I feel like time is slipping through my fingers. I'm sloppy, lazy, and unappreciative of the opportunities presented to me every day. Sometimes I almost wish I was native to a less priveliged country. Would I feel more alive if I were regularly fighting for my life? Would I feel more free if I was relieved of such a security blanketed land? If the materalistic obsessions were diluted of our society, due to a depression maybe we'd certainly value things differently. With the good nessecarily comes the bad. It's horribly inescapable. But that's just it, isn't? Everyone has to stop wishing for something different, no matter what the circumstances, and make the best of what they have. Easier said than done.

Babe

Opening my bathroom door, there she expectantly waits. She's my girl, she's my baby; but I found it difficult to call her my pet. With a painted black and white medium length coat and a black heart-shaped nose, Babe attracts adoring eyes. Oral communication consists of one repeated vocalization, varied only by pitch and volume. Her right eye literally wiggles in its socket, however slightly, likely a result of her unhealthy origin. This morning, I irritably
awoke to soft nuzzles and sand paper kisses. By my side constantly when I'm home, and the first to come to my rescue when one of our dogs causes trouble, my cat is one of the most special beings I've had the fortune to enjoy in my life.
The span of her life is troubling, and I'm more than completely certain that she will never be replaced.
I hope you all are lucky enough to have someone like Babe at any point in your time on earth.

Book Addiction

Does anyone else have an obsession with Harry Potter? The Harry Potter series was my portal to reading. I vaguely remember arrogantly making fun of Harry Potter geeks in elementary school (I now proudly proclaim myself Super Harry Potter Nerd) and not a year later I delved into the magical world myself. In remembrance, that was such a gift (from who, I haven't a clue), because without those dear books I wouldn't have discovered a vital part of myself. Writing ultimately manifested itself as a personal creative outlet that replenishes my soul as nothing else can. Books had little appeal to my physically energized little mind, despite unrelenting academic excellence, and lonely outdoor scavenges seemed the only means to soothe my adventurous needs. Had I not relented to to the tempting publications of Rowling, I doubtlessly would have outgrew my beloved bicycle only to find that I still had a hunger inside myself; surely I'd have found false nourishment in other harmful places. A cheap trinket I once came upon read "coffee is the last legal drug". Whoever created that (admittedly clever) phrase obviously hadn't succombed to the glorious addiction that only books can offer.

Separate

And the expulsion of vomit retched to its limit, dislodging embedded bullets and cleansing the body of foreign blood.

A separate self

Hermetically sealed in a pocket of space, where the air is energy, essence is solitary.

Fire curls in again and again

Release the suppressed mind, tend to the burn; expand the earth.

Words heard by me and my imaginary friend.

Me, you, the clown, and poison.

No, I'm not bulimic, as you might infer from the first two lines. Nor am I schizophrenic, as a strong feeling I was expressing at the time of this entry was one of having two "selves". I think more than anything that "Separate" conveys the loneliness emoted inside of every human being. That no matter how closely we entangle our bodies with another person, or how synchronized our personalities become with someone else’s, our confined minds don't escape their isolated cells. However, maybe we are all much more connected than we presume.