I can't feed the delusions anymore. I feel like most people's sense of self worth is disgustingly bloated. You think you can just have my respect? Maybe a few years ago, maybe then I might have given you the benefit of the doubt, but not now.

I feel as though I've regressed. I don't feel like I can play my instrument, I don't feel like I can make it sound good or even close to where I would feel comfortable playing in public. I know I've improved but it's not enough. It's not enough and if you give me some bleeding heart platitude about how I'm probably being too harsh on myself I swear I'll break your face.

Why the fuck do people say that? You have to be that hard on yourself or you'll just coast and never make any improvement. Maybe you think only the super talented should succeed and you're reinforcing your belief by quitting before you try too hard.

I feel like I'm fighting my way up from bottom of the class towards an impossible goal and all I want is to play in a good orchestra and be paid moderately well for it. And I am, realistically, doing just that. There are so many amazing talents just breezing past me, and it's both inspiring and deadening. I try so fucking hard. I try and I try and I still feel like I sound like shit.

Ah fuck it. Sleep.

Sometimes I just want to curl up and cry for hours. Sadly I'm no longer young enough to be able to stop thinking of the time I'm wasting whilst I'm doing this. At least when I was younger I didn't know why I felt weird and torn apart and lonely all the time.

I can't have some mild, sweet, average person because that mild sweet average person will be afraid of me and will do stupid, idiotic things because of this. The truth is I don't want to be with some mild, sweet, average person because they can't offer me anything other than disappointment.

I sure hate being lonely, though.

I hate even my own thought processes right now.

Whatever. I made reeds. Tomorrow we start again.

FUCK that. fuck it. fuckity. fuck.

fuck.

Oh well. I wasn't going to sleep anyways, and I suppose this will increase my likelihood of sleeping better in the near future. Fucking hell, who'd I think I was kidding? I can't be dishonest to save my life.

Fuckitalltohell.

In a HANDBASKET goddamnit.

everything is held together
the moisture dripping
through my memories
soft and warm

rain and the sea
crashing against the edges
of my world and yours
and the gulls spin out

out into that other;
the endless landscape
expansive and cruel.
the sea stretches at the
edges of my mind

lapping at the streams
destroying the edges of
my coast

Rain flowing always towards
into, through, past
gently caressing and erasing
touching everything I love.

Ah.
Rain.

It's so tempting to tell myself lies. Lies like "I'd just like someone to go home with" but it's not true. I am honest against my own will. I can't just go home with anyone, I wouldn't be able to, not even shit-faced drunk. Arguably I'd be less likely to go home with someone I didn't like then, as I'm more honest and less polite the more I drink.

Gods I wish he noticed me. There's nothing for it, really. Some people are natural charmers, and so he's also a good person, and doesn't actually want to make anyone upset...so he doesn't lead me on. Well. I suppose there's nothing else to say, is there?

My playing has really improved. If I do nothing else with this life I'll become a good oboist. Haha. I'm glad I have friends who periodically remind me that I can play other types of music whenever I want. There are a bunch of new influences that I want to explore. Perhaps I'll actually get up the nerve to take lessons with Francois one of these days.

I really wanted to get the nyo audition this time. I don't think I did well enough for it. It's hard to realize that's the last chance. I still have till I'm 30 to put one of the standard youth orchestras on my resume, but nyo is out. nao is still good, but it's about twice as competitive. Still, if I can't hack that I'll never get a professional gig that I'm happy with, so it's a valid level. It's funny how much contempt I've developed for 'personal best' in the last couple of years.

I work hard, I'm a good musician, and I love the oboe. None of that makes me a professional or a successful musician. I'll let you know when I'm happy with my level of musicianship not increasing, and I'll give you a hint: I might die a couple months after. It's about the process. It's about ALWAYS looking up, always getting better, always reaching for the next goal. I have no desire to settle and I never will; this is what makes me happy. Don't tell me to be happy with what I have - you might as well tell me to go dig my own grave.

I'm also rarely apologetic for it when (not if) it does tear its' way out. To be fair, if it gets out you either deserve it, can take it, or actively enjoy it.

I might be a bad person, but I think the idea of a good person is a bit silly, these days.

My oboe is happy and so am I. This is helping me fight against the stupid craziness; perhaps with enough practice I might be able to not swing so dreadfully far to each extreme. Maybe.

Cold medicine really does make me feel weird.

I miss you, still.

It's different now, of course. I think of you and smile and wonder when I'll see you again, and whether you'll be happy or tense and conflicted. I think we've settled, for a while, at least in how we think of each other. A bit more than friends but friends more than anything. It works, somehow, even with the intensity that sparks intermittently, we'll know each other through it all, and that's nice in a way I appreciate more than I can say.

Oh. You are beautiful, aren't you? I'd almost been able to ignore the fact up until now. Funny how that works.

Originally uploaded by

The music runs through my heart like sandpaper,
like mercury, like everything I've ever known
and forgotten.
I marvel at the eddies and currents
as they war against each other
and I don't mind the pieces of me
you take with you.

So small, so gradual;
I'll always be here until I'm gone,
and then it won't matter that I've let you wear me away.
You're so beautiful, anyways,
I don't begrudge it most days.
Just sometimes.

Just sometimes,
when being ripped slowly apart
isn't quite enough.
when I'd like a piece, as well
a pool maybe, instead of a torrent.

Maybe that's a useless desire
why strive for stillness when it's the motion that draws me
even under the glassy surface
so carefully crafted and thin
the undercurrents pull me in and I'm helpless.

I'd like to sink
never breathe the air again
follow you down over the rocks
always flowing, ripping, never looking back
bit by bit I let myself become you

but I fall
I hit the bottom hard
forming roots after the bruises have healed
and then I'm just caught
torn by the current
on its' way past.

I'll be fine. I'm always fine. Always land on my feet, have a huge safety net.

But I'm just not okay right now.

flung from on high
No soft morsel within
They shatter and turn
into dust.

And I can't breathe.
I can't sift through it all
Second guessing and watching my step
I'd rather dream.

It's always the good ones
that make me cry.

Empty shells.
What was within
no one could say

Maybe this, maybe that.
Speculation leads to hope
the worst sort
of self deception.

You're so perfectly ruined
and I look for reasons
without meaning to

falling into you again and again
I can't stop myself
every time you laugh
my world shatters

when you sing
when you sing...

It's too early for me to write here, but there's a certain shimmer in the air, outside, where I'm not, and it makes everything softer. Maybe that's why you can't breathe; me, I just can't think.

I've given up really trying. Content to let myself float along when I'm in your presence. I'd still like to melt into you but this is nice too.

I wish I could work harder with less introspection, sometimes. Just focus on one thing at a time until it's perfect, letting everything else fall apart without caring. But I can't. I wonder if that means anything at all.

Yeah. Oboe now.

Originally uploaded by

Snarl.

I am not amiable today.

Sleep.