Dreams Are Bad / When All They Do is Leave the Truth Behind

So I have been having the craziest, most disturbing dreams about murder, and infidelity, and disappointment, and people who have passed away. Perhaps I spend so much of my time awake trying to be optimistic, that all the negativity is seeping into my subconscious. Hippie jargon. I know. It's really hard to snap out of it. I wake up pissed off, or scared, or angry with myself. But these feelings have to work themselves out somehow. And if that's the case, then I guess the best place would be in my dreams.

When I Wake Up in the Morning Time / I / Like to See You Sleeping by My Side

I've really had the greatest week. Despite the awful familial matters, of course. 311 and Matisyahu were so sick on Wednesday. And the ride down, just singing and laughing; the anticipation of the show and the night in Atlantic City... it was just all so positive. The shade took care of us as we tail-gated with some cold beers. Even though I was the only one dancing like a fool to Matisyahu, it felt really fucking good to move my body to some reggaerock. 311 played an amazing set. They always do, but they were especially tight, and pnc's sound is so on. AC was a little rough since we got there at 1am, but hey-- we're troopers. I only lost $3 at the slots and that 4am chicken sandwich was the most satisfying thing ever. Ocean City was such a neat little town, I didn't want to leave as soon as we got there. (Yes, I just said 'neat.') The beach was gorgeous, the water was warm (for me), and the waves were rough. But my outdoor shower takes the cake. And then Silverchair on Friday.... jeeeeze ...... I haven't felt that way at a show since the first time I saw Incubus. I wanted to take off my pants. But Jill didn't think that was a good idea. And even though work was long and boring on Saturday, I went to a birthday party and was up till all hours with friends I hadn't seen in a while. And when I woke up in the morning, I was in the best place I could possibly think of.

I had been waiting for this week for months. Even through everything that has been going on, I decided that I was going to splurge on positivity and actually enjoy myself, rather than just talk about how one day things will get better. I felt guilty. I really did. And I feel guilty now. But I can't let myself. The pain of others is upsetting, but you can't let it debilitate you. That probably sounds selfish to you, but if it gets me to feel hopeful, then fuck it.

She tripped on a hole / That I'd dug in the soil / To be part of a human garden

I'm still waiting for the summer to begin. And I'm aware of the fact that it's close to the end of July, but still, nothing seems real to me. I think I'm still stuck in May; still stuck in a month that was (mostly) good to me. It doesn't help much to work in a hole with no fucking windows. And I keep reading the most terrifying, depressing literature, which, I'm sure, doesn't help either. I'm not sad, I'm trying to keep a positive light... I'm just so fucking confused. And not the good kind of lost that will teach me a valuable life lesson..... at least, it doesn't feel like it. I'm not learning anything. I'm just going through the motions. I'm not even inspired. After the month of tremendous hell, I barely have anything poetic to show for it. All I've done is started several poems and half-heartily scribbled the beginnings of a dozen prose pieces. Nothing is finished. Nothing is complete. But I suppose that makes sense.