Awake My Soul.

My room reeks of thickly-lain gesso. It's got a distinct smell. It's not necessarily rubbery like acrylics, and I wouldn't quite describe it as being harsh like oil paints. But it sure is strong. It's able to mask the sharp smell of linseed oil rotting the wooden planks of my bedroom floor. And while I'm sitting in my dark room, with no open doors or opened windows, I get attacked almost immediately by a nosebleed. But maybe that's just something telling me that I've been gone for too long. Maybe it's my body's own way of itching at me to create something new.

My new canvas measures 48 inches tall. Measuring just below my collarbone, it is the largest canvas I've gotten my hands on ever. And boy, do I have plans for it.

"In these bodies we live, in these bodies we die

Where you invest your love, you invest you life.

Awake my soul, Awake my soul."

mkp.

Keeping Up with the Moon.

I don't think I have a favorite Bright Eyes album. But "I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning" has been playing on repeat. And I always go back to this song. I remember when my ex and I went to see a friend play a set at a local venue. The act proceeding her did a cover of this song. My heart melted through the entirety of his performance. And since I was bored, I decided to try and do the same. But it's tainted with mistakes and the smell of alcohol. I'm a little bit drunk right now. I'll have had myself about 4 glasses of wine once this video finishes uploading. My sleeping habits have reached an all time low, one could say. Since the end of my term as a juror (which ended Wednesday night), I've been going to bed at around 7-7:30 a.m and waking up past noon. Right now, I appear before this computer screen without having had ANY sleep at all. I suppose that's where the wine comes to play. I figured after a glass or two, it would knock me out. Sucker-punch me in the face with absolute fatigue and exhaustion. And I am very, very tired, but still am not sleepy. It's this goddamn working mind of mine, over-thinking itself to insanity and possibly even depression. It would be safe to say that I have been very sad. Turning twenty years old has not been the best so far. Of course, when I'm out with old friends and loved ones, I present myself as an entirely different case. Nonetheless, I've been wither quite emotionally sporadic, fluctuating between detattchment and obsession. But I know that there is the consistent feeling of loneliness. It's ironic. I've got more people I could turn to than fingers on my hands. Whenever I want some attention, or need a good flogging, I don't need to look past the addressbook on my cell phone, and sooner or later, I'll get what I need and it'll be over with. But come Thursday night, after that dirty deed was done, I felt more alone than ever. Yes, it was nice... But it was just a fuck. Nothing more than that. I don't even like this girl, and she could probably say the same about me. I tell myself over and over that I don't want to be in a relationship. I want to be on my own, independent, and free. And that's true for the most part...

...But I also randomly crave love. Sometimes I want to be adored, and not wanted. I want that feeling of liking someone and holding hands with them for weeks before the first kiss. But God knows what my last relationship has done to me. And just take a look at me now: I'm a pathetic, indecisive drunken mess, sobbing like a fool while I type this out. I'm a monster who is incapable of admitting my feelings, and who keeps hurting myself and others in the process... My stupid ex who I still associate with these feelings that don't exist anymore; My best friend, with whom I walk the very fine line between friend or lover, admittedly crossing over sometimes; And her... I fucked up too much with her. And she's already gone.

I don't know anything. I don't know what I want.

mkp.

20.

This is the first picture taken of me as an official twenty year-old.

I already miss being nineteen.

I woke up to a birthday card from my parents sitting on my bedside table. I opened it up to see a check of $150 made out to little-old-me, with an inscription in my mother's handwriting saying, "Remember that tote bag you saw from Urban Outfitters? Now, you can finally buy it!". Normally, I would have taken the money and spent nearly all of it in one day on a pair of new shoes and a couple tubes of oil paint. That's not the case anymore. I'm saving it, to pay for my parking pass, textbooks, and various other stupid school-related things next semester. Oh, the sad life as a college art student. So, if anyone would be so kind as to take me out to a nice sushi dinner (how I've celebrated by birthday for the past four years), buy me the rest of the "Wet Moon" comic series, or those 3-eye Doc Martens I've had my eye on for years now, then please be my guest! For my birthday present to myself, I'm going to sign up for Netflix free trial and finish watching the Millenium trilogy, finally read a non-school related book for FUN, feast on In-N-Out and other fatty snacks, get Melissa to buy me a new sketchbook, and finally, sleep in.

Thank you to all those who have wished me a Happy Birthday!

mkp.

I Tell My Love to Wreck it All.

I don't really know what Bon Iver's inspiration was when he wrote this song. But I've taken a liking to it (particularly Birdy's cover) because it almost makes complete sense to me in some sort of way. I feel like it's a conversation I am constantly having with myself. Every accusation is one I've made towards me. Because in the end, it is I who was at fault. I did this to myself. And even though that sounds completely and utterly insane, I feel sane when I listen to it.

My mind keeps trailing off to memories I want to forget. I'm constantly being reminded of what a terrible person I am for what I did to you. I keep hearing myself apologize to you. "I'm so sorry..." just keeps looping on in my head. I spend too many sleepless nights lying awake, thinking of that morning. When I was with you, but it was a "different kind". Now that I've already cut my ropes, I sometimes wish that I held on just a little bit longer. It was so short-lived. Well, we were never really there, or anywhere, to say the least. But maybe we could've gone somewhere, I don't know. But it's far too late. You're going, going, gone. I won't stop you. Not for me, or for whatever we had for that one second. You have places to go and I'm just here.

Anyway, I'll be 20 years old in three days. I really don't know how I feel, to be honest.

mkp.

The Girl With the Feather Tattoo.

I don't think I'm really meant to have friends... or to have lasting friendships, for that matter. Almost every person who has ever been graced with the title of "best friend" has betrayed me at some some point, and abandoned me during a time when I really needed them. I try to be the kind of friend that I would lucky to have. I try to always be there for the people who mean most to me. I guess it's somewhat childish and naive to expect that in return. I need to learn to do nice things, and not expect that same degree of kindness and loyalty expressed to me back. I called you sometime this weekend, hoping you could spare ten minutes to talk, especially since I hadn't talked to you almost two weeks. Like I expected, you didn't answer my call. I never thought I'd be thrown into this category, bunched together with your distant friends, whom you ignore calls & texts from, never bothering to speak to. But whenever YOU call, or text or ask for my company, I agree to it. Without any hesitation. No matter how busy with schoolwork I may be. I asked you yesterday if I could call you today so we could just talk, but now I don't think I will. Why should I tell you about all my ails and repressions, or just even let you in on all the grey matter squirming around in my mind, when you simply do not care? You're not a good friend, really. It's taken me THIS long to finally admit that. Sometimes, I wish I were more impulsive like Clementine, just so I could erase everything that's happened and start again. Or be brave like Enid and disappear from this town only to never return again. I watch these films and find myself almost too attached to the unconventional leading women because they remind me so much of myself. Last night, I watched "The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo". Lisbeth Salandar is by far one of the most intriguing female heroines in both the books and the films. She's dealt with murder, abuse, harassment, molestation and rape, yet she is smart, independent, courageous. Her strength is unmatched. But I am nothing like her. I'm unimportant, weak, shy, easily hurt. I pretend feelings that aren't real still exist. I hold on to things because I don't know how to let go.

As Lisbeth said, "you should never fall in love." She is so fucking right.

mkp.