Into Anhedonia

I wrote this here poem for the villanelle assignment in my poetry class:

 

Realizing each equinox springs a metamorphosis,

I turn the page to tomorrow into anhedonia,

but dawn still comes after the winter solstice.

 

Revelations, even, can be traced back to Genesis,

and the home we call continent parted from Pangaea,

proving each equinox springs a metamorphosis.

 

Where paradigm shift recreates cognitive chrysalis,

but Equilibrium snaps by ethanol induced dementia.

Dawn still comes after the winter solstice.

 

Rise to depressed drones drowning in drugs. My diagnosis,

then upping the dosage. Don’t aggravate agoraphobia,

for each equinox springs a metamorphosis.

 

Setting sertraline sun in a partial eclipse

like gravity eyelids to souls In Absentia.

Yet dawn still comes after the winter solstice.

 

If an ending in darkness possesses my focus,

then beginning breaks towards dysthymia.

But accepting each equinox springs a metamorphosis,

and dusk still comes after the summer solstice.

California, Done

On the other side of the car window the landscape changes from mountains to beach, from sky scraping pines to white sand. My time in California, up already?

Tomorrow (hopefully) I’ll be on a plane back to North Carolina, my home state. Tuesday I’ll make the three hour drive back home. Back to college. Boone, NC. Appalachian State. Home, for now. Even though I’ve only been in California for a few days I feel changed from it. I’ve seen things here. I’ve learned things. About the world. About myself. When I come back I won’t be the same. Not exactly.

Sure, California has been great. I lived here in first grade but I don’t remember it. Hopefully the memories I have of this place now will stay longer. I’ve been able to see some of the most iconic places in the world. The Golden Gate bridge is spectacular, the Redwoods are a jaw dropping wonder, and Alcatraz is an impressive ex-prison. Even though it’s been raining for most of the weekend  (thankfully, California has been in a drought for a while) I’ve still been able to feel a little bit of the California sun. California, right, but… all that isn’t what made me think about life and everything though… That would be everything else. 

Meeting people you “used to know” is an interesting experience. Especially when they remember you and you don’t remember them. When I lived here in California I was six/seven. I’m nineteen now. It’s been a while. I’ve changed quite a bit since then. 

So, I was able to re-know some people I used to know. But, what is knowing someone anyway? 

It’s impossible (almost) to spend every second with someone for a lifetime. There will always be time apart. Events we will never be there for. Everyone lives their own lives. We’re here for our own life, and intersect bits of others’ lives. Some more than others, but even then it’s only a part. A fraction of the whole idea. 

So, if we can’t be there for a person’s entire life, how do we “know” them? Is it just a feeling? An impression, the rest filled in with assumption? Could that be “knowing” someone? Sure, some people would say that. I don’t think it’s that easy. I know there will always be parts of some one I don’t know, and even more I don’t understand. In general my standards are high for me to say I “know” some one. Maybe it’s why I ask so many questions when I try to get to know a person (http://collegeandcrazy.wordpress.com/2013/09/06/ask-questions/). I don’t like to leave “knowing” a person to assumptions. I like to let them tell me who they are.

It makes me wonder how many people out there think they know me, or would say that they know me. I’d figure a lot more people would say they know me than people who actually do. 

I say all of this because it’s a theme that’s been re-appearing a lot in my life recently, and because as I was saying “goodbye” to my re-found friends they said “I feel like I know you guys a lot better now”.

I wanted to stop and say “No you don’t”, but that would have been rude and slightly untrue. Yes, they do know me better than they did before I came to visit… but do they “know” me now? No, not at all. They know the person they saw for a few hours out of this random vacation day. They know the me with my family, the me at a strangers house, the me in that moment. But is that the “true me”? No. Not even close.

But then again, what is the “true me”? How do I define myself?

It’s a difficult thing to do, when I think about it. I am different for the moment. My mood fluctuates and I act according to the situation I am (or at least I try). But, I think defining myself comes down to deciding where I feel at home, and realizing “who I am” when I feel that way.

And in conclusion: I’m ready to go home. 

Finals Week

It’s finals week.

It’s finals week and I haven’t done anything… At least, not a thing involving the work I have to do this week.

I should have. There was a paper, no two, and final projects as well. Oh well. I am a procrastinator to the core. I get the work done at the last minute, but I always get it done. It  will just be done tomorrow.

Always tomorrow.

Maybe it’s because you’re here and you haven’t been here for a long time.

Maybe it’s because I want time to freeze on now, or get on with next week.

Maybe it’s because we’re never satisfied. Not really.

I don’t think I’ve been this tired since… Well, last finals week.

It seems like that was forever ago. Running around at 3am in the rain, staying up all night trying to forget all of the pain that we’ll have to go through in the morning, driving out to the parkway to see the sunrise. Bagels too. Bagels are the best.

I think I’m tired because I ran out of coffee. It’s only 2am… It’s not even “late” yet. In fact, if I went to sleep now this would be the earliest I’ve gone to sleep all… month? Week? I’m not sure anymore. When was the last time I went to bed at a “normal” hour for any reason other than being deathly sick?

Tomorrow (well, today) you will wake me up at 7am. You will wake me up if you remember. To tell me goodbye… for now. Until next time, whenever that may be…

Fire flickering facing forsaken faces.

Staring stupidly, scrutiny seeking simple satisfaction.

Late lamenting, longing lethargy least lost.

Goodnight good gawker, gaining grasp. Galeanthropy. Meow.

The Deer (a poem)

Another poem. It’s a little weird and completely unfinished. This is just the first draft. I plan to go back through and revise it later. I’ll probably only keep the doe analogy.

 

Lightning flashes as I think of you again.

Not that I’ve ever stopped

since you asked me to spend the night.

I was scared, but I wanted to.

I liked how you were interested

in the unknown.

Is that what is wrong?

You know now, everything,

you ever wanted to.

You’ve caught the deer,

the doe, so soft

and skinned her

head to cloven toe.

Leaving bare her bones

and each night you

pull off another patch

of meat

and eat it without

question.

You devour her body,

and with it her soul.

You killed her when you caught her.

Do you care?

She lives in you now.

 

I’m becoming him,

as he denies me.

June 2011

The bitter cold chill swept over me, freezing me with a frightening bite. It wasn’t the temperature in the room, it couldn’t be, the air conditioning has never worked properly in here. I could only describe the feeling like it was described in Harry Potter. It felt like all the happiness had been sucked right out of the room and all that was left was an icy shell.

Fact is, I didn’t even know them… but there were people who did, and their emotional instability was spreading throughout the school, sending the cold, frozen pain to others. Pain soon everyone would feel. The situation brought back the darkness of intelligence, the darkness of wisdom, the darkness of understanding. Was it all because we knew nothing would be the same ever again? Everything had changed, three gone… That’s a major blow.

I have only one memory, one out of my thousands, millions even…

Changing his name on the sheet in Wojo’s… That’s all. That’s all. A little laugh that ended in such disaster.

Knowledge could be the worst sort of power.

Money can be taken away, strength can be lost, authority can be broken down… but knowledge…. True knowledge remains forever.

Energy, this negative sort, is bouncing off the walls and seeping into the souls of everyone in the room. A sentence, a word, a fact, a look…

That’s all it takes and the rest of eternity goes flying into obliteration.

Whispers, of people, speaking of the good and bad.

A sniff, a tear, a sob… these are the facts, the truth. This time, there’s no going out, no walking away, we’re stuck here in this somber loop, a rotation of existence.

Can we break it?

Do we even want to?

Why can’t I get the picture out of my head of Yellowstone Lake?

This has something to do with everything.

The sun is going to set once again.

The Fog (a poem)

Maybe I’m asleep and it’s this life that I’m dreaming?

How do I know if all of this is real or if it’s just simply seeming?

Maybe this is a movie and I’m just at a screening?

But how would I know unless I am already told?

My shaking, I’m waking out of this dreaming,

but I look out over the veil seeing my future.

Did I see all of us at thirty-two?

 

I can feel eternity and never all at once.

Are they really any different?

Somewhere I am tired. Starving.

Beautiful! Dead and alive all at once.

Smiles, from a sly man’s eyes.

I am breathing everything.

What time is life?

Space is never ending

because out knowledge is ever increasing

ever-changing, and as long as we keep searching

there is always more to see.

All it relies in is what you want to believe.

Reverberation (a poem)

The strange feeling of worlds colliding.

My lungs full of smoke and a feeling

I don’t have words for. Have I forgotten

everything that happened before

before the fall, before the crash?

Before staring up from the white walled grave

of the hospital bed with pink plastic

in my hands and the lime green line of life

leading me on a journey down memory lane?

Before, before, before, before, I died?

Have I forgotten something?

I am a plane crashing, crashing into him.

What if I forget any of this?

I know that I will because my memory

is not actually perfect.

The ink stains of my words remain.