Sometimes I struggle to know what ultimately makes me different from everybody else. Am I just a sheep? At times I feel like an angel with special abilities to soar in the clouds and blow blessings to those below. But right now I feel like a replica of something else and I hate it.

I suppose in the end we are all supposed to be alike; we're all able to be sophisticated and poetic and spiritual, and I suppose to be these things is the real goal of humanity. To exceed the nature of being human is to delve in the depths of inner human. Isn't that an interesting quality of humanity? As physical humans, we have the ability to experience beyond that which is physical! Emotions aren't scientific facts that can be explained with perfection or measured in a vile. Not one thing can take the poetry out of me and define it. It is my own, and it is real in a way that science is not. Some people like to classify and lump everything in existence, but art and love are too infinite to bundle into classification. It's common to deal with this complication by ignoring matters and casting them off as insubstantial. If it can't be explained with science then it must be silly and only the ignorant would give life to a concept that has no physical structure, right? I like to spend my time considering that which is more encompassing than a mere textbook, with its limitations and spiritual confinement. I'm not saying because it is true that it's not worth knowing. It is! Oh god is it ever! But what about the thoughts not included in those textbooks? They're still floating around in the abyss of consciousness whether you want them to or not. Your spirit will continue to tug at your mind until you're absolutely aware of it. And until you are, you'll never truly grasp your identity and have peace. Trust me.

The earth is a great place of truth. The mountains, the oceans, the flowers and the rain are all here to teach us that art could not be created without an artist, even if that artist is the evolution of time. But when I think to myself in that moment when all is silent but the whispers of the wind through the trees, and the moon beams at me with all her grace, it doesn't seem likely that I'm just alone. It doesn't seem likely that everything is cruel and meaningless, that we're merely sheep. We all have freedom to think. We all have freedom to imagine.

Please, dare to break the barriers in your head.

[when do robots sleep?]

"The daisy scattered on each mead and downe, a golden tuft within a silver crown: faire fall that dainty flower! And may there be no shepherd graced that doth not honor thee."

It was 4 am when I woke up coughing, and I realized that I was still wearing all of my clothes from the day before and the lights were still on. KU has recently been sending out e-mails to inform students of swine flu outbreaks on campus as well as what to look out for. Of course, coughing is number one on the list. In the case that one does get infected with the virus, isolation is the suggested way to cope, followed by a warning that some people may die or become severely ill.

What a foul way to go, I think. Sickness and isolation. But then..how would you want to die? In a car crash? From a heart attack? Murder? War? Delusional age?

The thought of death often crosses my mind mostly because I am so young, and I spend about 80% of my time contemplating what will happen after. I know it seems difficult to sacrifice the only physical attachment you know (your body) yet it is inevitable. To die, one day, will be such a sweet relief. How else will my questions be answered? There is literally no other way of knowing what exists when physical reality ends than by escaping physical reality.

The world is a strange place.

It is either ridiculously early or ridiculously late, depending on how you look at it. However the individual perceives 6:20 am to be categorized is evidently irrelevant, because whether or not it's too early or too late, the fact is that it is too something. I'm at a point where I don't feel that I use my time wisely enough, and I'm trying to change. I'm going to make a genuine effort to write more, and hopefully this declaration will be my motivation to do so. It's amazing, when I think about it, how much I wish I were like the person I used to be. Not in the aspect of maturity or state of mind, but it seems that when I was younger I had a passion for creativity that far exceeds what I have today. Did these four years really puncture my love for words that much? I suppose so. Perhaps I got tired of the consequences that followed when people read what I wrote but didn't approve. Often times writing only got me in trouble, but I simply wrote what I felt, and how I felt was true to the situation, and that can't be argued with. I've never once pondered the absence of my written words. But you know, now I'm at an age where I realize that I do not give the slightest fuck what anyone thinks.

I like the phrase "When life throws you lemons, make lemonade." I love lemons, they're my favorite snack.

But why are lemons the bad connotation? That's what confuses me. I suppose they do give you some nasty blisters but so do oranges, am I wrong? So why not "When life throws you oranges, make orange juice"? I think everyone should do the lemon phrase justice in going against the tradition and substituting it by saying the orange one instead. Dare to be different! Put a little spice into your life!

The new semester has just started, and all of the dorm kids have moved back in. Across the street I see smoking teenagers with newfound freedoms, expensive cars, and dumpsters full of empty boxes. I wish I were small enough to pack myself into one of them and flop my boxed self out the door and to the mailbox so I can be sent to somewhere amazing, like New Zealand, because I wouldn't be able to go otherwise. Hypothetically assuming I'd survive and make it through all the weird mail tests that packages have to take in order to get to the destination that they seek. I'd feel so naked afterwards if I were a box, which sort of seems like it should be a contradiction.

The sky looks ultimately pretty this morning. It's sort of composed like an oil painting. The colors flow together in lavenders and magentas and violets. If Mother Nature were an artist she'd be an impressionist like Monet, and though her paintings would hang in the New York galleries with modern sculptures and pop culture paintings of dishwash soap and Starbucks coffee, they'd be out of place. It seems like they should have museums strictly for one mood of art. I know it would be boring if this were the case, and harder to appreciate talent; but it doesn't seem fair to place beautiful work with work that's wonderful only because it's so dark. You know?


Anyway, I’m gonna end this before I say the wrong thing in this non-transitional un-edited balderdash of an entry.

Here's a poem that I just wrote,
And I’ll see you when I see you.

I saw her standing in the lake, I'm not sure that she noticed.
I blew a kiss towards her face
on that Thursday evening.
The sun hung low and bravery floated with the mossy slime at the time,
croaking crickets creeping closer,
cattails waving in the wind.
With a sparkle and a laugh she twisted in the darkly masses,
with a grin and with a splash she dove a little forward.
There's nothing as sweet as death in euphoria,
her signature smile and last breath rising to the surface in a monumental bubble,
and as I saw it burst and ripple into a million water stars,
I knew it had to happen right before my eyes.
It's the disguise of life that makes me wonder
if I then should have followed suit.
I saw her standing in the lake,
I'm not sure that she noticed.


Always love from a girl,
Sometimes the.

~brit