It fucking hurts and I won't lie nor do I know why. Maybe it's the expected love, or the words I spoke so meaningless and translucent and ephemeral. But it all hurts oh so much and the pain started yesterday while laying beside him, I have a feeling I hurt him, but everytime I think that I telly just hurt myself and I don't even know how. I hate living at home. It's like a prison within a prison. Even alcatraz would have more freedom.

The pain dissapate momentarily though it's ever present, like a needle refusing to stick on to any other cloth besides the skin. It's this constant pain like I'm hurting myself and I don't know what to do to set myself free, like I need him to say something to help me feel better.

Everytime I think about sending something to him I just want to stop and let him go because it is the best thing I can do. I've hurt myself by talking to him. It's true that love hurts because you can love the whole world but if you can't love yourself in any meaningful level, you hurt more than you love, and the person you hurt is yourself. Why must I hurt is my question, why must I hurt for any reason, I have nothing to loose and everything I ever wanted is within, unless I am unconcious believing otherwise. I wish this was easier but I feel like a fucking zombie sitting in this starbucks. All I want to do is drop off that wine with a note saying, it's over. Do I even like him though, no, but I know I have to go through with this with that in mind. Somehow I haven't learned the first 20 times, what's 21 in the sea of terrible relationships.

I've given my heart away and it has not come back to me.

Its what I suffer from on a day to day basis, giving my heart away, without a choice, without having another way. Wanting to love, than to pass on anything else. In such a beautiful action, can it really be wrong, or bad in anyway at all.

I'm done writing for one night, perhaps I can go one. I realize perhaps is one of my favorite words. Its so laissezz-faire, it is subliminal, meaningful and strong without being harsh or single minded. It is all encompassing, and equivocal but in a more direct way. It is meaningful without being vague, and vague without being utterly ambiguous. All it all it is simply one of those words that are perfect for a moment to use, and not give away any particularity in specific, yet still make the necessary statement.

I come to cafe shops to write, to explore my creative side.

When people cough or clear their throat, it makes me feel so nervous. As if I have become the cause of their discomfort. Its pretty extreme, but I can't help myself. In reality any person in touch with their self would not be bothered by any form of another human. However, there is the twist and therein lies my worry that perhaps, I am beyond any messed up person, I am messed up to a level that is so deep that it is diminishing to not only myself, but to those around. That is the ultimate fear that in my prison, I make others a prisioner. And certainly in ones freedom, we can feel a sense of freedom.

We are all ofcourse a product of our environment. Perhaps my environment needs to see this aspect of me, because perhaps it is due to the influences of my environment (in reality my family and personal choices and relationships) I have endured this range of discomfort, and isolation. Isolation of myself, to the point of self-abandonment. No need to worry about another abandoning me, because I can do it way better and a lot faster than anyone else ever could.

Isn't that the intricate truth of the unknown unconscious. 

"The world is interwoven with dreams and realities, its what makes our existence what it is."

What then becomes of our world when its interwoven with realities, and realities or different peoples. And entanglements of realities. What would that create.

What if then, our world becomes entangled with dreams of dreams. Dreams entwined with dreams of others. Dreamers merging and colliding dreams. What would our world look like then. A state of dream, a state of reality, a state of experience or dreams and realities.

Which is better. Is one better over the other, or is it better that we have both, a mixture of the two extremes or different types. Would our world be better, would our people be better with just one over the other.

Perhaps dreams are made to be collided with reality. As if reality does not have room for dreams, thus we must make room, for dreams to be recognized, realized, experienced, and rejoiced. Perhaps it is the reality of the dreams, we can all be wholesome somehow.

Perhaps dreaming alone is not enough. We must make these dreams a reality for it to be recognized, and recognition of a dream is the ultimate state of living and life.

I do this all the time, write a few posts all at once, from the excitement of creating a blog, and forget about it. Perhaps I can come back to this particular one, or if times, and circumstances change, perhaps I would yet again create a new blog. And it would be absolutely okay with me.

Perhaps I should have kept through blogs that I deleted from attempting to forget my past. Those beautiful parts of myself, lost in time and space. Lost simply. I wonder if writing makes you lose who you are, and if it doesn't, wouldn't that be a good thing. You lose who you are so you create room to become who you are meant to be. It is as if you create yourself, you make yourself, you grow.

However, some part of me does think that I'm perhaps loosing it in these write-ups and this is not how normal people write. Normal people write mindfully, with knowing how the words would connect to make a statement, to make a feeling arise, to make an impact. I write, simply to write. I don't know how it would be received, or read, or if it is good or bad, uplifting or exhausting. i simply don't, I simply write. And personally I hope this is the best way to write. The way that beats all other, because it flows my senses, all or atleast most of the senses. Perhaps I miss a few, like the feelings, like the mind, but perhaps it would get at something much deeper, something intrinsic, something everyone has, but perhaps is not aware of. Each and everyone of our true-selves. I would like to believe this is where I write from so that I hope it reaches those deeper souls, souls never found, yet to be found, yet to be discovered.

Vocabulary how I love you so. How it comes at just the opportune time, how there is a word for each description, is lovely, its beautiful, it makes language so incredibly luscious, vibrant, and dreamy all at onces.

its like how ancient languages have deep meaning to their lyrics in a song, that when translated into mere english could not possibly encompass the intensity of the meaning behind the sentence or even simply a word. How in a language it is full of depth emotions, and vastness, and how in lame english, it just is, with no multi-dimensionality, it is simply a definition without the magic. 

Sometimes I feel like the slumdog millionaire. As if everything that happens in my life, or everything I encounter is somehow all connected and is helping me, guiding me, to my destiny, and ultimate self (freedom). In that perspective and aspect, we're all slumdog millionaire stories waiting to be discovered, experienced, and realized.

I think what I do is refused to feel anything, but in this state I actually feel, I feel myself breathing. My mind though, however, is not in peace, it is stiff, and unmoving, it is unlike water, and much like rock. Atleast a jello state would be much better. It is as if my mind is split in half, the back half portion, I resist, and refuse to let flow, the front half portion is free, and out of control.

I'm lacking in balance that's for sure. When balance is attempted, attempted being the key word, weird pain sensations take over, and it freaks me out that there is something wrong. Like I'm taking in my environment too much, and others are unable to relax, or end up experiencing my state. Its as if I make myself uncomfortable, but don't have the mind to realize it, there for my behavior is lost to myself, like I refuse to see it, and it is seen as pity from others perhaps. Perhaps if I simply stop refusing and try to feel how this state feels, it wouldn't be so bad. Things would actually make sense. 

What I feel is anxiety. Where ever I go, perhaps when I'm with myself its not such a big deal.

But when in public and not moving, it increases. As if the idea of people noticing me drives me over the edge. As if invisible is my choice

The fact is, its okay, its okay to be a little messed up, according to my last coworker though, I'm really messed up.

But the fact is we're all a little messed up whether we realize it or not. Who in the world is perfect in this world, there is no such things. I don't say this to simply make everyone feel better that they are not alone, and sure it is such a cliche thing to say. But when you think about it, there is no such thing as perfect is there. Perhaps in the ideal world, one who grew up with no woes, no lacks, no disappointments. Someone like Buddha for example. Siddhartha, prior to being called Buddha, was protected so much as to see no ailments of the world.

What happened to be is that I feel split apart as to not have a sense of feeling of my own, as to not experience anything truly but half aware, only my mind, only my emotion, only my body. Only the sensations.

Its all there but in pieces, and at any given moment it feels like I'm only experiencing one piece of myself, while resisting all others. Its really an art that I play, and express with the inability to express.

I love writing, though I'm not sure if it does good for me, I largely do believe at some alternate universe, it does some good for the soul, it is so freeing. It is as if its the only thing i have to make sense of the world around me and myself, because only through writing can my mind grow, can it escalate from one single thought, idea, or struggle, to transform it to what it actually is. Its sort of a way to work things out. Its like what the zen master said, we all have all the answers, everything we ever need, within ourselves. Honestly all it takes is out ability to look and grasp to our own knowledge. Its not something anyone can do, infact not a lot a people can do it, and perhaps most people cannot on their own. It happens through connections, through interactions, and connection with the self is just as important, as connection with another. Connection of any kind, propels, elevates, us to a richer self, to a more connected soul. 

Sometimes all I want to do is be in public, and feel fully like myself, like I'm not trying to prove anything to the world, like I don't have to hide anything, like I can be me without feeling embarassed for myself, or sad about the past, or worried about the present, or being tense about who is going to react to what I do, I just want to be, and live, and make it worth the moment, like every moment is meant to be lived. Its like I refuse to be in my body, like my senses of being lost is my natural state, and I don't know what it feels like to be me.

We learn in zen that to find your true-self you must let go of who you think you are.

I feel like I'm living in an alternate universe that is far from reality. Like I'm sleep walking and dreaming my life away.

When I feel like someone is watching me, its like I feel embarassed and I want to hide. I want to hide everything that is me, everything that is beautiful, because I feel like it would be snatched from me in a moment, and taken away, and all I would have is this mundane existence to call life. But in reality it is this mundane life that I'm already living. It is the feeling of death, of lifelessness that I experience day in and day out. And any effort to feel otherwise, is futile, momentary, or completely away from nature, that I feel like perhaps I make things worst than they really, are and I'm stuck in this cycle of not being able to accept my self. Accept my sense of lost, accept my inability to be, in the moment.

Perhaps if I let things be, accept all, perhaps this sense of lost or dreaminess is what I need to go through, it is my karma for actions I can't quite comprehend. For actions that are beyond my control, for actions that are a repetition of habit. As if I'm constantly living old mistakes, repeating over and over, until, one day, it makes sense, somehow, somewhere, something enlightens me as to my own behaviors, and choices I've been making blindly without proper guidance perhaps.

How can someone possible guide one that has gone through what I have. No one could possibly know or even begin to understand what that feels like to be of any real help. So as Marago said, we must save ourselves, no man is going to make a path in the sea and save us, we women, must save ourselves. Then again, it applies not only to women, it applies to our human life. We all must save ourselves, no one else can, for no one else knows what it feels like to go through what we have been through. Only we do, and thus we are the drivers of our own fate, our own destiny, our own lives. For better or for worst, until death do us apart. Perhaps though, for those who believe in afterlives, perhaps for eternity. Isn't that an adventure worth living.

Namo, fundamental teacher shakyamuni buddha

I've been scared of writing.

I'm not sure I'm doing it right, and if I am, does writing in general hurt more than it helps anyone including oneself?

Is my writing in particular so convoluted and complex, that it makes it a drag to write as well as read it, and it does no good to the soul.

Is there really a right way to right. I'm not so sure there is.

I want to write a book one day, may more than one. I don't know about what, I just know I want to write it, and perhaps it won't be like every other book out there. Perhaps it won't be one of those new yorks best sellers, or there won't be a fan club behind it. Maybe it won't be a book you gift with meaning, or get for your significant other. Not a book that is a self help, or a do it your-self of any kind. Maybe it would just a be a book to read, to open your mind, your heart, and your-self, to all the possibilities you never saw possible.