I find the problem with faith in the intangible is when yours and that of another do not match. There is no way I know to measure the truth of what is felt in the heart of an individual. The scary part is when you feel one way, and someone else is telling you that you have it wrong, they have it right. Especially with the implied eternal consequences.

On my old livejournal account, a random girl added me one day to her friends list. She never said anything to me and never posted on her journal again.

Her last few posts pointed toward a teenage, depression fueled, suicidal path. I always assumed she killed herself shortly after adding me. I remember reading her journal on a few occasions. It felt like novel that only I possessed. This secret story, hidden in friends only posts, opened up to me.

I deleted that account of mine. That story is lost to me.

I pick up the phone. Flip it open and stare at the display, no missed calls. I've been in the habit of leaving my phone in the other room, any other room, lately. I pause. Roll it over in my mind. Bitter sweet, I put the phone down again.

I've been doing this for a week or so. Thinking about calling an old friend. Well, texting them to be more accurate. Calling them would place myself in a position of vulnerability I am unable to face.

So I will write about it. Divine about it and leave it be. Tell yourself, "if it is meant to be it will happen." Putting it out to the universe as you once told me to do with some other desire. I can't even remember what it was. The advice lingers long after the event. Like bloodstains I did remember.

I am the happiest I have been. As far as I can remember. Yet something still sleeps inside me. I am unbalanced. Succumb to fits of emotion. I am caught in the winds.

The worst facet of fortune telling is not knowing the question. I was tempted, but while trying to transcribe and understand what I was being told, I realized it was gibberish simply because I asked a non question and was responded in like.

I came across Seefeel's Quique album on itunes. It has been released as a double album with the usual collection of rare and lost tracks on the second disk.

When I was in high school Tyler lent me a tape of Seefeel that he had made. I listened to it every night when I went to sleep. For years. I never gave it back. I had it until 3 years ago when I left it at the house of this girl I was seeing and never got it back, as I was loathe to speak with her again.

On first listen, as I sit here in bed, it brings strange memories to mind. I feel like I just found a security blanket that seemed lost for good.

This seems like such a waste of communication. These are thoughts that are of little to no interest for anyone but myself, meticulously crafted into a clear manner to be displayed to the public.

I am slowly getting over the idea that the little things in life that mean so much to me go unnoticed by others. It's probably the same for them. An individual is a world unto itself. Other people just trample through our world creating chaos and disharmony. The people I love, I love because of a construct in my mind that has elevated and overlapped their reality with a falsehood that is more vibrant and meaningful that the truth.

You are more colourful in my head. You are more interesting. You are more.

Love is latching onto the best parts of a person while trying your damnedest to filter out all the things that should be bothering you.

Some days, I would leave this place if it were not for fear of where I would go.

Tonight's Bibliomancy:
Hunter helped her to a standing position. "Well," said Door, sleepily, "he did warn us it was strong." And then Door woke up completely, very hard, very fast. She grabbed Richard's shoulder, pointed to the device on the wall, the snaky S with the stars surrounding it. She gasped. "Serpentine," she said to Richard, to Hunter. "That's Serpentine's crest. Richard, get up! We have to run-before she find out we're here."
Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere

It difficult to form attachment or a sense of determination in a world that seems to temporary. Men work and strive to create the perfect moment that will crumble. Eventually all the stones in the world will be crushed to sand and dust. Are new rocks being made?

I have trouble understanding my beliefs. Except fear. How I wanted to believe. I want to believe. How could I not? How could I not desire a glimmer of reassurance, when faced with the pistol to my head date of expiration that is the clarity of my own mortality?

Once, while on hallucinogens I slipped into a train out thought that filled me with a terrible fear of death. I do not wish to lend legitimacy to the experience, but I remember feeling that after death would come pain. A pain I felt deep in my chest. That pain rises up in me whenever I am drawn into such morbid thoughts.

There is this feeling I have been trying to capture for the extent of my recent memory. Recent memory meaning years. Something about these moments I get. Moments where reality seems to stop me in my tracks. I am staring at Kayla while she is talking to me and I realize there is something intangible behind her eyes.All I know is there is a being or personality that I cannot feel, see, smell taste or touch. The strangeness, in what I must assume is a rather unoriginal train of thought to most people, is that normally I don't think of other people as real.

I have a distinct and inescapable detachment from others. People, events, most of life plays out in front of me, like just that. A long, dull piece I forget that people are real. When they leave the room, they leave my reality. Nothing but constructs. Without birth or death.

One dimensional.

My last memory before returning from Nod, was discovering that The White Stripes song Conquest was actually a cover. The original was by Coil. I can't describe how it sounds. It was slower. Lost of grinding guitar and Jhon's lyrics seemed not as loud as the other instruments. Like a voice in your head, it was discernible despite being a lower level.

It is hard to quantify what is important to me. If I could figure that out, it would be easy to make decisions. 

Last night Kayla had a dream about cinnamon. She dreamed that there was no more cinnamon in the world. It was all gone. She was sad because she would not be able to have cinnamon toast.

Then she woke up and ate cinnamon toast for breakfast.

Tomorrow I work, then go hop on a plane to Vernon to see my mom. Last Friday I found out she has breast cancer again. She had surgery Tuesday and should be getting out of the hospital this Friday. So I will be there to see her when she gets out.

Procrastination finds new levels when you intend to make a plan of what you want to accomplish, and start by looking for software you could use to make it more functional and easy to use. Then, having seen the err in such a distraction, you post to lj about it all.

There is a direct relationship between how interesting a persons journal is to read, and their marital status.

House sitting is such a bizarre experience. I am surrounded by someone else's life. Photographs on the wall. Memorabilia chokes me with a constant feed of stuff. There is nowhere in this house to rest your eyes.

Photographers have it fucking easy. How hard is it to document beauty and filth with a balance of light and composition.

I'm caught in a spiral of destructive thinking. A desire to paint, but I feel lost for inspiration as to what I should paint. I want to create, but lack a subject matter. I am reminded how I am most creative when depressed. Not something I want to perpetuate or depend on. Not if I want a life.

The only thing that comes to mind is to attempt to use the medium as a form of self analysis. To unsympathetic self portraits.

I need artist boot camp. Lock me in a room with a pencils paint paper and canvas. Shove a tray of rice and vegetables under the door twice a day. As much green tea as I can drink. Don't let me out till I can honestly say I have earned my freedom. Till I can earn a living with my art. Otherwise I may as well stay in that prison and rot till something comes out of me.

Walking along a road on the hill, we approached a building. A long narrow section jutted out directly toward the road, and the sidewalk we were on, forming a T. Kayla entered the doors closest to us, and I walked around to the other side.

I waited by the door directly opposite of the ones she had used. On either side of the doorway were little cement posts about waist weight with a chain linking each, funneling the eye towards the door. Grasping the chain with both hands I began to cast a spell. Focusing my energy, I repeatedly thought "when she comes out those doors I want her to be happier than she has ever been before."

As I was going through this pattern I saw Kayla come toward me. When she reached me, she had a baby.