3 days

I wish you would write back to me faster.

3 days just seems too long,

and I have so much to say.

Today I thought about a million things. The day was beautiful and I stayed inside for a third of the day reading and basking in the sun. I listened to all of the "stories" you recommended and I especially liked the one about the girl with self-help issues, and how she described her self-help addicted ex-lover as "tall, skinny, and had shiny hair". haha. The other one's weren't as funny, but interesting all the same.

Muscle tees at the gym look simply ridiculous. like wearing a t-shrit for tots, sorta defeats the purpose of looking "manly".

I got really jealous after reading this really juicy novel. I want to write the stuff of ingeniousness. it must be right if it feels so good. Something that draws you in so powerfully can't simply mean just "a hobby", it feels more like a "perfect fit". You get so excited and overly involved in this so-called fiction, it takes all of your senses and begins to summate all kinds of wonderful sensations. It's better than food, exercise, and watching movies! It's amazing! People only rarely fall in love with a career path, for some it may be architecture (which I find astoundingly credible as well), or cooking, or teaching, etc. For me, I believe it's writing, but I guess we shall see after my summer at boston.

because I want to be worth it

she waits it out,

but nothing comes,

she starts to doubt,

hoping he'll come around,

hoping she'll be the one

to muster his courage,

and be worth the plunge.

when every thought has been weighed and measured,

closely examined and mindfully tethered,

the sweat beads on the edges of concentration,

lost in some kind of agonizing contemplation.

It is here where decisions must stand firm,

where faith and future bend at a single turn,

knees are weak, and chest is heavy

slowly breathing just to keep steady

sorting out the smallest detail,

convincing or proving every derail

sinking into something much stronger,

but holding on to hope a while longer

the war is first fought from inside the mind,

translating later to the physical kind,

holding and praying for a strength to fight,

to be touched by power and guided by light.

careful climbing.

"Your grandfather always had a natural kind hospitality about him. He would make sure my family got enough heat in the house during winter, and sacrifice his burning coals to accommodate us. After 2 months of knowing him I was crazy about him." -grandmother.

Watching the roads ahead of my hands, as the wheel is being navigated, the streets become illuminated by the juxtaposition of water and twilight as it casts a shimmery illusion of translucent lights beaming below the surface. Rain. Logic and reason tell me that the ground is solid, but sheer vision elicits a more imaginative gesture. The moment sweeps me away and I submit to unreality, to the captivating notion that all the cars glide above some transparent surface making everything clear and colorful.

I've come again, full circle, to the place of isolation. Caution glued to my palms, unwilling to be thrown to the wind, weighing my hands down to the ground rendering me on all fours. History repeats itself and a redundant melancholy atmosphere compresses against my shaky palpating organ. Hands clutch an invisible aching hoping to barricade the foreign commotion that seemed to have caused a change in pace for my shaky palpating organ. Perhaps it may have been beneficial to let down the walls of protection and establishment, but it feels only natural to keep outside intruders on the outside of my shaky palpating organ. What feels like never is really what is waiting patiently, meticulously for a true and irrepressible reaching touch upon my shaky palpating organ. Nothing seems to big or small of an intrusion, but everything is cautiously scrutinized and placed in distant regions from my shaky palpating organ. Why then does it seem to cry out for those foreign interferences? An ironic reaction for something so deliberately construed and rejected by my shaky palpating organ. My thoughts waylay the determination behind my actions as the air escapes my grasp, leaving me with a mountain of complexities to climb and conquer with little source of lung capacity. I saunter forward, one arduous step in front of another, making sure I ramify the heaps I step over as I go along. Will power and motivation take form in my hope, the hope that is as bleak as an ember, but persistently existing under all circumstances. Here is my path, and my strength has yet to keep to me down.