It's Monday Morning

And I would kill for a chance to drive.

It's the first day of Autumn. You know which one I'm talking about. The one where the rain doesn't quite fall so much as linger, where the heat of summer is replaced with that first biting chill of winter. It's nothing too cold, but the system shock comes from having been cradled in the dying embers of spring's first warmth for nearly 3 months.

And now it's cold. And wet. And gone.

Washington is suddenly Pennsylvania.

6 hours ago I was dreaming for a way to get
Back where the sun was always wet
Just her and I and our blanket of tears
It's not miles that seperate but years

I've got a five speed bike and a two speed heart
And 2500 miles that break half apart
It's raining cold like you wouldn't believe
And I've still got 3 years until I leave

No back, no front, no way to go
Except straight up, hope that bar is low.

It's 8 am, just puddles of life
And I'm going no where
It's 8 am, just puddles of life
And I'm going no where

Maybe that'll be a song one day. Who the hell cares?

I've gotta get some sleep at some point today, but I think I'd rather hogtie people. I dunno. It's a toss up. Maybe I'll play god too. But that's only if you're free.

Sleep would be nice, but I've still got an afternoon I have to (don't want to) have to do.

Maybe I'll sleep later.

And Then It's Monday

A little math.

I don't think 11 hours of my life has ever been more painful. I literally could scream. It'd be painful, and it'd be tearful (much like I am now) and it'd blur and break and then

It'd probably be Monday.

Weekends are supposed to be rest and comfort, not feeling like you just shat out a pointless amount of time that tore away the one time you could actually get ready for the week. Tomorrow's gonna come, and I'm gonna want it to be Friday again.

And it needs to not be like that.

I can't handle things sometimes, and when a day's worth of time cleaves you out and lays you wide for no uncertain amount of time, and you wake up from the retreated stupor of your mental shell, you realize that the one thing you'd been looking forward to, to get you through the psycho scrabble of a week's work and toiling on your own,

is gone.

I need something to punch and cry into. At the same time.

These times are supposed to be good right? That's what we all saw on TV. That's what they told us in all those graduation speeches about coming into your own and reaching the start of a new beginning for yourself.

It's bullshit.

It's the same life you've been living, except now with no one to really catch you when you fall. When you fall it's all you can do to keep your wings even and your fingers digging into the side of whatever you can reach to slow you into the descent of your own black chaotic id of pressure, 

and time, 

and nothing, 

and pointlessness, 

and depression,

and anger,

and those broken screams.

Tomorrow's gonna come, and she still won't be there. I can roll the dice all I want to, but that won't change the chances of me waking up next to her, waking up on a Saturday morning somewhere far away from this with her, and at a time when I'm not trying to fight off a sickness of both health and mind.

Chocolate is pretty good for this sort of stuff. I had a whole bag of M&M's my nice roommate got for me just now. Didn't even ask. I can't even explain how grateful I am.

It helps. But it doesn't fix.

Sure, the chemicals I imbibe will create an influx of endorphins which will rush around to wherever the hell endorphins like to chill and hopefully stop making a new ocean on my keyboard and desk.

I like this desk. The keyboard I'm still iffy about.

One of these days I'll actually sleep. I'll wake up, and I won't have to do anything. And the next day I will have the same nothing to do. And it'll be nice.

But right now, it's all those hours, literally wasted, literally tasting of salt, and I've gotta find a way to calm it down.

And there I am. Calm. That sort of dull deadness you get after you realize you've exhausted all the water your body can produce out your eyes. My desk is that ocean, and I wish it would lead somewhere.

But it doesn't. It's only in my mind that I sail away to find and bring her back to a place where Saturdays are an always.

The broken screams, the calm, that little hope for her, it's all psychological.

It's amazing how perceptions can create such vivid worlds to get lost in.

I've got less than half a day until I've got to start another. Thankfully, it won't be hard. I don't have too many obligations, and unlike the fiasco of a yesterday that is now my tears, it will be productive.

I think I've arrived at a sort of acceptance. Another fallacy: it's never about overcoming something. That means you had to beat it, had to make it feel your pain somehow, show whatever it is who's boss in this whole thing. It's good for a bit, but you can't fight such pains of society and life.

At one point, you've got to terms with the simple fact that as long as you accept the bad, there will be good. And as a long as you accept the good, there will be bad. It's not anything philosophical, it's just reality. And I think I can be there, now.

Just in time for Monday.

Hemingway Never Seemed to Mind

It has occurred to me that some of you may be thinking that I am either clinically depressed or terribly dramatic. The answer is neither: I'm just bored.

Hit it Tomas.

I actually love my life here with my friends and work. It's a good day's fun with all of the stuff I do, and I've actually hit on a spree of good things that are happening. I just finished an overtly successful show (one I hope will come back again to be performed by us in later October [don't quote me]) and I'm working on that whole pretending to be British thing.

It's just at night when I'm all lonesome and nobodied I tend to think about all the things that are wrong with my life. Like the fact that tomorrow is Monday. If my life was better, tomorrow would not be Monday, but probably more along the lines of that day between Saturday and Sunday, whichever it is. That nice weekend day where I don't actually care about any of the worries I may or may not have.

But no, my life isn't better, so tomorrow is Monday. Cause and effect my friends.

I love my girlfriend, and missing her is a lot easier to do after a year of already having done so. That's the funny thing about such wounds: the longer you have them, the less you notice. So for now, the gaping hole in my life that was cuddles and tea and odd other things is only at a dull roar somewhere in the back behind the stuff I keep attempting to drown it in. Again, all because my life isn't better.

But let's think about if my life was better, shall we? If it was better, I probably wouldn't be writing this, so that's somewhat of a downer. After all, things going well doesn't really make for a good read, now does it? No, people want strife and all that jazzy angst stuff these days. I suspect that's why my friend was almost dumped because of Edward Cullen.

Huh.

You see, if my life was good, I wouldn't be able to have any context of how good it was. That whole Yin and Yang thing comes into play here, with the fulfillment of my life being distilled from the corked troubles of it. These descriptions are really being reached for tonight. Probably because my life's not better.

But again I digress. The real point I think I may start to be getting at is the fact that I rather like reading the words I type about my "troubles" and actually knowing someone might care. It doesn't actually matter if they like them or not, just as long as they know. I guess I'm kinda rude like that. Sue me.

Speaking of threats, I realized I may need to have a better outlook on life. I tend to be very over dramatic and attempt to describe things a lot. Probably due to that whole attention thing. But I think the main reasoning behind this is that I want to be good, and better than I am. Hence my viewing of my life as not better. It's the perfectionist's curse, with a hint of nuts, as I tend to just say screw it and go on with what I am doing anyways.

Speaking of screws, memo to self: stop acquiring things you do not know where you got them from. I seriously have too much shiz that is not mine, but is nobody else's. I'm like some sort of weird roaming trash vortex. And the weirdest thing is I actually think I may put some of it to use at some point.

But maybe I should try harder. Or maybe I should just pretend tomorrow isn't Monday. It'd only work if everyone was with me, but since I know most of my friends are robots conspiring to plot my downfall back home and the people I know here are too nice and sane enough to not try to deny reality like that, I think I'm stuck having a one man party of nothing. Sure, I think I actually might get support, but nobody would follow through. Hell, I wouldn't either.

Anyways, my point that I'm trying to make (somewhere in here) is that I actually lead a pretty good life with loving and caring people. Things are going well, I'm being productive, and everything that is bad will probably work it's way out into something good someway.

But I'll keep writing these little nuggets of collegiate lonesome because I know firstly that I need to. I gotta put it somewhere, because right now my head kinda hurts from the strain of trying to focus on something that is rather close to being me.

Secondly because I know some other people may be reading this and be like:

"Hey! It's like he's in my brain or something! I need to read more of this!"

And who am I to pass up an opportunity to be both a telepath and the center of attention all in one foul stroke?

And thirdly, by laying out the weird bundles of crazies I've got spewing around my mind I may actually come to the realization that I love my life truly, and then go from there on some sort of psycho-individualistic hero's journey through understanding. Sans Tusken Raiders.

I guess what I'm really trying to say here is I just don't like Mondays.