Recovery;

Anonymous: I know who you are, and it pains me to even begin to think you could say such horrible things about me through ambiguous comments on a journal you are by no means forced to read. As to whatever might have brought on such feelings toward me, I am unsure of, but you clearly have some underlying qualms with me as a person and as a friend, and I can't believe it is you that could actually say those things. I thought I knew you better, but it turns out you're just an avarice person with no empathy or compassion anymore, and that is overwhelmingly sad because you used to beam with ambition, and now you simply look down on everything, maintaining a negative outlook on life itself. If you are going to continue to ignore me and speak badly about me, then that is your right to do so. I will just stop trying all together. I refuse to make efforts to speak to you when I know the response will be a shrug of the shoulders and a head turn or a snide comment under your breath. Grow up.

I'm cleansing myself of contamination and starting over completely. I suppose that has to start with a reevaluation of the people in my life, even if it is not my decision.

Vacate the Premises.

It can happen in a glance.
Your body grows weak, and your mind wanders into the abyss of thoughts, of dreams. You peer through a dark tunnel that seemingly goes off into the distance with no end for the trajectory you inadvertently created for yourself. But you can also make out the shadowy figure waiting at the end of the confusion: destiny.
For days she watched in silence, afraid of making any sort of advance toward passion. For weeks she grew even more dependent on the momentary gazes occurring every so often, increasingly apparent to both mind and body. Heart palpitations were rapid and enduring, and thinking was beyond standard comprehension.
They met in the parking lot at dark, just as the note suggested. He walked to her car and carefully knocked on the window. It was too late to change her mind even if she wanted to at this point. So she let him in, and he kissed her lightly on the cheek, exclaiming how happy he was, in spite of every obstacle, she was with him at the moment. She assured him that she kept her promises, even on paper, even in haste.
The sun roof was down, revealing the phenomenon that is night: millions of striking stars filled the sky with hope, while the moon remained in a stage of primordial bliss, so as to not detract from the number of stars typically shielded by the overpowering light of a full harvest moon on an October evening.
He ran his fingers through her dark hair, making her laugh with every banter-embossed quip that gracefully flowed from his clever mouth. But the jocularity ceased when lips met, and eyes closed.
It was the time of sequestered passion to unleash and take stance in the form of intense kinetic energy, and she held nothing back. As the windows proceeded to frost, the heat consumed the lovers in a need for a rift in the silence. He promised her a thousand times that he could never stop loving her, and she tried not to hear him, knowing in a few hours he would walk away, and back into reality.
And that's how things proceeded for two years. Secrecy and ambiguity were constant, and as the love grew, so did the lies. But isn't that how it always goes? Love and lies are coexistant: a parasitic relationship at best.

Reservations;

One hundred times I have watched the rain race across the car window, and one hundred times I have declared a winner. It's a little hard to keep track of the rain drops, but there is always one that reaches the other side, the wind behind it all the way. Once the fascination subsides, all I can do is watch the outside world glide by. I look beyond the racing rain, and I ponder the pounding in my mind that results from looking perhaps too closely at the menial miracles.
Wisdom resides in the breeze, and as I feel it sooth my inner thoughts, memories are easily savored.

Caught in Waves of Admiration;

Now I see your face before me. It could launch one thousand ships to bring your heart back to my island, as the sand beneath me slips. As I burn up in your presence, and I know now how it feels to be weakened like Achilles, with you always at my heels.
I'm missing something deep within my life, and it is killing me.
I want so much to let it out and be with him as often as I used to, but I don't think it can ever happen again. It's slightly funny how drastically things can change in an instant; I don't like that at all, either. At least when change is gradual, you are alloted time to fully understand things and emotions are not constant, and you can better cope with the repercussions.
Sudden change is like venom striking your blood stream ever so quickly, leaving you no time to contemplate the meaning of everything leading up to that one decisive moment. What you are ultimately left with are memories, and sometimes they just don't possess the ability to be truly sufficient.
Perhaps it was love; Perhaps it was uncertainty; Perhaps it was a search for meaning. Whatever the case may be, I know it was passionate. We connected on every level expected, and it was ripped from under us, not a moment's notice. I don't want to believe the world, in some vague fascination with rules, was against it because no one knew, no one knows, and no one can ever fathom our serene sense of comfort in one another's eyes. Oh, those deep eyes. I can still see his soul screaming at me, understanding me, accepting me.
His voice soothed my quarrels, and his advice provided a new found wisdom within my priorities. His touch promoted an ambiguous seizure of emotions that terrorized my heart, and left me paralyzed in a stream of thought. His love was in the stars, and I make sure to watch them from time to time just so I can remember what it felt like. We danced beneath the night sky in silence, but words were entirely too cliche for our moments of infinite bliss. So instead we watched eachother fall more and more in love as the night went on, and the music in our heads softly faded in the distance of our minds so as not to distract our thought transmission.
Telepathy was our secret weapon.
Crying won't bring him back, but maybe thinking will.

Mounting Pressure;

People expect entirely too much from me.

I feel like I constantly put in all the effort I can physically handle, yet I reap no reward whatsoever. Don't get me wrong, I am not looking for compliments or a pat on the back, but I just feel less and less appreciated, which leads me to wonder why I even bother doing anything at all. My biggest defeat might be the fact that I am a perfectionist, and I simply cannot leave it up to others to make decisions that reflect poorly on me, so I sit in quiet anguish and continue to do everything myself with little assistance from others. I'm not saying I don't receive any help at all, but in the grand scheme of things, people come up with ideas that cannot be executed in the slightest by three or four people and leave it at that: a mess for someone, me, to clean up. I wish people cared. Or maybe I wish I didn't care in the first place. I don't know what it is like to sit back, relax, and let others plan everything, but I'm sure every once in a while, it would be a nice change. I'm getting sick, and it is because I haven't slept over three hours in the past four days. I'm sneezing every five seconds, my throat is sore, and I have a constant headache, which is only worsened by the self-proclaimed braniacs in our school. It is non-stop commotion from school assignments, writing articles, memorizing music and lines and facts for tests, not to mention understanding those memorized facts in order to apply them. I want to do my best, I really do, but that seems so far from being accomplished right now.

I want to go back to the ocean on my father's boat. I want to rest beneath the sun, letting the salty atmosphere consume me, while the waves disturb the boat from its resting position because it is plain and simple comfort. I want to hear the water spash against bows and watch the dolphins jump out of the water because it reminds me that life is worth every moment we take forgranted. Being carefree at times is a necessary and uncompromising part of life, and it is seriously lacking in mine. I want everything to be alright even when it seems like it never can be again; I want to be alone for a while.

Luck vs. Life

Luck is defined by circumstance.
Webster portrays luck as "good fortune; advantage or success, considered as the result of chance." But I believe to truly be considered lucky, certain requirements must be met. For one, an instance empowered by luck of any kind, whether good or bad, cannot happen too often, or the magic of rarity is lost. Overwhelmingly trite occurrences are habits, not chance. But perhaps the most rare notion on earth is that of living. Anyone and everyone has the opportunity and means to exist, but the idea of actually living one's life to its fullest and absolute potential is nearly impossible.
But is it luck that sustains living, or passion? Does devotion override coincidence? It is not 'lucky' that few are able to live a life filled with every emotion wrought out and scrolled across thousands of pages of huge hard-back books. It is complacency. Once one is truly aware of the necessities and loves of the world, and is content with the repercussions, they are permitted to experience what it is to live.
Alas, then we arrive at the question: to what ends does such living pertain to? Are regrets and fears an essential aspect of living, or are they variables deliberately placed to prevent such freedom? And if so, how is one to overcome such obstacles in order to fully live his or her own life? Is it luck that some are afraid of heights, while others notoriously climb mountains? No, it is the seperation of passion. Not everyone can love everything because then experts and prodigies would be at a loss. Existance is a mere coincidence in the mind because everyone possesses the ability to be, but very few possess the will to live. It is when we miss out on important issues that living life becomes a vague recognition of the mind. Pestering petty problems will never solve them, but moving on provides closure and serenity.
Just live and let live.

Undecided.

I have lost all motivation.
The simplest task seems incredibly overwhelming, and I am making mistakes in areas that should be bullet-proof. I am not prone to perfection by any means, but nothing has ever seemed to continuously feel this warped or overrated. Perhaps I am taking on more than I can handle; we all like to think ourselves invincible when it comes to activities we enjoy, thus participating in more than it is physically possible to actually attend. Can you really have a true passion for that many things? Certain organizations or ideas will inevitably take control over your time, leaving the minuscule and secondary options to perish in the depths on one's mind. I haven't found my true niche yet, and I feel as though I should have something by now; 17 years of searching should have yielded a little more than a few mediocre talents or past times here and there. I want to know what I am meant to do and continue doing it for the rest of my life. I want to know where I stand in the world, even if I am a simple speck among millions, as weightless and insignificant as they come. I want to drive on the open road for as long as it takes for some powerful epiphany to strike at any given moment, leaving me with some serene sense of being. I want closure.
I know I am asking too much, but some answers would be ideal.

Thunderstorms

The water was calm.

You could hear it whistle when it reached the shore, and then pull away just in time for the children to sink their feet into the soft sand and laugh at the molds their tiny foot prints left behind, only to be swept away with the next rise of the ocean.

The storm was approaching.

Just beyond the horizon where the sun had once glazed, a powerful force of grey clouds maneuvered their way past the setting sun and into the tides, showering the vast expansion of sand and sea shells with rain.

The lightning struck.

The waves grew thick, and the children were rushed inside. The down pour of the rain seemed to make the sea rise with fury, and it frightened the land. The palm trees swayed against their will, and the birds took refuge beneath the docks. The children watched with fascination as the storm settled, and the thunder ceased.

The water was calm.

You could hear the remaining waves crash against the shore, removing the course weather from its memory. The seaguls took flight, and the children rushed to see the remnants the storm provided: their memory was not so easily washed away. Peace was ambiant.