i ache for her

    The pavement quietly echoes footsteps, yet there is no one to be seen. Everything is caught in a dusky twilight. The streets are empty, the sidewalks grey to match the sky and the cold, harsh winds rustle the few leaves in the trees. The bus schedules are outdated and water stained. The buildings are aged with broken bricks, climbing vines, and weathered doors. A faded yellow “Bed and Breakfast” sign leans against the wall where it once hung. The air is lonely, but strangely welcoming to a wandering soul. This is Wicklow.
    Ireland is known for her grey skies and green, rolling hills, but in Wicklow there is something else to be known. Despite being conquered by Vikings, the ruins of this little  monastic town speak volumes of solace and meditation. The quiet life of a Sunday is a striking contrast to the bustle of Dublin. The streets are home to few cars and even less walkers. The Grand Hotel sits on the corner of the main drag, Dublin Road. Its parking lot houses a few vehicles, but little traffic. The lobby and bar is filled with only the local regular and weary bartender. The understood quiet, the understated simplicity of the town haunts her passer-bys.
    There are scarcely any store fronts along the road and even less road signs or direction as to where to go. With incorrect information on the Bus Eireann signs, for an out-of-towner, figuring your way out or around the town may seem dismal. Waiting at the bus stop could take several cold, windy and rain beaten hours. Trying to catch a ride could take days. There may be better luck in walking into someone’s house and asking for help!
    Despite the lack of direction, strolling along the bare sidewalks will eventually bring an understanding to the fresh air. The grey skies and grey sidewalks and grey streets empty themselves into the grey rocks leading into the grey Irish sea. The cold air beating against your face will seem to fade as the overwhelming smell of vanilla and saltwater meet your nose. The grey is interrupted by the mustard yellow wildflowers and soft moss clinging to the large rocks. A rusted and worn sign, warning IT IS DANGEROUS TO WALK ON ROCKS stands high above the mesmerizing grey-blue swirls. 
    The waves crash one after another, bubbling with anticipation to get higher and higher. They sing a song of hidden glory as the dotted rocky shore softens along the curve of the peninsula. The light house in the distance sheds hope with each turning light-beam. The shore spreads its arms out to welcome the water, foaming at the mouth to devour those who dare enter its bitter-cold pathway. The town can be seen at a distance from its skirt of silver splendor. The grey sits below a crown of green, Ireland’s green. There are no brilliant cliffs here. There are simply green pastures with halos of grey tresses.
    A belt of houses and buildings follows the curve but does not venture too high. The little houses and small establishments are quiet and beg the question of whether they are ghosts from the past or remain active. The gentle stillness can either evoke interest or scare away strangers. Walking away from the harsh winds and strong scent of vanilla, following the grey wall separating nature from civilization (though of what sort it is hard to say) will lead you back into the waistband of the town. Leaving behind the toothless bite of the shore, it is difficult not to embrace the understated beauty that is Wicklow.

dirt in my lungs

body hanging from the inside out

damp towel

somebody help. 

-----------------------------------

i ache for life. but what the hell is life? TO live? or to HAVE life? i have been given life.
and i'm watching it waste away.
who's to blame? myself. i am my own worst enemy. and it kills me.
every mother effing day, it kills me.
.

i am honestly sick of the sound of my own thoughts. can't they at least adopt an accent to vary things a little bit? subtitles? these re-runs are getting old.

well, do i?

do i bore you?
do i bore you with my lack of self
lack of you
lack of new
and true
and too much blue?

i bore me.
with me.

i should be running right now.

why

i have to ask myself, what is the purpose in this blog if i hardly use it. do i need some sort of outlet to express my inmost feelings that bad? do i crave to be known so much so that i just send it out into the internet world? it drives me nuts that i want to be known by people, yet for all the wrong reasons. but don't we all cry out, continually, for someone to just hear us and understand us? look around. everyone has a blog, a facebook, twitter, some sort of method of just getting it "out there", somewhere, anywhere for SOMEONE to know. we crave to be known.

but at the same time, we aren't actually allowing ourselves to be known. no fulfillment comes from dumping my thoughts on the screen and then shutting the laptop. who is receiving it? who is responding? is anyone out there? am i even being honest? where are my unadulterated thoughts and feelings? absolutely not for all to see. that's too private.. but here, i'll allude to something and we'll call it a day.

so what do i do with the ultimate unknown? praise God for God is all i can say.

false reality

i want my life to be full. fulfilling. fulfilled. i live with little hope of doing something great; must i do something great, though? i want to be happy. i want to be content. i want to carry out some of my dreams. i want my dreams to be reality. i am lethargic. i am lazy. i am full of self pity. i am full of despair. i need to move, to move on, move out, move over. i am paralyzed by fear- fear of what? fear of strangers. fear of not knowing what to say, where to stand, when to speak, when to laugh, when to be quiet. i fear even those i love.
what a way to live.


do i have a choice? how do i break the walls around me, shatter the ceiling and fly free? i'm a caged bird.