I guess I'll just have to re-start this whole relationship with a baby step... This post won't be well-written or worthwhile in the least bit, and it probably won't even end up saying a damn thing after all, but it's simply all I can do. I'm so confused and turned around in my head these days that I can't remember how to make sense of a damn thing. Things that used to come naturally now just scare me to death and overwhelm me back to bed. I can't seem to remember how to be a writer anymore, but I can remember how to talk to Xanga. I can remember how to do this. I think. In my early high-school years I used to start my Xanga posts with "previews" of each focal point in my post. It didn't ever make for the best writing, but it kept me writing. It conquered my ADD by keeping me focused on my pre-planned subjects, and therefore I was able to record the entire first three years of high school with very few missing gaps. After a few years of no punctuation and no real effort made in writing to impress, my posts finally started to become wonderfully put-together, powerful, moving, inspiring, and even at times epic. But as the years wore on and the missing gaps between my posts became longer and lonelier, somewhere along the way I lost all of my ability to write words that could move anything more than a spacebar. And now here I am, back on Xanga. So again I sit with my fingers pressed to the keyboard just as I've done every single day now since I've had my Xanga back, trying desperately to make the words in my heart into the right words, but no matter how profound the masterpiece in my head is, it never seems to matter; the backspace key wins every time. Now every missing gap is silently backed by a different sad little broken-up draft post where real words were supposed to be. It's more than depressing; it's terrifying. I fear the keyboard now because I'm so afraid of never again being able to make these keys into therapy the way I used to. It's the kind of thing I once loved that would now just drive me away and send me running to hide from yet another casualty of my inner demise... Yet, I am here once again sitting at the keyboard with my fingers pressed just as eagerly to the keys. I could turn around right now and cut my losses right here, part ways with another dear-friend as if they never meant a thing from the start, tie this all up in a big cheap bow with something cliche or generic, go out not with a bang but with a bail, and never look back. I could admit defeat now and it would probably be a relief, just throw in the towel, raise my white flag to counter all the red ones holding me down, lay down the last of my arms, fall back and surrender to a reality where my future is Xanga-less... But I won't give up this time. Not on this one. I can't give up, so I can't back down, and I can't let go, so I won't give in. I'm prepared for battle, so come at me with your worst. As long as I've still got even just one ounce of fight left in me, I'll be fighting right here. On Xanga. Till the bitter end. This Xanga has fixed me before and I think it can do it again, but I have to get my ass up now and meet halfway this time. And it may very well just end up in more drafts, gaps, and defeat, but I remembered an old game-plan that just might work, and I think this shot in the dark is worth the shot. For good or for ill. So I'm now attempting to make my great come-back with a slight back-track of a baby-step here. I'm going to channel my inner 14 year old - yes, *shudder* the utterly punctuation-less, habitual absuer of run-ons and frantic fragments that was me, right here on Xanga, at 14. For the past week I've been swinging every night that Carlton is at work on a swing in the park behind my house that I have named Flego. I have fallen in love with this swing. Every swing I take feels like I'm flying my way to freedom. I can just think when I'm out there, and it's such a relief. You know what, Truest_Dry_Ice Xanga?... This post isn't finished, but it's done. I never got around to making the point I set out to make {(in the way I tried to; reasonable and attractive explanation form.)} But I just figured out [on Fleggg!] that I actually did make the point that I *really* meant to make at the core, and I ended up unintentionally making that point 100 percent better right-er, than any of the over-analyzed posts I usually attempt to make, but never finish because of a severe obsession with "being intelligable" that always ends up every time in nobel-prize winning literature completely canceled-out-defeated by being in the form of unconnected fragments... What's the point in having a way with words if you never write? In the end, THAT'S the only thing that can't amount... I keep giving up on posts because they aren't "worthy" of being read... But the thing is, is that *this* Xanga is meant to be immune to that. I had 53-and-counting other Xanga accounts, all set up for different public purposes. They were all drastically different types of blogs, but they all had the same motive: impression (of any kind) on some specific group of people or specific individuals other than me. And each one was uncannily ingeniously composed of the most attractive pictures I ever did paint, and they all served their specific purposes flawlessly... But rarely were they honest. "Fronts" are necessary AF, but they can't ever possibly measure up to being as important as something written to yourself. *Pause because Carlton is passing me the pipe with brand new weed that is supposedly hard-the-fuck-core.. keep going.. *chief it upppp* and!..... "Actually, no.. Half a hit is fine for me right now. Hell, I'll power-smoke five bowls in two hours to make up for this semi-sobriety, but right now I'm too in tune with the *real* thing I'm doing [[this]], that I'm not interested in another hit ATM. Maybe if it was weaker, but hey. This is good shit, so why not screw your jaded-stoner-ness for a hot minute and realize that, like an extra-strength 16-ouncer Icer, one bowl of shwag is probably about four or five bowls o' dis shizz. Sooo, yeah. I'm good, guys. Go ahead and pass me up. Because for the first time in a while.. I don't compulsively *need* to hit it as much as ya'll are because I remembered about that I don't need things; they need me. So since I can hit dat as soon as I want, I'll get to it on my own time. But as for now, this is the perfect amount for me to do *this* on, and that happens to be all I wanna do. Now I've become bored of this unecessary lecture behind my reason for doing exactly not this, so I'm gonna get back to writing the truth; the whole truth; and nothing but the truth, now. Because it needs out right now more than my brain-cells do. Hell, I think that half-hit mighta even killed just enough to fool me back into making that *real* sense again. "Real" in the truest form. The ONLY real things in life are those real to the one [or ones..] living that life.. in that body. The point - I think???? - I'm not making in a YOLO-swag-STYLE is that *anything* written or spoken intended for another's eyes, might be true, but never real. Even the slightest bit of a concept of ulterior-motive-planned posts intended specifically to be read or heard by anyone not existing in your own body, taints the truth if only just a bit. And the second that you slip a lie past yourself, is the second that it only becomes real for someone else, and therefore loses all reality pertaining to you.... Um.. The end?" ........ So now I'm struggling --SO HARD-- to make real sense in a cognitive way; a simplicity of old that I never imagined being able to doubt for a second but alas, life twisted it into something as impossible as that math assignment in 2nd grade and well. I just have no choice but to push on.. To choose to ignore most of my re-thoughts on this post-writing, and know that I'll understand better when I read it, and that's the only point of this whole thing here at all. So, in short..er..ish.... *If you're reading this*... You may not understand what I mean, but it does make sense. More sense than it has in years.. Because it makes real sense again. The kind of sense only I fully get. The only kind that matter. And *IF* you're still somewhat following any of this [[welly-apathetic]] diatribe, then you'll 'get' that I actually did just make my final point for this post after all. Cause the less sense it makes to others, the more proven the point. Because the less that it matters to me if anyone cares or ever reads this, the truer it becomes to me. And I think I used to know that once.. I used to title posts like these along these lines of warnings: 'This Probably Won't Make Sense' ; 'You don't have to read this' ; Beware: obnoxiously-LONG-post... read at your own risk!' ; and always my fav, just plain 'Don't Read This.' ... And that one little piece of a disclaimer up front to the readers I held dear was the perfect amount to balance my obsessive-compulsion with perfectionism in outer appearances and impressions,, and my carnal need to just fucking talk to my own damn self and not make a lick o' sense to anyone else with half a brain. So, this is my attempt. I'm sure it'll be feeble AF after all.. in theory.. but if it turns up posted at all in the end, then to me it was a triumphant step in the right direction. The first "One [[in half a decade]] small step for [the] man [who reads this whole weird-ass thing] ; one giant leap for Me-Kind... Which is the cure I desperately need right now. I'M GETTING THROUGH THIS. STARTINGNOWGO- Moral of this post: it makes true[_dry_ice] sense and probably not to you. Perfect. Way it should be. As for the return-of-previews; "NEXT; on [the] LOST [story of the kid I was once]... <3 Fear & Loathing in The Best Way <3 The Swing That's Changing Everything <3 AlleB & "me" [us;we;in one, so we're *we*] <3 Oh yeah, music! <3 Let's go down to the tennis court <3 Mind over matter is the only thing of mine that matters. <3 PRACTICE WHAT YOU PREACH <3 These colors don't come off. <3 Bear = God <3 CNN <3 Cora <3 What's the point of writing? <3 So I suppose that makes this Jonestown? <3 How Papa survived catholic school, the army, tradgedy, a horse who broke his eggs, - and death. <3 Thinking like kid-me; twin sister harmony <3 Songs that make sense now <3 List of list to list-off <3 YOLO like ever <3 Could South-By-stunner-bangs save our world again? <3 True Dry Ice <3 We're so happy, even when we're smiling out of fear.. [Or] Ode to the International *scales*, the Ranches on the flip side of *mirrors* , and every other lacuna lost in the depths of grandfathers.. or *those indifferent clocks* ... Is this making sense?? No, not to ya'll, I mean to me.. When you read this, FuturamE, will it be understandable to you still? There's no way to know for sure I guess, but the best I can do in this post is cut any losses with whichever of these paragraphs are in doubt of serving the purpose for me,, - and move on to the next point! - because I'm fucking finally! shedding this strange haze of amnesia that's clouded my moonlight-all-night-adventure-walks, into nights too dark to walk through, for an amount of time now that I've long lost track of; and *at last* dusting off that trusty old broom in the corner again and sweeping the clouds away from this grey old sky like a dusty floor over-do for cleaning - [[ a floor like all of mine always have been; seemingly cluttered, chaotic and filthy for more or less time... *But* was eventually cleaned, renewed, redeemed, and neatly picked up back to normal and ever-better.. *Every time*.. Guess I have done it. ]] and re-adjusting my eyes to the sunlight I always used to play staring contests with. Clouds gone now; I'm up to play again. Challenge accepted. And day or night, dark or light, the sun comes out for me nowadays and lights up all the realites I haven't seen in umpteen years now and reveals the long-lost truth about Xanga; it's MINE, *all* mine. It's not at all a great show to put out for others, but that's kind of the fun of it. It's synonamous (sp?) with the days I've spent on nothing but Xanga posts; days doused in greasy hair, stubbly -ugh, okay sometimes more than stubbly- legs, yesterday's makeup, and no plans to change jammies anytime soon.. The same days I'd *never* dare venture into public equipped with any less than an adequately flimsy pair of dark over-sized sunnies, and at least the minimum amount of flair.. Ah those days. Those flawed, flawed, *perfect* days that played the part of the "kind of demented counterpoint to the" glamorous spotlight-days - the diva days are the ones that spark the flame (ShelleyB) of my life, and the bed/computer days are the ones that keep it fueled (AlleB) - ; just as important as each other, I've finally re-figured out that it takes that balance for me in my life to be in order before things can align and I can hold onto a stable center (even when that happens to be a Neon-Ninja-Hippie-Gypsy-Runaway-Nomad-From-Mars-Little-Ford-Spaceship on the move...) Um, okay. Confidential Confession: over the course of this post I've been getting rather generously intoxicated in variable ways, so now I am having trouble staying on topic and practicing what I'm preaching.. Welp, this seems adequate enough, let's roll with it. Time to go. No time for a grande conclusion, so how about I end it with an old classic? Bye, Xanguhhh! Latuhhh!
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