Happiness has never played a major role in my life, although I wish that it did. It’s the goal, what everything funnels toward, yet it always seemed unattainable. Maybe it was some sort of mental block, or a chemical imbalance, or something else, but it’s just not something I have had in my life. Sure, there are moments of bliss where everything just seems to be perfect, but that never lasts long, and unfortunately it only seemed to make things worse. Now, this does not mean that I was particularly dissatisfied. In fact, I think that I have been blessed in my short life time. I don’t think I could ask for things to be better.

I hate to go back to my recurring cliche, that my new surroundings are so great and that I love it and that I am happy now, because really, that feels like a quickly fabricated conclusion. Because I think my current contentment, maybe even happiness, is a result of something deeper then that. It’s about uprooting, starting anew, and letting the past float away. It’s about making new friends, and learning new things. It’s about opening myself up and ridding myself of adolescent inhibitions. Its about opening new doors and not being afraid to step in to them, to be excited to step in to them.

And as my days turn in to nights, and my nights turn in to weeks, I feel better as the time progresses. Putting my past furthur and furthur in the distance. Ridding myself of the memories that plague me. Ridding myself of a dyeing town. My life is a novel, the first half was written for me. Now I am doing my best for a happy ending with the beginning that I was handed.

The rain pounded down like heaven’s fury. Clouds churn like a lost apocolyptic catostroph. I count my steps while walking. My vision is clouded and I can see rain drops as they collect, and slowly fall from my eyelids. My hair is matted, drenched with water, and begging for some sort of cover. My shirt clings to my body as if it would perish if it weren’t so. My shoes have long since past the stage of saturated. My toes squirm, I can feel them pruning as the moisture invades and overtakes my socks. I watch the ground as I walk, as if my destination would be less of a distance. As if, by attempting to block out everything but the immediate surface ahead of me, my refuge will meet me half way. And, in this state of discomfort, I feel indifferent. Surreal to my surroundings. My comfort has not been compromised and, inside my head, the circus clowns and philosophers are about to perform.

While they are taking stage, I raise my head, look forward, up, across the street, and back to the ground. Taking in my surroundings like a polaroid, to carry me the rest of my trip. To be the thought pioneer, which will set the tune to the happenings that are about to begin.

And while I float down these streets that I have called my home. The performers making a proud, groundbreaking, and monumental show inside my head. I walk with an order, in a pattern revealed to me in numbers and translated to questions. Questions that can be mulled over, broken down, dissected, and concluded as a lost thought with no significance to anyone but myself. But that is no bother. For this is a performance for one, and I am the guest of honor.

I cracked open the private journal today. As I read I was swept away. My life is spent picking and gnawing at the marrow of every thing that is of value to me. Dissecting it all. Manifesting them into monumental and profound moments of self actualization. Picking through them as if, somewhere between the lines, there lies a truth that I just can’t reach. Something that will change the world. Will change the way people think. Something I can take and show and say that I did something of worth, of substance, and of value. It is always a bit disheartening to read my own journal. I feel like somewhere in the translation the meaning has been dissipated, or crippled by the typed medium. But, nevertheless, I try anyway.
11/25/2001
Opening the door to a room, the floor was a pastel grey, the walls a comforting textured white. It smells of fresh flowers and that indistinguishable smell of a loving home. comfort being the key word here. I lock the door, turning to examine the room more closely. Paintings. Paintings filled the walls. They were beautiful, I walked to one in the corner. It was done completely in grayscale. An image of a child holding a sled, his head was tilted back staring in awe at the beautiful clouds above. Standing at the hill, holding that sled, looking at the sky, it was a simple yet profound display of childhood innocense and wonder. I turned around again and walked back to the door that I came in, above it there was a word. “remember”
10/25/01
and as we embark on a journey of acceptance, road maps in hand, we open our eyes and take in the sunlight. The air seems cold, yet I am unfeeling. I look through the windows, trying to wipe them clear so I can see better, but they will not come clean. So, road maps in hand, we search through dirty windows on our quest for acceptance. We stop at the stations, only to be fed with brief and meaningless chat without direction. Questions are asked, thoughts are unheard, voices are muted, a lost attempt. And as we continue our journey we pick up hitchhikers, asking them questions and picking their brain. And, a small debt of gratitude leads them to believe they owe a debt of friendship. So on with our journey, our new friend the hitchhiker along. We pass by road signs advertising acceptance, we pass by fellow cars with the same objective, we pass by hords of people with friends and souls on their sleeves. and we do not stop.
And, as our car runs out of gas, we realise something. We don’t a car, no vessel to cripple and hindur our quest. All we need are our open minds and open thoughts. Wear them proudly, as they are rare.
12/25/01
the day of dismay and moral decay
the last survivors aren’t too far too stray
empty sidewalks and burning buildings
12/9/01
you know it when the wind runs through your hair and tree limbs brush your back. When the clouds are dancing, and the sound of chirping birds is the only thing around. When you look at the ground and see everything as it is. Birds, deer, and other animals roam around, indifferent to your presence. The leaves are falling all around, like parachutes from heaven. The sun perched on a cloud, like a lone sailor.

I thought I died the other day, as I let my mind just drift away. Thoughts of auburn and early morning alarms, all occompanied by a late night stray. my back against the ground, a soothing organic landscape. I aligned the stars, assembling my epitaph. clouds spun while shining stars rested upon them, twisting and turning and spilling life.

The old design just wasn't doing it for me anymore. We'll see how this one turns out.

The water below swept by without the slightest care, and the cars passed like a fading memory. Just a backdrop, like a dead friend left to rot and decay on the couch, in plain view of everyone yet no one sais a word. The large beams were steel, painted a green color that was no-doubt decided by a panel of “experts,” looking for the perfect color for their perfect man-made monolith. At the top I experienced an overpowering feeling of completion, perhaps the same feeling that buddhist’s call nirvana. It was beautiful, I stood there with the wind whipping through my hair and the cars below and the water rushing like a lost thought, swept away. I swayed and I sang and I licked the clouds. I discovered myself, and at that moment, at that single point in my life, I was happy. And as I let my body fall backward, I begain to fly. I felt the love of my mother, and the hate of my peers, and something else. I couldn’t pinpoint it, but it was rushing through me like a tidal wave tears through a coral reef. And it was beautiful.

THE SKY IS FALLING!! oh wait. No, its just raining pants

I think I'm going crazy.

If you are a relative of mine, stop reading this now and please don't come back. Unless you are les.
I woke this morning, the first one of the 4 guys sleeping here. After sitting around, surfing the net in between breaks to the tv and kitchen, I finally decided to leave. It was 1:15, I was still the only one up, so I hopped on a bus. I intentionally left my watch at my apartment.

I got off on third street, walked up to fifth and toward my bank. Once there I read the sign on the door, "open mon-fri." So, I still had the two hundred dollars that my roommate gave me as a payback for his portion of the rent.

I walked down to pioneer square. Met some local weed pushers who where generous enough to share there abundance with me. We said bye and I walked in to a used book store where I found several books. The acid house by irvine welsh, the philosophy of aristotle by renford bambrough, angry candy by harlan ellison, cobain by the editors of rolling stone, and the most intriguing one of all; illuminations by arthur rumbaud, a french poet who's works were translated to english.

I walked back towards pioneer square where I met a monk, who I had seen before, giving out books and taking donations. I took one of his books out of curiosity, gave him a five dollar donation, and sat down on a bench. I waited a while. Watched people for a while. Then hopped a bus and came home.