Morning Theft.

Time takes care of the wound, so I can believe.
You had so much to give, you thought I couldn't see.
Gifts for boot heels to crush, promises deceived
I had to send it away to bring us back again.

Your eyes and body brighten silent waters, deep.
Your precious daughter in the other room, asleep.
A kiss "Goodnight" from every stranger that I meet.
I had to send it away to bring us back again.

Morning theft, and pretender left, ungrateful.
True Self is what brought you here, to me.
A place where we can accept this love.
Friendship battered down by useless history,
Unexamined failure.

What am I still to you?
Some thief who stole from you?
Or some fool drama queen whose chances were few?

Love brings us to who we need,
a place where we can save
A heart that beats as both siphon and reservoir.

You're a woman, I'm a calf.
You're a window, I'm a knife.
We come together making chance into starlight.

Meet me tomorrow night, or any day you want.
I have no right to wonder just how, or when.

And though the meaning fits, there's no relief in this.
I miss my beautiful friend.

I had to send it away to bring her back again.

xx

Under pressure.

Fuck expectations.

This has been my mentality for the past few weeks. Now that holidays are upon us lowly humanities students and the minimal levels of stress and agitation have been alleviated for a brief period of time, I finally realise that all this needless anxiety and stress ties simply into expectation. Not necessarily external that is, but more my personal expectations about how I want to live my life, beside how I am living my life. In retrospect, I am not how I would like to be.

In making this conscious realisation, one would assume that I would be able to change and become who I want to be. I should be able to change how and why I act. I should be able to rationally do what I want to do.

This is not the case.

“I feel this great, great pressure coming down on me. It's constantly coming down on me. It's crushing me”

Say hello to the weight of personal expectation and the cage that is the human condition. You see, gentle reader, I feel as though I am at a loss to explain myself to you. Language fails to capture my turmoil. One may attribute it to that special time when a boy becomes a man. I do not. It’s as if I impose certain ideals upon myself in hopes that one day I will finally accept them and become who I want to be. I will become whole in a sense.

I miss the feeling on ignorance. I miss just going on those fantastic night picnics, getting smashed and doing cartwheels across ovals and honestly not caring about what my life becomes or what people think about me. When I had these friends I didn’t feel like I had to work to impress. I’m afraid of the MyKill Doomwater you all have inside your minds. I’m afraid of the representations of myself that you all have. To explain I’ll try and share my view of identity all you lovely readers. Here it is:


1) You all have an idea of me inside your minds at this present moment, one that is how you picture me.
2) This is the guide by which you judge me and evaluate me.
3) This is subconscious.
4) This is a true representation of me, it is as real as my physical manifestation because it is how you perceive me and it is true to you.
5) I am unable to know what this representation of me is – whether it is good or bad, whether you hate me or love me, whether you find my mannerisms frustrating or acceptable.
6) At the same time I have a representation of myself in my head.
7) This is the picture of how I would like to act and who I would life to be.
8) This is a true representation.
9) The only representation I can actively change is my own – the one in my own head.

This thought keeps me awake at night and has culminated in an odd shaking in my right hand that doesn’t seem to stop much anymore. In essence, I can see how I want to act and how I want people to perceive me, yet I cannot help the face that this representation – while being true to me – is not a reality for you. I cannot control how you see me.

One may pose the hypothetical that my actions define who I am, and that these actions give people the basis to which they then create their perceptions of me. This is a fallacy. While actions do provide the necessary basis for public perceptions of myself, they can not effectively translate the unintelligible purity that is my own consciousness. Actions are physical. Identity is not so tangible. While I can choose to act a certain way, odds are that my own human nature will decide to internally contradict this. Years of social conditioning undo personal belief in the way we designate and segregate today. By this I mean that, instinctively, I am afraid when an unknown Muslim man walks towards me in the street. Is this irrational? Yes. Does the thought that I am participating in such social stereotypical perception disgust me beyond belief? Yes. Yet since the global “War on Terror” began we have been subject to such levels of subliminalsocialnormsthatmakeusbelievetheamericandream
dandandandandiwanttoscreambutican’t//can’t//find//////my///voice//
*&%^A%SGDASGAGSUFKJASHLKFJ:@#$@#((*#####

Remember how I said language fails to appropriately describe this turmoil. Let’s just simplify and say that I expect so much of myself. I expect myself to be likeable, funny, kind, nice, talented and simply able to live a good life. Yet, I don’t live up to my own mental image of how I want to be. And the part that keeps me awake at night and causes an uncontrollable twitch in my hand is the fact that if I don’t have a positive representation of myself, why would you have a positive representation of me? If all these representations are true, then the one I have of myself being a horrid human being and a not really worth knowing is true.

HOWEVER,

If people do still choose to converse and associate with me, I might be wrong. Happiness is subjective and peace is a state of mind I hope to one day partake in. I imagine it would be tasty, kind of like Hokey Pokey – i.e. the tastiest ice cream in existence. But if hope was a food, I think it would be like a cinnamon scroll: a little subtler than Hokey Pokey, but still just as fulfilling.

Peace, love and hope for the future.

I have a newfound hatred for pretty much everything at 3.53am.

Hello.
It's 3.53am. I have a really fucking stupid body clock. And by "body clock", I mean that for the past two weeks, I have woken up at approximately 3 or 4am every morning, hyperventilating, because my anxiety reflex decides to go: "Hey, you know what? EVERYTHINGISREALLYFUCKINGSCARYWAKEUPWAKEUP." However, whether my reaction to said anxiety reflex usually differs. Sometimes, I lull myself back into semi-slumber with wanky ambient music that makes me feel like I have a Distinct Musical Knowledge of Unique Genres circa Sofia Coppola films. Sometimes, I read Harry Potter for several hours (because, christ knows, at least I am not being chased by a thin, ugly, red-eyed man intent on occasionally stealing my blood to put into vats, killing me and all of my friends, and ultimately gaining overall power of the wizarding world and destroying Life As We Know It, and this makes me feel somewhat better about my plight of Early Morning Freak Out). Sometimes, I wake up and feel so shaken up and horrid, I get up and turn on the TV and watch an hour and a half of Bruce Springsteen videos on Rage. This morning is that morning.
It's unfortunate, but I don't think Bruce Springsteen realises that, actually, I don't want to watch all his rubbish "new" videos where he plays baseball with a wholesome teenage boy in a ridiculous show of male bonding, or walks around Philadelphia while Tom Hanks, in his convincing role of Semi-Homeless Bald Man in Cap gazes wistfully after him. ALL I FUCKING ASK FOR IS BORN TO RUN, BRUCE. I ONLY EVER WANTED BORN TO RUN.
But maybe I spoke too soon. Right now, a very old video for Dancing in the Dark, a la super tight jeans, half-open white shirt and rolled up sleeves just came on. I appreciate it. Mostly because Bruce looks like a ridiculous crazy dancing man, as opposed to slightly creepy moustachioed baseball playing brooding weirdo.
Thank you, Bruce. I feel better about us now. Particularly due to that saxophone solo that just kicked in.
Oh wow. You know what? It's the 4th of July in America today.
That means nothing for me, but I like the fact that fieworks are happening somewhere. This makes me happy.
Anyway, so I am sitting here next to my potentially morbidly obese dog (give it four month down the track), who is snoring in bliss, and I Heard It Through The Grapevine just came on, and I still have my night time splint/retainer combo going on. I am the product of eleven years hardcore dentistry.
I had plates. I had braces. I had those little round blue things that make gaps between your back teeth. I had elastics. I had motherfucking head gear bane of my existence worst ever (but at least I only wore it at night). I have a splint to stop my compulsive stressed sleep tooth grinding. And, on special occasions when I revisit my orthodontist for a check up, he pulls out the metal file, and grinds away my front teeth for some reason I cannot quite comprehend.
The point of all this is: It was not worth it. Eleven years of dentistry is not worth it. I would rather have impacted wisdom teeth and a slight overbite, to be perfectly fucking honest. But whatever.
Now my teeth are all perfectly, boringly straight. I look a little like a piano.
So anyway, basically, the conclusion of my rant is, I do not like rage, I do not like anxiety, I do not like too much New Bruce Springsteen, I do not like the fact that my dog can sleep so peacefully for so many hoursagrhghrgrhgrhgr while some of us are up typing this blog about her WAKE UP DAISY AND SHARE MY PAIN, I do not like dentists or dentistry, I do not like splints of retainers that make me look like Bride of Frankenstein (although I feel the title may be misused, considering Frankenstein was actually the doctor who made Frankenstein's monster, so I assume it would actually be Bride of Frankenstein's monster, but let me know if I am getting carried away). It is raining, and I do not actually like the rain, but I feel obliged to because of the drought. I do not like because awake in the morning when it it still dark and I had two hours sleep last night and too much alcohol. I don't like the fact that my jaw kind of hurts.
And actually, you know what? I basically don't like anything at all at this time of the morning. Kill me now.
And now, watching Creedence Clearwater Revival play I Put a Spell on You, I especially, ESPECIALLY do not like moustaches.

Okay. I might try this sleep thing now.
If you are awake now, and thinking the same thing, good luck to you too.
Anna.xx

howareyou

She seemed like an all right girl
And I was thinking just one night won't hurt
And I remember saying to her
I don't want to get much older...

So long...
So long...

Always seem to be on the run
We haven't spoken in so long
We can't get past the "how are you"
We're not talking like we used to...

So long...
(Where it ends and where it has begun...)
So long...
(Where it ends and where it has begun...)

xx

I like this.

I also like:
-Phoenix
-Vampire Weekend
-Green tea
-Other tea.
-My new, blindingly blue woolly jumper.
-Exploding Dog.
-Michael.
-Giovanni Ribisi.
-Nailpolish
-"Brick".
-Surprise invitations from distant/new friends to strange parties.
-Coffeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
-Harry Potter.
-Daydreaming.
-Stockings.

What do you like?

P.S. Jesus Christ, someone else post something, I hate myself.
P.P.S. Don't you want to get out of Cape Cod, out of Cape Cod tonight?

Oh so guess what?

I have finished exams, is what. I am hoping that this means I no longer feel like I am perpetually having a heart attack! HOORAY.
It also means that I can watch innumerable Giovanni Ribisi/Ryan Gosling/Jamie Bell/James McAvoy films, and have night picnics, and make mixtapes, and etc. etc. etc. etc.
And while I'm basically posting this just to gloat at you, I'm also posting this just for a reason to lust over my favourite 5'7, whiny-voiced, scientologist, Beck's-brother-in-law actor.
What a babe.
Damn.
Love you like a crazy thing. You I mean. But also Giovanni.
xx

Pretty...

...And occasionally funny.
xx