For you I’m alive, told you I’m awake…

Man, I hate waking up early with nothing to do.

I don’t post enough pictures, so here are some.

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I start writing things and then half-way through I delete them and decide I didn’t want to write about that dumb topic anyway.

I am going to go over to Eric’s today and see about fixing his mother’s software problem.

After that, I’ll be bored. Jordan, (roommate) has to work at 4PM today.

Looks like I’ll probably be moving next month, or in March. Mom’s moving out, (haha, how often does –that- happen?) because she thinks she’d enjoy living with my sister more than with me. I don’t really care. I’m moving half-an-hour closer to work so I won’t be complaining at all. It will probably be cheaper to live there, too, so.

That’s what’s going on in my neck of the woods. Ciao.

I was thinking about an old flame tonight, after having talked with her about how our relationship never really took off.
I’d intended on writing just a journal entry about it, because I keep meaning to start a journal, and thought that would be a good story to start with.
But as I was sitting here in bed, trying to think of a good way to start writing that story up, I decided I wanted to do it by hand, and couldn’t be pressed to actually get my leather bound journal out to write in.
So I was goofing around, thinking about some of the things I’d said, and some of the things she’d said, and wondering if maybe she still cared under her tough outer shell, when the song “It’s not too late” by Three Day’s Grace came on Pandora.
I’m not the kinda guy that believes in providence or fate, or even destiny, but I couldn’t help but chuckle about the timing.

I barely made it out of my house before tears poured down my cheeks; a chill wind decided to find its way to my eyes.

I shivered.

There was a letter on the ground, it was from ITT. I picked it up, planning to return it to the box it belonged to, only to realize I wasn’t sure which box that was supposed to be – I never did pay attention to which boxes were which. I just know the one that belongs to me.

Knowing the address, however, I walked to the door, and was struck by how silent my boots were on the pavement, then concrete. The wind wasn’t so loud that it was drowning it out, the footfalls just weren’t there.

A distinctive, if soft, chink as I slid the letter into the screen door, and I was walking away.

Fear had accompanied me that whole time; worried that I might perhaps be caught, and accused of something. The lights were ablaze inside the house, the Christmas Tree was twinkling through the window. A place for fear, this was not.

So I considered where to let my feet lead me, and discovered a chill that was as cold as an iced wind cutting through me. Standing by my car, I felt like a giant. The world seemed smaller than normal until I started moving back toward my door, and everything seemed to grow; to become normal again.

I knew there was no change in size, but the closer I got to my door, the more sounds I heard. I heard my boot fall on the concrete as I walked under my porch light. I turned, staring into the darkness, listening to the sounds beyond my hard.

The sound of feet met my ears, like a number of… things… skirting the edge of vision, just beyond what I could see as flickering shadows. I looked into the stars, and muttered under my breath, “You win this round.”

I felt the heat from my house on my cheeks first. Then I couldn’t see.

I closed the door, and felt reassured, and worried at the same time, as the deadbolt slid into place. I walked down the hallway in mostly-darkness, my glasses still fogged from the heat, and stopped outside my door.

The faint outline of light seemed to tell me to unbutton my coat. As I stood there, flipping the buttons, I wondered why I was pulling it off before I got into my room. Once the buttons were done, I pushed the door open.

Light filtered into the hall, I’ll never know what was waiting for me in my room, had I left my coat on. Perhaps the coat was my armor, my flagbearer, saying that I was ready for a fight.

Perhaps it was the chink in my armor, broadcasting the place to attack.

Perhaps things would have been the same either way.

The chance to discover the other path is gone.

Putting on my shoes feels like the last thing I might ever do.

I slipped on a pair of jeans, tightening the belt so they’re snug against my body. My coat is lying on my bed, waiting for me to grab it on my way out of the door.

Sometimes, after reading something that sounds deliciously occult, I have this desire to reach out into the spiritual world and grab a hold of it. A man, grabbing a live power line, I guess. This is a desire that I’ve had for a very long time, and sometimes it gets the best of me.

So as I pull my socks on, I take the time to enjoy the feeling of the soft fabric tugging at my dry, hardened skin, wondering if I will ever feel it again, knowing that the night is going to end without me discovering any kind of supernatural activity.

Sometimes I’m thankful for that.

Other times, it leaves me feeling empty.

I was intending to do National Novel Writing Month this year.

I had a pretty good idea, I thought, about a story. A guy is pretty awful, and he decides to tell the story of his lives. First, he’s a rapist, who dies mid-rape somehow. He gets punished by being turned into a tree, or something, and being burned alive in a forest fire.

After that, he becomes a dog, but he starts attacking people, so he gets re-incarnated as a sex slave, malnourished, unable to get away.

During the course of these little events, he learns a little something different every time, and over time, he begins to understand just how he was fucking his life up.

The story was going to end by him being born again as a regular guy, with a full life to live.

But I didn’t write it. Oh well.

I talked to someone I hadn’t talked to in quite some time. (About 6 months, actually.)

That is to say, I hadn’t actually talked with them. We’ve remained in touch, via e-mail, instant messengers, etc.

We were talking after work last night, (well, on IM) and she said to call; we talked for about 20 minutes.

Turns out some things never change. Some things, do, though. I’ve been wanting to talk to her for quite some time, but really didn’t have a good reason to. I’d missed our three-hour-long phone calls late at night, and was feeling… I don’t know, really. But I felt like I’d enjoy it more than I did.

Maybe I had some stuff to say to her that I didn’t have a chance to say, but I still would have thought that I’d enjoy just hearing her voice.

She sounded better than I remember; I told her as much.

But it wasn’t the same as it used to be, and… I guess I shouldn’t have talked with her. But I did enjoy it; it just wasn’t how I remember it.

Things change, though. It’s a good thing.