on buses, it seems. Early this year, I met someone because I caught the wrong bus home, and didn’t want to spend the half hour walking home, when a new bus was coming in ten. There was a nice woman who kept looking at me, and it made me a bit uncomfortable, but flattered.

She came up and asked for the time. That kind of killed the idea in my head. I stuttered and told her.

But she kept looking at me after. She had a very large smile.

I’ve seen her on the community bus twice afterwards, but no verbal conversation applied. She just looked at me, and smiled.

I haven’t seen her since.

Grandma went into the butcher’s and I was finally getting hungry, so I followed. I like the butcher’s because my Grandfather acts odd, going off about how “they’re related” because they have the same last name: only one is Irish, and the other Scottish.

And she’s working there. And it was… odd? I’m uncertain.

"There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle."
--Albert Einstein

I went to Sidney, and met up with a close friend before heading back to my place. It was relaxed, and I liked it. My mind was still thinking a lot. We went to the fair, and I had a lot of fun. I was relaxed, and a bit too passive, but I laughed. A lot. Enough so that we’re pretty sure one of the carnies gave us extra time on one ride because I wouldn’t stop. I don’t know what it is about going up and down over and over again, but I suddenly develop a REALLY childish giggle.

I'm actually terrified of Ferris Wheels.

The fair closed, and I waited around for the bus to come. I gave my friend my coat before I left. When the bus came, I just relaxed in the back corner, trying to really soak in the meanings of the day as I watched porch lights fly past. I listened in on a few grade nines talk about this cute boy and such, and instead of thinking of them as immature… I’m not sure. I just kind of liked that. That childish like, or affection. Interest. Dare I say love, on the most miniscule and broadest of scales. It made me feel good to know that they’d rather talk about the nicer qualities of someone rather then pinpoint the flaws.

I got off the bus and was greeted by the sting of cold air. I didn’t see the cars coming from the other direction. I was almost hit, but I leapt onto the sidewalk. I didn’t think I was durable enough to do so, but after, I felt good.

I looked up to the few stars I could see, and down the dark road to my home. The small sidewalk against the traffic. The fields to approach on my left and my right. This path was my path. I’ve walked it enough to lay claim to it. And I noticed my legs walking a little bit faster than normal. My steps, a little longer in stride, and a little faster in succession.

Things fall into place in life. The way things happened for me, whether I was five or twenty couldn’t have happened any other way, I don’t believe. I feel like I’m not bound to the path I walk, but that there’s a gentle hand on my back, encouraging me to keep to the side, and move toward my home. To keep walking, a little faster with each step.

And I started to run.

Only What We Make Ourselves To Be

This is my blog right?

That generally implies that I’m allowed freedom to write as mine own mind sees fit, I suppose.

If so, this is for me.

I am heaven sent.
Don’t. You. Dare. Forget.
I am, all you’ve ever wanted.
I’m what the other boys all promise.
I’m sorry I told,
I just needed you to know.

I think in decimals and dollars.
I am the cause to all your problems.
Shelter from cold,
We are never alone.
Coordinate brain and mouth,
Then ask me what it’s like to have myself so figured out.
I wish I knew.

I hope this song starts a craze.
The kind of song that ignites the airwaves.
The kind of song that makes people glad to be where they are,
With whoever they’re there with.
This is War.
Every line is about who I don’t want to write about anymore.
I hope you come down with something they can’t diagnose,
Don’t have the cure for.

Holding onto your grudge…
It’s so hard to have someone to love.
Keeping quiet is hard.
You can’t keep a secret if it never was a secret to start.

At least pretend you didn’t want to get caught.

We’re concentrating on falling apart.
We were contenders, we’re throwing the fight.
I just want to believe…
I just want to believe…
I just want to believe… in us.

We’re so c-c-c-c-controversial.
We are entirely smooth.
We admit to the truth, we are the best at what we do.
These are the words you wish you wrote down,
This is the way you wish your voice sounds:
Handsome and smart.

My tongue’s the only muscle in my body that works harder than my heart.

And it’s all from watching TV.
And from speeding up my breathing.
Wouldn’t stop if I could.
It hurts to be this good.
Still holding onto your grudge.
It hurts to always have to be honest with the one that you love.
So let it go.

We’re concentrating on falling apart.
We were contenders, we’re throwing the fight.
I just want to believe…
I just want to believe…
I just want to believe… in us.

This is the craze only we can bestow.
This is the price you pay for loss of control.
This is the break in the bend.
This is the closest of calls.
This is the reason you’re alone.
This is the rise and the fall…

We are what we make ourselves to be. What doesn’t kill us can only make us stronger. Simply what we make ourselves to be, makes us what we are.

My mother would tell me that when I was in hospital as a child. Last year, I questioned how much stronger I would need to be. How much more I needed before I was able to take my struggles without hurting. I’m wondering now, if being able to protect one’s self from harm takes the softness from the good moments from our hearts. Do I ice over the good parts too?

These days, I wonder what it means to be strong. How would I define that strength, and how would I make it necessary? Is the strength the ability to resist problems, or simply to recover?

When I started writing this, I wasn’t okay. But now, I feel like even though I hurt, my soul’s connecting with… something. That itch. That hand in the back of my mind that lingers just a moment too long, and wants to clasp mine. I don’t know where, or who, or what, for that matter. But it’s there, and it’s soothing.

Maybe there’s something more to hearts. I feel I found out through these past few weeks, small shards of white and pure that I was allowed to touch. Tonight, after my own trial and tribulation, I felt more connected with everyone than ever before. I had my soul open for everyone to see, because I couldn’t hide my hurt, and I watched my friends rip open their chests and show their own souls, just for me.

I spoke to another today about the Hedgehog dilemma. A herd of Hedgehogs in the winter seek warmth, but when they huddle together, they hurt each other with their pins. Freud paralleled it to mankind. The closer we are with someone, the more we will get hurt from their pins.

And I believed it a lot. That I couldn’t get close to someone, because they would just hurt me.

But now, not so much. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe I’m truly hitting an epiphany. I think I’ve found my fight. My religion. I want to bring love out for people. I want to be able to rip my chest open, and show them who I am, and help them do the same. Simple understanding of one another.

Broken hearts still beat. But I know, that out there, my soul is crying for something. And tonight, I’ve heard other’s souls cry out too. Too many, maybe. I’ve felt bittersweet victory in every one that I touched. They hurt, I feel, that they were close to someone, but loved and felt compassion in all its glory. It’s a little piece of purity. It’s the glimmer of white in a sea of black.

It made me feel like I’m worth something again. It’s brought me back a new trial.

I’m strong. I’m getting stronger. I’m a muscle that needs to be broken to pieces to build itself into something much larger.

I also feel like a hippy or a Christian, spouting off nonsense about love, and the soul, and purpose in life. But y’know what? Fuck them. They’re doing it wrong. I like the message here. The real one.

From these ashes, I’ll rise again. I have a goal. I have challenges to come. I may have a heart that’s bleeding, and be a bleeding heart, but there’s always something new to work towards. I’m hurting, but I have a new outlook, and a choice.

My meaning. My truth.

And you could lay on the ground and be beaten,
Or you could put up your fist and fight.
Or try, anyway.

Isn’t that right, Christopher?

Maybe You Should Drive.

Who do you carry that torch for, my young man?
Do you believe in anything?
Do you carry it around just to burn things to the ground?

What is justice, or morality for that matter? I’m not satisfied thinking that there is no universal answers, or that it’s up to the individual to make their own weight on the matter. What is worth fighting for, and is it just to fight for it?

Are we treacherous hearts?

Are we destined for the hedgehog’s dilemma, only to hurt the ones we get close to?

How to porcupines have sex anyway?

Is this world only as thick as our vision, or is there something more? Would I be crazy to try to trust a second layer?

Shut up.

No.

Please.

And in the choir I saw a sad messiah,
He was bored and tired of my laments,
'said “I died for you one time, but never again.”
Never again…

What is in a name?
What if the devil is the good guy?

Someone asked me if I were he, and I would encourage the sins of humanity, would I punish those that abided. Would the devil do that, if he encourages the behaviour? What if he’s the right one, or even that there is no wrong one? Punishing someone for doing what you ask…

Lucifer is bearer of light. Christopher is the bearer of Christ. Christ and Light are hand-in-hand.

Do I lean to the extremes then, or sit in the middle?

Why does my heart shut up when I need it to speak?

Mittens gets smarter than I want him to.

There’s two more that I need names for.

I wish Skittles and Chris said more things.

I’ve found where in the brain they’re located. Wikipedia’s not as unreliable as people tell me it is. It bothers me when I’m invalidated simply because I got my information from looking at it.

What’s an opinion mean anyway? Why do we always need one?

What if I can’t find God, even if I were to brave looking?

They say you need pray if you want to go to heaven,
But they never tell you what to say when your whole life has gone to hell.

I want to believe humanity is better than this. Better than politics and companies. Something more than human. Something humane. I want to believe in the goodness of people’s hearts.

I just want to believe,
I just want to believe, in us.

Can we do that though? Are we strong enough?

This is the weight of my conscience.
This is an all-time low.

Is there still a place left on earth to live where you cannot be found?

Is there a reason that art satisfies more than process and rationality, yet isn’t considered very valid?

What does validity refer to? Why can 800 psychologists throw their theories out, be correct, and never once be right?

…Needing someone is useless. Do we need them for wants, or want them for needs? It looks like people just want to use.

Like tools.

Like pawns and pick-up sticks.

Like parking validations.

Yes, I was here. Thank-you.

This is a matter of life and death,
But I deal with things like this everyday.

Why do I always feel so cold? Is it because I remember being warm? Why can’t I tap into that passion at will?

Is this another phase, or more?

I’m bothered by the question marks.


Could I step off the edge and never worry about the fall?

I don’t want to go on MSN or have my phone on me all the time. I keep looking at it, thinking I need it, because someone might need me, but at heart, I don’t want to be that connected.

It’s very comfy underneath my coffee table. I’m not there anymore. But I wrote most of this there.

I have not written in over a month.

I have not drawn in almost a year.

Photoshop’d in 4 months.

Played a game passionately since Fallout 3.

Looked for stars since November.

Laughed without Mittens cringing for a while.

Questioned.

Wondered.

Thought.

Lived.

I exist. But everything exists.

I know you’re coming for the people like me.

Have I been like this for months and not noticed?

Mittens thinks so.

Skittles thinks this is just a bad outlook.

And that I need chocolate.

I’ve wanted to be in space more in the last week than in my whole life. I don’t know why.

Someone else should be driving my car. I’m pretty inebriated.

My head hurts. I’m only thinking in lyrics.

This is war… Every line is about…

I wouldn’t mind being a Gundam, if a Gundam was more than just a show or a weapon.

I am a tool, because I get used, and I don’t know if I mind.

Where did the sunshine and rainbows go? I had them.

You could lie on your back and be beaten.
You could put up your fists and fight.
You could try anyway.

What’s more, why is this such a simplex answer, to what feels like a complicated question, when I’m sure the answer’s complex and the question is simple.

I promised myself I would post this. I almost backed down.

…Who do I carry the torch for? Do I believe in anything? Or am I just trying to burn things to the ground.