Oedipus Rex and Hauteur

Oedipus Rex.

Oedipus complex.

Electra complex.

Greek mythology.

Tragedy befalls.

Romeo and Juliet.

Mercutio, Mercutio...

The world is funny.

Here are some of its jokes:

It's funny how damn interesting the world is, and how much you really are missing out on when you don't search.

It's funny how many words there are in the English language and then translated to be said in 300 different ways by people of different tongues, yet you only know but a handful.

It's funny how people on the street are just people to you, they're just scenery. They're background props to a moment, elated, over-exaggerated, or pretentious may it be.

It's funny how we're their props, too. Just a silly face passing us, but a beautiful one should they be in love, but a mocking one, should they not.

It's funny how when we say a big number, we don't truly know its quantity. Yes, we fully comprehend the immense quality (provided the subject), but the quantity? It's just a mathematical term we've learned, memorized, and forgotten.

It's funny how people give Christmas gifts with nametags. Why do you want to be uncovered? Why not leave the tiny surprise just that: a surprise. Leave it lingering with mystery on their front porch, and walk away?

It's funny how poets may have thought in prose. Do we all think in prose? It is much more enjoyable to think in poems, in alloted increments of syllables. It keeps your thoughts in check, keeps them controlled, severed, cut, and chained. We become like Petrarch: our minds grasped by our Lauras, our divine Lauras, but we torture ourselves with rules...

It's funny how poetry has a rhyme, reason, rrrrhythym... Yes, O Humanity, we've conquered our very minds. Though elusive and hesitant, we did it. Good job, ... Great job!... What now?

It's funny how some choose to live out of a screen. No, not without movement. That period lasts for what, 2 hours? We carry it with us, the quotes and the actions, the magic we wish we could have. We live out a character's (or multiple... Yes, usually multiple) dreams in real life. 5 stars.

It's funny how, the more we think, the more we think. Redundant? No, it's not. Thought is like learning: slow to start, but once it begins, it builds and builds and builds itself, by itself. Then, like Galileo's experiments, they end on the floor, SPLAT! Whether it be a watermelon or a drop of water, the object will reach the ground, its opposing force, in due time and end like all great thoughts end.

It's funny how the mind can hold more than the earth ever could, yet there are 6 billion of them on the earth at the same time. What a paradox... A space that can hold "x" amount of material houses "6,000,000,000x" amount of thought. Yes, my numbers are just figures of approximation, I understands. Some of the world's potentially loveliest and greatest minds are wasted on heroin, and some exceed such standard as stated above. But still, what a paradox!

It's funny how- Well, do you find it funny how... My jokes have been getting progressively longer? Yet... Where's the punch line? You're surely not laughing yet. I know I'm not.

Well, here's the punch line:

...To get to the other side.

Yes, my surplus of useless thought is made up for in my lack of creativity pertaining jokes... Or anything of the hilarious sort. I go without a sense of humor, really. Yet I find the world incredibly hilarious (as you can probably see above).

In 10 years, my elevated and strained language/vocabulary will be absolutely necessary and expected. Everyone (if they haven't already) will catch up with me, and I'll look like a dunce for just being another one of the general public... But doesn't that include everyone?

So, in preparation and in true nerd spirit, I'm increasing my vocabulary. Dictionary{dot}com has this wonderful sidebar selection called "Word of the Day." I'm using this to my advantage, and using the "Words of the Days."

And today's is... Drum roll, please!...

HAUTEUR.

In case you don't know the meaning, it means bearing a haughty or arrogant manner. I hope my "elevated" language does not cause me to display myself as a person of hauteur!

So, my reason is stereotype-worthy. Also, on a more typical note, I hope to use these words in my English essays in the future... In fact, I should definitely make a list! Yes, this year will be a Year of Knowledge. Mmmm.

So, my spiel is done. Begone, dull care.

I wake up.

I wake up.

In a cold room.

I go outside.

To a cold world.

I get dressed.

To hide myself in warmth and colour.

I put my glasses on.

To be able to see the shades of grey.

I don't laugh.

Because I've been coupled with cold .

I don't smile.

Because frost collects on my lips.

I don't think.

Because it won't be thoughts warm and damask.

I don't open my eyes.

Because I'm tired of grey.

And somewhere, deep within the fences of my mind,

I've sewn myself a quilt of colour.

To withstand the grey.

I've sewn it with warmth and colour,

To cover up the grey.

I'm cold in a cold room, inside a cold world.

Or Did You Get Lost In Amsterdam?

So, completely normal post.

Wouldn't it be funny if you still read these? I just thought of that! You can't seem to muster up any nerve to say an insult or apology to my face, or even over the computer or phone. You're such a man.

But anyways, I'd like to thank this person. For insulting me. No, I'm serious!

I talked to O.T.H. today, and he said that this person insulted me and mocked me. You see, there was a bit of a problem because I play SO much better at soccer when I'm mad. Yesterday, I got so pissed off during a scrimmage against the boy's team that I was like "UGH! I'm fed up!" So I came up and like shoved Josh, and I was so happy because Andrew even said I was getting better! And he would NEVER say that about anyone. It made me proud. So today, E.B. was like "Ah! I need to get you angry, so you can beast at soccer!" And I'm like "But nothing makes me angry..."

UNTIL NOW! I heard what O.T.H. said, and I felt quite indignant. So, I've decided to carry this pissed-off-ed-ness with me over the weekend until Monday's soccer practice and Wednesday's GAME (maybe) and be aggressive. So thanks to this person for giving me a reason to be upset! It really helped.

Love forever and always,

Bianca!

Feeding Time With TV

Feeding tubes are the wires.

Subconsciously racked onto our brains, unaware of the origins.

The wires, though sitting halfway across the flickered room,

are impossibly linked to us, halfway across the flickered room.

The shadows dancing of hues and saturations,

of hints of what could be words, what could be substantial.

Containing the standard, yet shirking to provide just this.

Bare minimum we are fed through a screen, meals pushed through the pores.

Bare minimum liquid words, from the station to the brain.

Bare minimum accepted with rush, with fervor.

Accepted as substantial, for it's all we know.

Yet should we look inside, the meager meals become known.

The human mind, starved weak, stretched taught on thin bones,

still accepting the meals with fervor and delight.

Skin doled among bones, bones assigned skin to protect the vulnerability.

The collapsing skeletons of human minds wander in and out,

weaving through what we are given, trying to piece a thought.

From what lacking we are provided,

such lacking the harvests reaped.

Still, every night when sunlights and skylights flicker out

and man-light replaces these with its odd hues and saturation,

we partake in this restricted meal,

deemed the appropriated dosage, a standard set by invisible hands.

The Invisible Hands, the framework behind our words.

The same hands that coax the skeletons into submission,

to believe what is given is plenty.

Night after night, we sit,

eyes shoved with blasphemous meals, ears clogged with useless "must-knows."

Night after night, sitting in a human-lit darkness,

we wait and wish for the feeding tubes to deliver something new.

Praying for this meal to finally be enough,

for this feeding tube to present us with the new standard.

Yet night after night, in our self-imposed

hues and saturations,

the same meals are recycled and shipped straight from the Invisible Hands.

The wires as feeding tubes.

Rerejazz.

I.

Tonight, I turned the city on its tip.

I rotated all angles to 90 degrees, and watched the people slip with them.

All with the curve of a glance, the city was mine for a night.

The sky was mine, and the noises that came from the left and right of me were mine, too.

I gently lay my back on cold metal bleachers.

It was a Friday night, in late September.

It was a Friday night, the moon was hindered by the clouds.

A tiny light-dampened spot managed to struggle through the weave of cloud,

But it was so dim.

It was just a patch of pale-moon against a ceiling of grey.

The sky had scared me that evening when I stepped out of my house.

On my way to run, I stood, taken aback, at the sight.

It was unlike any other I'd witnessed.

The sky had vanished.

The sun had become a mere feeling of warmth, had ceased to be something of sight.

The colours didn't blend:

They chopped, they melted quickly, they galloped along to the next town.

The clouds went with them, but this only brought a new wave

Of crashing, crashing silent clouds.

This is what the pre-Apocalypse looks like, I thought to myself.

Fast forward, now.

Fast forward to then.

On middle school bleachers on a Friday in late September.

With that nighttime pre-Apocalypse sky above me,

With that awkward, youthful school dance to the right of my ears,

With that cold steel frame under my chilled body,

With that sight.

The sight of a city on its side is the second most beautiful sight.

And I did it all myself!

Just a curve of a glance, and it was there.

Red lights, white lights, green lights for go, all in the distance.

They all spread up and up to make a line that did not end.

The roads drove down and up and down the horizon line,

And people in cars continued to drive...

Unaware that their city was on its side!

I bet people still walked the streets that went straight down.

And children still ran away from mothers, up sidewalks that could not be ran up.

Yes, they were all unaware of what I had done.

The world still spun left to right for them.

But my world was on its side.

My world was spinning in a new direction...

It spun up and up and up until it collided with that pale-moon patch.

And it continued, continued, continued, crashing silent clouds...

Until I told it to stop.

II.

Time isn't just all around.

It floods all around.

It fills up our day, it fills up our words and heads with foolishness.

Time has somehow managed to creep into everything these days.

I've found her sitting in my chair, where I should be.

But I refused her, and found time someplace else.

But it's not only her, no.

It's those cursed months and seasons, too!

The light through my blinds is woven with late June.

The merciless sun that shines even when I tell it not to.

Warmth that conflicts with my feelings, and I wish it away.

In an empty room where you're gone, and you are too.

I walked downstairs to the kitchen, and it smelled of a March morning.

I'm not feeling so great, I know long days are ahead, but at least I have now.

Mornings are the worst, I said.

Mornings are the best..., I think.

The air outside is definately October.

Saturated October 'til the end.

I can almost see the nonexistent leaves in the rare wind...

Just give it a few weeks. They'll appear.

But then again, the breeze is December.

You'll always hold the most memories, December.

I thought that things could get better, but they didn't.

They got worse and worse until they just fizzled out.

Yes, you are merciful and naive and kind.

You grant the people a breath of fresh air, a cool breeze, a moment to rest...

Until they discover that you are fleeting down the block.

You are carrying yourself farther and farther away,

Down the block and onto the bodies of new people.

Goodbye, December.

You always leave and catapult into January, where I re-start my new findings.

I always end with you a different person I began.

I guess you know me well by now.

I guess you're in another town by now, fooling some other fool like me.

"There's one born every minute."

There's one born every minute...

A Wishlist

I want the weather to be cold.

I want to feel rain on my skin when I run tomorrow.

I want to have a reason to shiver when someone mentions you.

I want to feel something tomorrow.

I want to be numb tomorrow, just like everyday.

I want Katie to be okay.

I want her to realize: she is like me, and that story didn't end well the first time.

I want my story to end better, speaking of that.

I want my naivety and my hope in the world to remain, after pain and irrationality have been stripped away.

I want the person I used to be to still be there.

I want to be her again.

I want to see the world through her eyes, to feel alive no matter what happened.

I want to feel alive.

I want this numbness to fade.

I want to have not ended up like this.

I want to go back in time and un-grow a few maturity years.

I want to be able to join in with people and not feel so out of place.

I want to start caring.

I want to stop caring.

I want you to please move on, although I don't. I wish I could make sense of my feelings. Perhaps pick them apart until they make sense.

I want to be able to understand this: if I abhor you, why do I pray that you will be okay?

I want to not contradict myself.

I want Jenna to be okay.

I want her to move on and not miss him.

I want her to stay with me because I feel as though she is one of my only friends.

I want to be able to express how much I'd miss her if she left.

I want her to see that I do care, really.

I want to understand life.

But more than anything, I just want the weather to be cold.

THe Absence of Thoughts

i haven't written anything substantial in forever.

ah, i feel like i'm losing my lost mind.

i feel like i've felt my whole life.

but last year was different...

it seems like the whole human race doesn't live within themselves,

but rather live externally.

they can see the world around them,

passing and passing through "thoughts" and moments.

but they don't stop to think.

they don't "take a second for reflection,

take a leave of absence."

it seems like that's the only thing i do.

i'm aware that i'm living, but am i?

it's scary, the way my mind is.

it makes me doubt everything.

and i don't know what i'm saying anymore. hm.

but i feel myself losing that bit of me everyday.

the little part that hangs onto the inside...

that puts a brake on moments, puts my life at a standstill.

and for a second i'm just alive...

i need to think more.

i miss it.

i miss being who i was...

a person who thinks too much but doesn't let anyone know.

now i'm just becoming like everyone else.

"don't think about it."

"it confuses you? just don't think about it."

but i can't NOT think about anything.

wait, let me rephrase that.

i can't stop my mind from thinking something.

i can't push a phrase or thought or idea out of my head.

it just lingers there... until it doesn't.

then it goes away.

it runs its course, i guess you could say.

but it doesn't push itself away. i don't know what does.

but if i could find out what does, i'd never think again.

maybe that'd be nice.

but, honestly, i don't want to live externally.

"indoor living," yeah. that sounds nice.

living within yourself, but with knowledge of the outside too.

a balance.

i'm sure people have had these problems, too.

i just don't know of any.

maybe we all feel this way, but never tell anyone.

so no one will ever know.

every person will go on thinking how brutally alone they are,

when really it isn't "alone," it's "quiet."

that's kind of sad...

oh well.

i wish i could find the thoughts to write forever.

i wish i could just sum myself up into an entry and let it be done with.

but since i can't do that, a lot of these will be coming up.

just a warning.

you know what's lame?

a lot of things.

the fact that people mock feelings.

they mock them and share OTHER PEOPLE'S with people they'd prefer them not to.

thank you, bastard and bitch.

you have fully succeeded in being inhumanly intelligent.

i thought that level of immatureness could only be reached by a bad-tempered 5-year-old.

you've proved me wrong.

i'm sick of how immature everyone is.

is refusing to talk to someone beacuase you simply know any chance of intelligent conversation is impossible wrong?

is that rude? is it... what is it? what is it that made you hate me?

i told you i wasn't going to turn your friends against you.

i haven't.

but they are, because of the way YOU've been acting.

when i ask them about you, they say they'd rather not be friends because you're being an idiot!

it's not my fault.

so why are you taking it out on me?

all i did was move on with my life.

isn't that what you wanted in the first place?

i'm just giving you what you want.

we don't belong in each other's lives, and i'm sure you miss me just about as much as i miss you (none.)

so why do you hate me?

why do you tell people rude stories about me that make me seem crazy?

yes, i was crazy. i'll be the first to admit.

but going around and telling people that kind of stuff is just... just so rude.

i have things i know about you that i swore i'd NEVER tell.

ever.

because that'd be the wrong thing to do.

there are also things that you've said to me that you probably don't want people knowing.

stuff you've done.

i still haven't told anyone that stuff.

because what's the point in embarrassing you?

your lack of substantial conversation is embarrassing you enough. i almost pity you.

i don't like embarrassing people.

even people i dislike.

because embarrassment is one of the worst feelings, i think.

so i wouldn't do that.

but i guess that's another thing we differ in...

i think about my actions and you don't.

i hope you have fun being the person that you are.

i also kind of hope you change... not for me or for anyone around you,

but for yourself.

and if you claim you are already who you want to be,

i genuinely hope that person is a kind, honest, and mature person who you will stay true to.

but maybe, just maybe... i've got you all wrong.