i’m not tired.
i want to be tired,
but i’m not tired.

i want
to want to
crawl under the covers and drift
peacefully to sleep,
but i turn around
gaze at the pillow
and the idea
doesn’t seem appealing
anymore.

i want to go go go go go.
there’s nowhere to go.

there’s no one to go
nowhere
with me.
that makes the idea
even more
revolting.

i want to
call someone up,
but there’s
no one
to call with anything worth
saying.
i don’t have
anything worth saying
to anyone
anyway.

i want someone to be here with me.
there’s no one.

alone
alone
alone. 

The only ghosts in the cemetery tonight were the ones we brought with us.

Those same ghosts we carry around on a daily basis, that stare back at us through mirrors and old photographs. The ones we try to turn away from, but never quite disappear. 

I could have sat on the mausoleum all night with you, watching the lightning and wondering when the rain would decide to pour on us.

It didn’t. Not tonight, at least. 

There’s been a swift change in me as of late. I didn’t quite notice it at first, but now I see it every day.

I think it all started about a week and a half ago. Deadline drawing near, I raced to get my portfolio together for review. I’ve wanted to go to the University of the Arts in Philadelphia since roughly November. Back then, I was a miserable kid fighting the cold Syracuse weather and even colder people around me. I knew I had to leave. After extensive research and a campus visit, UArts felt right.

Last Thursday was ready to make or break me—or would I be doing the making and breaking? All I know is that it was the first time in a while that I refrained from numerous presses of the snooze button. I woke up and got straight to it. Six hours until my review, my portfolio was complete.
I’ve never been one to give myself any real credit for the things that I’ve done or the abilities I have. I think that’s why I was surprised when the feeling hit. Flipping through the pages, I was proud of my work. I saw fragments of myself, pieces of my past, and the effort I put into everything reflected back at me.
At two o’clock, I sat in the room with my admissions counselor, recounting the stories behind each submission. After explaining the last piece, progression part three, she replied with, “I like the way you think.”
She meant it. My acceptance letter arrived four days later.

I went to three shows between that night and the following Friday. In that eight day time span, I watched a few bands for the hundredth time, ones to whom I’ve willingly given away small pieces of my heart over and over. I’d let the pieces escape and float away as I’d open my mouth to yell those band’s own words back at them. Words I may never forget. 
I watched others that I’d never heard more of than simply their name. Still, I stood in awe, soaking up every second of their performances. Something about each one caught my attention. Something I recognized immediately.
Somewhere along the way, the lines between those two blurred. Though my relationship to each was originally very different, the bands I’ve loved and the bands that I didn’t even know share something very important to me: passion. I witnessed more of that outstanding quality in the past week and a half than I have in months.

I keep thinking about those musicians and the lives they lead. For most, this is their full time job, how they make ends meet, put food on the table and all that. I think about how people like me from all over the world are so affected by it. Those of us who spend our paychecks on gas and concert tickets, just to take in the emotion for a few hours. And we’re grateful for the opportunity.
It’s different than being an accountant or a doctor. While those jobs also provide necessary services that most of us couldn’t perform alone, the efforts are generally shrugged off with a half-hearted thanks and a prayer it’ll be a long ass time before we have to go back.

I’ve been lost. I’ve been running. I’ve been sinking. The days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, and I’ve lost track of the actual length of time. Until recently, I couldn’t recall when I was able to get out of bed willingly on a consistent basis. The weight on my shoulders kept convincing me it would be better never to leave the sheets. But somewhere between my portfolio review, the GK tour, my acceptance letter, the free Transit show, and the North American Wildlife tour, I reached the surface. I ran back. I am found. 

I feel alive again. 

I get out of bed every day. I do the shit I don’t care about, because I know it serves a better purpose. I make it to work generally on time, and I find reasons to smile when I’m there, even if I hate working jobs that are meaningless to me. I’m finding the energy to use my spare time to work on the things that really do matter to me. I’m making progress.

I am eternally grateful for music, for those who dedicate their time, their lives, their hearts, souls, and passion to creating it so that the rest of us find something to hold on to when it seems better to sink, to run, to stay lost. 
One day, I hope to be in a situation where the feeling I found this week finds me on a nightly basis. Until then, I’ll cling to the bit of it that remains.

I hope you have something to cling to. 

I just went through and restructured this poem I wrote a few months back.
I want to use it for my portfolio review in a couple weeks. 
Thoughts? Comments? Suggestions? 

ever since the accident
my mom’s been getting real spiritual, you know?
as if it could change anything that happened.
she started believing in the powers of different stones,
all the things people say they can do.
she has this crystal hanging
in her car
that supposedly stops you from crashing,
as if rocks that have existed way before humans
can affect what happens in the shit we make.
she has this crystal hanging
in her car
that she believes prevents accidents,
as if the bright reflections
of the sun shining through it right into your eyes
aren’t enough to cause one.
she bought a crystal for my car.
i keep it in there just to make her happy. 

i always liked driving.
that didn’t change,
not after the tragedy last summer and not even after the potential i had
to cause another.
but tonight was different.
i hated being out there
alone
in the dark
as the rain tried to decide whether
or not to pour.
it made the gloss of the pavement
so black that i thought i might
disappear
at any moment.
the probing eyes of the blinding headlights of the passing cars
were questioning my every turn.
i swear to you,
they wanted to run me down.
i swear to you,
they plotted against me
together with every little bump and rough patch
that i couldn’t see until i ran over them,
until they started shaking the wheels beyond
my control.
i swear to you,
they wanted to run me off the road. 

on the way home,
the fog was thicker than i ever remember it being before.
and i thought,
this is it.
this is it.
surely i’m going to die like this,
making voice memos on my cell phone of things i need to remember
to write about later,
because all my best thoughts
jump out at me from behind the wheel.
and i thought,
this is it.
i’m going to die in a car like my sister.
but then i remembered-

my mom bought me that fucking crystal.

i’m trying to climb out of this hole, i swear, it’s just
that everything’s so dark down here. my hands
are bruised and bleeding from my constant
scrape against the deceiving walls of
concrete. i’d open my eyes, but it’s
blackness surrounding, and i think
i’m digging deeper instead of
nearing higher grounding. if
that’s the case, don’t tell
me the truth. i would
rather just keep
drowning.

Dying for a drive
but there’s nowhere
to go and nothing
to see and no matter
how far I drive
I’ll never find
the one
person I need.

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Deja Entendu tears at my heart strings. That album tangles my feelings into knots beyond all recognition. I play it today on the drive to the gallery.
It starts slow, Tautou sinking its way into my flesh. It’s cold out, but I turn the heat off by track two. Sic Transit Gloria must tense every single muscle my body has in all the best and worst kinds of ways. Spin Light mellows me some, but stirs up a different kind of anguish. I become a cocky prick with Okay, I Believe You. It’s hard not to. I struggle in The Quiet Things. It doesn’t get any better from there. The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot always reminds me of my sister, but it must be especially worse today, because I find myself cranking the heat again to cover the chills that creep across my skin. The aftereffects keep me hazy through Jaws Theme Swimming. But I guess that makes sense. Then everything gets quiet.  Me Vs. Maradona Vs. Elvis.  I start burning up and quickly cut the heat. Whether it’s caused by the perfectly clear pronunciation of every single syllable or the overwhelming guilt that the meaning behind those syllables inflict, I’m not sure. I don’t care to know. Guernica jabs a needle into my heart, aiming to steadily pump out all the blood I have left. I think that’s why I lose focus in the penultimate track. But hey, All I Have To Do Is Die, right? The closest I’ve ever come to closure is Play Crack the Sky. I feel like I could melt into the cloth beneath me, and that would be alright. The final lines bring me back to my sister. In a way, it’s kind of idyllic. After all, it started with her.
Brand New always does. 

I know that this is what you want
A funeral keeps both of us apart
You know that you are not alone
Need you like water in my lungs

This is the end.

My writing process is so weird.

It’s a continual pattern of
scribbling a few sentences
or even words
finding a quick distraction
going over what i wrote
editing that
and scribbling more sentences
or even words
and repeating the cycle
until it feels finished
and even then
going back over it all
a few more times. 

Within a matter of minutes, this question has put me sitting Indian-style in my old, brown, card-table chair, looking in every place my peripheral vision will allow. I’m not really looking at specific objects, but spaces in my mind that haven’t been seen in a while. I’m clearing away the dust, you see. I can’t answer with anyone I’ve never met, or even some artist or band member I’ve seen before; we don’t really know each other, so knowing them better than not knowing makes no sense at all. But as I sit here, in what should be (but isn’t) an uncomfortable position, sifting through old memories, I think I’ve found an answer.
Her name is Terica. I’ve met her once in “real life,” but dozens of times in stories. Her stories. Stories that make myself and others feel inspired and united. Stories that continue to bring new perspective to my life with each paragraph and lesson. I hope to meet see her again someday.

I wrote this on Thursday. Yesterday, I read it aloud at an Open Mic Night. I was slightly less than terrified.
Enjoy. 

ever since the accident
my mom’s been getting real spiritual, you know?
as if it could change anything that happened.
she started believing in the powers of different stones,
all the things people say they can do. 
she has this crystal hanging in her car
that supposedly stops you from crashing,
as if rocks that have existed way before humans
can affect what happens in the shit we make.
she has this crystal hanging in her car
that she believes prevents accidents,
as if the bright reflections of the sun shining through it
right into your eyes aren’t enough to cause one.
she bought a crystal for my car.
i keep it in there just to make her happy.

i’ve always liked driving.
that didn’t change, not after the tragedy last summer
and not even after the potential i had to cause another.
but tonight was different.
i hated being out there
alone in the dark
as the rain tried to decide
whether or not to pour.
it made the gloss of the pavement
so black that i thought i might
disappear at any moment.
the probing eyes of the blinding headlights of the passing cars
were questioning my every turn.
i swear to you,
they wanted to run me down.
i swear to you,
they plotted against me
together with every little bump and rough patch
that i couldn’t see until i ran over them,
until they started shaking the wheels
beyond my control.
i swear to you,
they wanted to run me off the road.

on the way home,
the fog was thicker than i ever remember it being before.
and i thought,
this is it.
this is it.
surely i’m going to die like this,
making voice memos on my cell phone
of things i need to remember
to write about later,
because all my best thoughts
jump out at me from behind the wheel.
and i thought,
this is it.
i’m going to die in a car like my sister.
but then i remembered…

my mom bought me that fucking crystal.

Sometimes I think the universe tries sending me signs about who I should be and what I should do. Not necessarily in the future, but right now, you know? Lately, it’s been talking a little bit about courage. Meg Ryan once said,

“I lead a small life - well, valuable, but small - and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven’t been brave?” 

I’ve been going over all the options for quite a while now. I think it was the Clash that first posed the question, but I’ve been asking myself all the time.
There were reasons to stay. Smart reasons. Responsible reasons.
It’s a good school with a good name and good - hell, great - programs to accompany it. I am pleased, even stimulated in my classes. The ones that matter, anyway. But three out of five don’t. Not to me.
I’ve tried new things. I’m not proud of them all, but I’m not ashamed either. I’m not bothered by the actions as much as the reasons why I took them. I made life choices out of boredom and indifference instead of passion and curiosity. And I felt worse, not better, by making those choices. They weren’t mistakes. I don’t believe in that. It’s what I thought I wanted at the time, or at least what I was willing to settle for. I made my bed, and I’m not afraid to lie in it.
I’ve met a lot of people. I talk to some of them nearly every day. I’m even sort of attached to a few. They’re genuine people, good to me and for me in one way or another. But each time I go home and see my friends or even talk to a stranger off campus, I know it’s not the same. They don’t inspire or stimulate me, or understand or share my passions. And that’s okay, it really is. But it’s not what I need. 

So I’ve chosen to go. I filled out the forms for a leave of absence of an undetermined length, and in two weeks, I’m outta here. I may never return. I found bigger reasons for leaving. Possibly foolish, irresponsible, and even trivial… but to me they are, well, better reasons. Regardless of the type, I’ve estimated that I find about 100 new ones a day. I may forget upwards of 99%, but that’s not the point. Though I may not remember, I still continue to search for them. I don’t quite know what the trigger was in my ultimate decision. Up until this point, I think I was afraid to leave. That I might not settle into a good job leading into a good career and a good life. But now, I’m more afraid that I was once willing to settle for anything less than what I really want. Now, I’ve found the courage to take a chance at figuring out what that might just be.

I’m not sure where the conversation started, but I’ve been talking to a stranger the past few days. He works in music, and the way he spoke about what he does affirmed for me the reasons I need to follow my passions and be around that industry. And he gave me some advice:

“You’ll find your way, and find people that will help and inspire you.” 

But I’m pretty such I’ve already found them; they’re waiting for me back in Pennsylvania. They are the most real bunch I’ve ever met. None of them are quite like the others, except in the real relationships I share with them. I’m free to say what I’m saying and think what I’m thinking and just be as I am at the current moment in time. All three of those things change frequently, but my friends are willing to swim with the rapid current. They make sure to remind me to just keep your head above when it pulls too hard. In the face of distance, bad timing, poor choices, and pointless conflict, they’re the only people who’ve ever continued to make me feel like this whole thing is worth it. 

Maybe I’ll get a shitty full time job. Maybe I’ll get an amazing part time job. Maybe I’ll get a mix of the two, or neither. Maybe I’ll take online classes. Maybe I’ll take ones at a community college. Maybe I’ll teach myself something new each day, or not learn anything at all. 
Maybe I’ll spend all my time reading books or making art or taking photos or listening to music or learning how to play music or watching people play music or taking long drives alone or taking them with a car full of my favorite people on the planet or walking all over new cities or telling intimate details to strangers or falling in love with one. Maybe I’ll do all of these things.

You see, I don’t know what I want to do, I don’t know what I want to be. I’m not sure where I’ll end up in ten years or even two weeks from now. I have no idea what career path I’ll walk down or who’s hand I’ll hold the rest of my life. But I’ve realized how little knowing any of that right now matters.
What matters most is that, whatever I choose to do, I’m going to make sure I’m happier by doing it. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever really been happy here. Content, maybe. But never happy. It’s a mad world out there, but I’ve waited too damn long to finally be happy. I don’t see the point in waiting anymore.

“Fill your heart with what’s important, and be done with all the rest.”

I think I’m done here. 

It’s the way I realized something about myself tonight and instantly felt compelled to tell her. It’s how she knows what I’m going to say before I can finish. It’s about being able to make the most random noises around her at all times, knowing that, though she may throw socks at me for them, she won’t think less of me. It’s the cupcake she saved for me last week. It’s constantly laughing, even if you’re no longer sure what you’re laughing about. It’s not needing to talk to her daily, but wanting to anyway. It’s surprising her in the simplest of ways. It’s finding things I think she’ll like and getting them for her, just because it might make her a little happier. It’s the way I want her with me at every show I go to, regardless of if she even listens to the band; it’s her presence at my side that’s important. It’s my octopus necklace and her dolphin one. It’s letting her be one of the only people to see me cry and not minding when she does. It’s the way she helps me pull through and keep my head above. It’s planning the future together. It’s telling strangers how much she means to me. It’s telling her myself. It’s coming home every weekend I can to spend time with that girl, whether I see her the entire time or only for a couple of hours on Sunday. It’s the way I used to view everyone around me as replaceable, until she made me believe otherwise. It’s about knowing I never could replace her, even if I wanted to. It’s about never wanting to. 

Does this answer your question, Courtney?