Allison Krauss - It Doesn't Matter

It doesn't matter what I want
It doesn't matter what I need
It doesn't matter if I cry
Don't matter if I bleed
You've been on a road
Don't know where it goes or where it leads
It doesn't matter what I want
It doesn't matter what I need
If you've made up your mind to go
I won't beg you to stay
You've been in a cage
Throw you to the wind you fly away
It doesn't matter what I want
It doesn't matter what I need
It doesn't matter if I cry
Doesn't matter if I bleed
Feel the sting of tears
Falling on this face you've loved for years

Sad Sponge

That's what I am, at least in the eyes of my brother--and rightly so. He found a simple way to define exactly what I am. A sad sponge.

No, not a sad sponge-- some lonesome sea sponge that wallows in it's own pity at it's inability to reproduce through budding.

Rather, water is to sponge, as sadness is to me.

I absorb all the sadness around me, albeit my own or those in my life. I search for sadness, I feed of sadness, I harbor sadness.

I can't seem to move to work on my own issues until those around me have had their problems alleviated. I try to take that sadness, that frustration, that suffering and make it my own. Once they're uplifted, then I can tackle my issues at hand.

What an exhausting life, the life of the sad sponge.

What happens when max absorbancy is reached? Rupture? Apathy?

Who knows, but I certainly feel I'm reaching my breaking point as of late and there's no one to blame but myself.

Is it too much to ask to be able to help others and still be able to lead the life I'd like to? Apparently so.

Where is my mind?

I've lost the relief I once obtained from blogging.  A real tragedy.

I used to feel the weight lift off my chest with every letter I'd type. The heavy burden that maimed my heart dissipating as my thoughts poured on the empty screen.

Have I fallen so far that what once was uplifting has become nothing more than another obstacle to overcome?

It surely feels so.

Wow.

I feel like I've not been here in quite some time. I feel very out of touch with writing now, all of my time and effort has been dedicated to photoblogging, school, and work.

I feel like starting fresh on this blog, wiping the slate clean. I feel it's burdened with the past. However, I cannot stand to delete an expression of how I felt, no matter how utterly ridiculous it may have been.

Nonetheless, I hope that I can get back in touch with writing. It's such a relief to free the thoughts that weigh on my mind.

I have so much I could write tonight, however I'm exhausted.

Maybe next time.

Your familiar voice sinks into my ears and I'm all too comfortable yet again--I hate it. We sing out our stories and cackle amongst ourselves. Then it happens, as if on cue, we stumble right into your delicate lies. The ones you've told your friends, co-workers, and family. The deceptive story of our past. Your impeccable fallacies wreak havoc on me, ravage me. How many years must one age til he realizes the measure of his mistakes? How wrong must one do before he is sorry?

People are frustrating

I feel great.

My heart is lighter,
my head, a little higher.

I feel more like myself, now that I'm engaging int some volunteer work again. I haven't had the chance to do so in years. I've donated money and items to the tornado victims, I've volunteered twice at a clinic that has opened it's doors to misplaced animals from the tornado disaster, and soon I'll have a chance to travel to Costa Rica and Nicaragua in an effort to provide veterinary medicine to animals in need--primarily spay/neuter to reduce the over population and animal health risks.

One step closer to healing.

Sleeper 1972

When my dad died the worms ate out both his eyes.
His soul flew right up in the sky and I cried myself to sleep.

My mother lies alone on her back at night.
Adding up hours till her demise, she counts herself to sleep.

When my sister finds my body closed up like the blinds,
I tell her I promise its fine, but she cries herself to sleep.

The men in black ties arrive at the house in surprise.
To find a little girl by your side in the wood box where you're sleeping.

I still see you inside of this God-awful house
You move awfully quiet now
And I still feel you everywhere
You told me this has always been worth living,
But what's really worth living anymore?

Is this what has become of me? A constant reminder of my own fears? You are a product of your environment, it shapes you--molds you of the past and present. The mold is cracked, smoldering. Weak and crumbling--used and barren.

I feel desolate, dark....crestfallen. Having only the faintest flutter of a heartbeat. Shallow breathing, streaks glisten on my face. Strapped bare in the confines of my own mind. A slew of old memories always unfolding, a constant reminder of the ever lingering silence of my present loneliness.

I feel I'm searching for a fruitless nectar. That which I wish to obtain, again, is far from reach--forever from reach. I once thought it was unfathomable to fully grasp the loss, but I feel it's full weight now. Nights like this, when thoughts flood; can't help but aware myself that things are not what they once were and never will be.

I'd give anything to quell this feeling...

Boy you've got a beautiful taste...