Station to Station - i've once called this song the figurative/literal companion piece to my life, and it makes a lot of sense. It's a song about love, recorded in a time of chaos and mental clouding, yet amongst all of these outside factors the one thing that's important shines through. The first half of the ten-minute epic deals with one's coming and goings from station to station, accumulating the wealth of experience that will hopefully connect you with love. There is a constant hope through the repetitive struggle, a need to keep searching, a wonder of what you will be believing once you arrive at the next station.

Upon arrival at a particular station, wild imagery sends the listener's mind reeling - "once there were mountains on mountains and once there were songbirds to soar with and once i could never be down." You have arrived. You begin doubting your feelings, questioning if they are real, but you simply have to follow that ethereal guide that you gravitate towards. You've been seeking for so long, now it's time to celebrate and just do what feels natural. It's too late to go back and worry about petty things, the time is now, for tomorrow may never come

pieces of lyrics:


darting between the air
crunching towards the adobe
fires lick my bones

whirling timelines arriving at last
sewn together by a secret
charged hot by a hush

cut out a frame of pixels and smiles
throw it all underground
put it in a locked metal box and
head for the next town

wait by the marquee
wait till you see me
adorn with golden light
don't stop when your heart bursts
don't fall to your knees
i'm there each night of the week

digging for a goldenrod feather
of histories and futures
spinning round in neon
reveling in our chaos
you ignited a spark in me tonight

As much as I don't believe in fate, it seems as though it's increasingly hard to deny that there seems to be an untouchable spool of wire that our lives dance around and adhere to. Over and over again, familiar experiences pop into view with different heads attached to them. Perhaps this is the key to happiness and warmth among others, is perfecting the monotony. But what sort of life is this?

In the middle of this entry, I received a call, a hand ripping open the sky and extending a rope downwards, for which I have been instructed to climb

What’s the half-life on a broken heart?

I love the first breath of dry winter air that you get after you shut the door, the cool invigoration that filters through your lungs, vitalizing your soul. You can always start over once you have that first breath – it’s the first cloud towards the sky. Winter has such a negative stigma attached to it typically, and I understand it, and I also understand why people can love it. In the winter you can only rely on yourself, for the unrelenting climate won’t give you any favors. Winter almost favors solitude as well as rewards it. You can always think clearer when you have a blast of subzero air attacking your senses, for these dramatic temperatures bring to the surface the ideas and things that truly matter inside you. If you were to freeze to death, would your life have ended with unfinished business? It’s the long walks home from campus, the peaceful ones where the night is blanketed with stars, the air crisp and frigid, and the earth covered with a glistening, immaculate sheet of wonder. I’ve come to look forward to walking home, listening to my voice bouncing around my brain, with extremities powering down and steam emanating from my nose – the steps into the freshly fallen powder, never looking back – flanked by the icicles that never cease to sculpt themselves into cones of opaque beauty.

I’m starting to wonder that if what I’m seeing through my lenses is the manifestation of what’s growing inside of me. Trees stripped bare, footprints going in every direction but leaving no clues as to their destination, hidden ice, a wilderness in stasis – this is what I see.

Could there be something romantic about ashes and memories, dead feelings somehow re-ignited and effusing, burning until the earth is scarred? Biting the bullet may be a fine technique, but enough jaw clenches and you’re going to break the shell open, spilling the black death powder all over your teeth and innards. Cold metal, sludgy black powder, stained teeth, choking victim. (I’m going into hibernation for the time being, allowing myself to become wrapped up entirely with the station/playing music/writing. Slipping underneath and sinking for a bit.)

I can't sleep because I have far, far too many thoughts. Musings on the recent past, the present, and the uncertainties of the future are darting throughout my head at blazing speed

It is only a month gone, but I already feel myself overcome with nostalgia at Fall semester. I was always in such a state of flux - many chances taken, many new people met, many great/unique experiences. The lifestyle began to eat at me, however. The way of living with no end in sight clashed with my ever-present pulse inside me to have something real, to wake up each morning and have a pull towards a certain person. Classes/jobs/clubs are all great, but the trump to all of those is relating to people on personal/romantic levels. I need love, yet i'm not outside the boundaries of acting crazy. Last fall I felt alive, with each passing week a new uncertainty would meet me head on and I'd collide with it with a wide grin on my face. To paraphrase Weird Al, the world was my burrito.

Towards the end I had been worn down, and actually looked forward to a break. The break only sucked me into a life I no longer want a part of, for it has been stripped down to its skeletal remains. The house in which I have lived the longest in is going up for sale, due to its tenants being ripped apart. Those events have me feeling very pessimistic myself about my own hope for the future, if that kind of luck is genetic. The house is perfect, memories burned into each square inch of it. None of it was real. My parents put on the perfect lie for 20 years, or at least the past 10, when my dad "sold out."He sold out for us though, for the benefit of the family. I've never had much to complain about monetarily, even though I've worked minimum wage jobs constantly since 10th grade, so I suppose I have that to be thankful for. But then you have to re-evaluate the word "benefit." Did our family benefit by totally having love absent in our household? Did my sister benefit as a person by relying on my dad as an ATM to this day? Did my mom benefit by sacrificing the best years of her life to a man who can not see the loving, caring heart she has, or rather if he does see it, chooses to ignore it, just as he has all other human contact in his life? Did I benefit by being raised into this false reality by two parents who, though always clear on their support, are two entirely different people who probably never should have married?

This brings into thought the discussion of my own existence. If anything made any sense, I who I am now shouldn't exist. This is concerning because recently I have never felt more comfortable in my own skin, I feel older, I feel capable of complex thought, I wish to find my place. Now that everything I have grown up with is being fed to the furnaces, it seems that this is the true test of faith and the true test of character. With nothing, you can only grow. With nothing, you must self-analyze and discover the power within you to succeed.

I've always enjoyed being alone - it's a strange feeling, but I'm elated when it happens. Whenever i have the house to myself, whenever i'm in a building real late at night, whenever i'm driving a long distance by myself, whenever i'm walking around listening to my own thoughts. Perhaps this is part of the fear and anxiety I'm experiencing at the moment - when you've listened to yourself for so long, will anyone else want to listen to you? Will anything else make much of an impact?

I need to smoke something this weekend