[Most Recent Entries] [Calendar View] [Friends]
Below are the 12 most recent journal entries recorded in
Rachel's Blurty:
| Monday, September 14th, 2009 | |
| 12:21 am | you've got a smile that could light up this whole town, i haven't seen it in awhile since she brought you down. |
| Friday, April 10th, 2009 | |
| 10:45 pm | retro_chica Dear Boy, These thoughts, they sound so much better in my head. When I think of word "oragami" I laugh and remember how we spent two whole hours teaching each other the craziest manipulations of paper, just because we had nothing else better to do. When it's etched in pen, the r is disjointed and oddly attached to the o, and it just looks like a word. The memory isn't there. The roof is leaking again. I can hear the tin bucket pinging again. I always liked tin buckets, always loved how they reminded me of warm Sunday mornings with a tall glass of lemonade and a gardening spade. Like the 1950's without the gender roles. Just love. I guess that's why I bought the bucket from Ikea; because you thought it was cheap, and I thought it was special. And you said you liked it because I found beauty in it. Because I saw the best in everything, even when you couldn't. The drip, drop, drip drip drop is picking up again. It doesn't have a melody anymore, it's just spattering and stammering like the rush of words that always flowed through my mouth. To me, I always thought you saw it as just a bucket. You never really told me why you liked it, I just assumed because it was Ikea you wanted it, you always liked that store. You laughed and told me that I was always so insecure, that you found my ramblings adorable, that you loved to hear me talk. That's when you told me about the bucket, do you remember that? And every part of me wanted you to hold me, to comfort me. I wanted to hide underneath our blanket with a flashlight and wait for the rain to stop. We would make shadow puppets, and tell each other our deepest secrets. But all I could hear was my voice, and the pinging. I guess all along it was me. In all our wonderful pizza-making-from-scratch nights, or movie marathons, I felt like we were always forgetting something. I had too many questions to ask, and you forgot your cue cards. I wanted more than I asked for. Last week, when we were lying together on the couch, and the power was out because of, of course, another thunder storm (we're such romantics, we picked the rainy city), I rested my head on your chest, and instead of feeling the warmth of your body, the rise and fall of your heart, I heard that damn pinging. I didn't want to hate the pinging, I didn't want to even think about it. But it's all that echoed through my mind. It bounced off the walls and reverberated like the only sound that existed in our world. A random stream of drops. I wanted you to love me so badly. I wanted you to clutch me in your arms with all your strength as if there really was a monster under the bed. I wanted to mean something to you, like you do to me. But it was always me, always the pinging. And unless I bombarded you with a grocery list of questions, you didn't have much to say. I don't blame you. So I'm writing you this letter, folding the paper in half so you'll think its smaller and less significant than it actually is. And if you see a crackle in the paper here or there, don't think it was my tears. Just wonder why hadn't I chose a clean sheet of paper, if that at all. I probably should have told you long ago that I'm not the one you want. But I guess you figured that out in a different way. We saw x meets y and different trains, and understood that distance makes all the difference. And the need wasn't the deep, or hungry as we would have liked it to be. I think we saw too many bad remakes of Romeo and Juliet. I'm sorry for making you watch so many chick flicks with me, you should have told me that you hated them. I am writing you this letter, because you never did. Because I loved you without really knowing why, and that secretly, a small part of me wishes that you'll read this and come after me. You don't have to. Don't. We're better off this way. Before I go, I'll empty the bucket, you can have it. And I'll finally call the roof guy. Maybe it's just a band-aid solution, but it's the best that I can do. You'll never know how much you mean to me, Girl |
| Wednesday, March 11th, 2009 | |
| 11:03 pm | i wanna be a writer, but i don't have much to say wanna be a saint, but i'm sinning every day i wanna be your sunshine, but the days go by so gray |
| Tuesday, March 10th, 2009 | |
| 6:25 pm | all I know is I feel lost without you “I miss you” is not enough |
| Monday, March 9th, 2009 | |
| 12:22 am | June 11th, 1980 These days and chances are looking slim. I tell, "You look nice." You say I'm looking thin. I say, "I haven't been eating or really been sleeping. just breathing and thinking of you." |
| Friday, March 6th, 2009 | |
| 4:03 pm | Something's wrong here. You can't call a piece of fruit an apple when you want to eat it and a dandelion when you don't want to eat it. It's the same sort of fruit no matter what your intentions toward it. And how strong is the case for a categorical distinction between brains that know reality and brains that don't? Is a non-reality-recognizing brain as a foot, say, is from a brain? This seems unlikely. Recognizing the agreed upon version of reality is only one of the billions of brain jobs. |
| Thursday, February 26th, 2009 | |
| 8:47 pm | Footprints, and fallen leaves; these are the kind of things lovers think of. Backseats and motels; these are the places that they've been. You want none of these things, these are the things that make us weak. |
| Tuesday, February 24th, 2009 | |
| 9:51 pm | I need the smell of summer I need its noises in my ears. |
| Monday, February 23rd, 2009 | |
| 9:51 pm | When I think about the president How did he become the president? And I stayed awake for a day or two I thought about the world Drank gin and watched the news And there are some things I'll never understand... \/ nevermind. |
| Wednesday, February 11th, 2009 | |
| 11:05 pm | she was just seventeen, pious and pretty with a deadly disease and the weight of the world on a prosthetic shoulder and by the summer of ninety-six her body was cracked like porcelin just like some precious moments collectable in a hospital gown and a big bright golden halo |
| Monday, February 9th, 2009 | |
| 6:43 pm | with all the things i've been meaning to say but i was walking to your apartment and the letter fell out of my pocket on the way seven pages on sixteenth street i lost my words under tires and feet and you'll probably never have a clue cause i'll probably never say a thing to you i've been watching out the window of the bus every time it passes by just to see if you were outside smoking cigarettes and passing time i think of things that i wanted to say when i ride by almost every day but you'll probably never have a clue cause i'll probably never say these things to you ♥♥♥ |
| Thursday, January 29th, 2009 | |
| 9:56 pm | I'm not what's missing from your life now I could never be the puzzle pieces |