my mind feels cluttered with everyone else's thoughts; tumbling and colliding with each other as my thoughts struggle to swim to the surface. a sadness creeps up under the confusion of my logic, like a spider crawling under a rock. it slows my physical motions, blankets my perspectives in meloncholy. living with an inevitable doom that only i seem to care about yet he knows is a reality makes my heart heavy and my eyes loose that much more of their sparkle. hope like slivers of light on a stream float by, beautiful and fleeting, i watch the ribbons float downstream, cherish the memories they brought when they were still a possiblity. at times i reach out to try and touch one, outstreching my hand into the freezing water only to feel the shimmering strands slip through my grasp effortlessly. as this occurs, i do not feel remorse or desperation, but instead of sense of calm reflection as i understand that what is mine never really leaves, only floats further down. the sadness i feel stems from others not understanding their place in the river, the place of their hopes and dreams; that the beauty of those sparkling slivers of light are theirs to hold onto forever, and the beauty lies forever in what can be, not what is. what is is the beauty of the river, which makes what could be-the ribbons of hope-possible.

Smoke Signals

I have translucent skin wrapped around my wrists, with flames as blood circulating under them. Few people know this, few people choose to realize this even when given the chance. The flames are my perceptions, my memories, my incarnations all swirling and life giving and never ending. I know they are there; they give me strength; I give them strength. They have always been there, pulsating and hot. I have tried to cut them out, tried to bleed myself of them. They have remained, burning hotter than ever.
Through it all I have remained as well. Through all the sad girls, all the ingorant boys, all the souls who have tried to leech off of me and my strength, tried to gain some heat from my fire. Some have thought they could scream them out of me, push the heat out of me, scare the flames out of me, convince the fire to leave me and reside with them. What they don't realize is that they have their own flames, they usually are just too loud to hear the heat under their own skin.
Loud voices all around me, everywhere, convincing themselves that increased volume equals increased importance. Not realizing that it is within the silence that importance is gained. I sit and pretend to listen, pretend to be interested, pretend to be amazed when told of things I already knew but don't have the heart to tell them. Pretend to be amused at so many stupid jokes. Pretend to be engaged in yet another self-fullfilling story of self-importance.
They see me as a quiet, lame girl who doesn't "do anything". I go to work, come home, drink beer, smoke pot, and listen to others. I'm not big on going out to places, not big on hanging out with lots of people. I've always been plagued by a sense of dullness when in the midst of social activites. To find them interesting, I usually have to be under the influence of some drink or drug. For years, I tried to be the social butterfly, and I had many chemical romances. I always felt something was missing, something was not in place. I know now that it was my fire. Since I can remember, I've always felt a vauge apathy towards the things that usually excite others. As if I've experienced that before, I've done this before, as if nothing is really quite new to me. Not at all a feeling of boredom for life in general, not at all a vauge apathy towards new experiences and love and loss and all that good stuff. Just a sense of indiffernence at the things others try so hard to get me to enjoy.
So I sit and know that they are all misunderstanding my disinterest for laziness, slowness. However, really, I am feeling the burn under my wrists more now than I ever have before. My brain is actually racing with thoughts far away from any couch I've sat on in recent memory. My fire is ingniting a passion in me once again; a passion for things most cannot see, most cannot feel, most can never hope to understand.
While I used to feel like I never fit in for reasons that were wrong, my fire has slowly whispered to me over the years that I don't fit in because I'm aware of things on a much deeper, more integrel leval. Not at all to say that I'm somehow "smarter", however, I can pick up things and understand things most are unable to comprehend.
So tonight I will walk in the rain, find myself a quiet spot, and begin to devulge the heat I have onto paper. I will begin the smoke writing.