I had a dream the other night that I knew I was dying. The FIRST thing I felt I needed to do in this dream to prepare for this was to go through my notebook and rip up all the pages of things I didn't want people to know. I pictured my room, empty of life. My parents were solemnly going through my belongings, struggling with the decision of whether or not to read my notebook. They felt guilty, but decided to read it anyway because they missed me and it was the closest thing to having a conversation with me that they could find. I couldn't bear the thought of some of these pages being seen by their eyes. I immediately jumped up from my bed in a panic and rifled through my bag until I held the beloved little black book in my hands, and mercilessly began to destroy entire groups of pages. I was vaguely aware of doing this, but in my dreamlike state I felt like that action was reversible and all of the pages could be recovered.
You can imagine my sadness when I woke up in the morning, tired from my sleepwalking, and my trash can was filled with piles of meticulously ruined pages. In a way I'm really sad about this. I don't write anything unless I am afraid of forgetting it. Even if it's not a good memory and it's not pleasant for me to read, I keep it there because I feel like it taught me a vital lesson that will (hopefully) save me from experiencing similar things again.
But in another odd way, I feel lighter. If I did this in my sleep, obviously I didn't want what I ripped up to be associated with me. I was terrified of those pages being what was left behind if I died.
I'm sorry you are so empty, notebook. Only half of your pages remain. But you will be filled soon with more and more pages of life. Grow with me.

Sunburnt hands, legs, body
it hugs me
and makes me shiver
goosebumps.
Floral jumper:
Helicopters are yelling descriptions
at me
in a firm voice.
Smirking boy skates by
with Kurt Cobain hair
holding his Dr. Pepper
in this heartbeat town.

currently cannot stop listening to:

stoplight.

I'm at a stoplight and it's blocked. I can't see if it's red or green, the truck in front of me is blocking the light. But it keeps going. So I keep going.
Of course, it might be different for me than for this other vehicle. When it goes, the light might be green. By the time I get there it could be yellow or red.
But I go anyway.
I am compelled to keep accelerating forward. I don't even hesitate.
What gives me the trust in this person? What makes me follow their actions? I don't really know them.
Sure, we've been close. Our vehicles have been really close. But these vehicles aren't really us.
The people we actually are, are just residing inside these vehicles that take us through life.
I think you're this person for me. Our vehicles know each other really well. But it's so hollow because maybe the real people inside these vehicles have never met. They've constantly spoken, through the windows. But they've never been able to open the doors and step out, being completely trusting of each other. That would probably be too dangerous, and there's this nagging fear against doing that. And for good reason, because
We're constantly causing each other to run red lights.

Shire. (not in the Lord of the Rings Sense)

I feel like I should explain our usage of this word.
A few months ago, a few of my best friends and I decided that the word "shire", if we're speaking in an onomatopoeic sense, sounds like a knife in the heart. To us, it sounds like a representation of something either really embarrassing, or sad, or scary. So we use it when something in one of those categories happens and we can't think of any other way to describe it.
There are different categories of a shire. You can feel it for someone else when you're embarrassed for them.
You can feel it when you're really sad or embarrassed for yourself.
You can feel it when you have to go to the doctor's office or the dentist and you're feeling uneasy about it.
You can definitely feel it when you have to write 3 papers in one weekend or when you have a general lack of sleep.
I feel like lately, everything I remember doing is a shire.
At night, before I fall asleep, ALL I can do is picture every shire I have ever felt for myself.
I constantly feel embarrassed. I constantly wish to not have said this one thing, or done this one thing.
Am I ever going to figure out how to prevent doing and saying embarrassing things BEFORE I do them?
I honestly hope so.
Hopehopehope.
(I hope your day is not a shire.)

It was 2 in the morning, it was almost 3 in the morning, it depends on which way you round it.
Up or down.
I like things that are worn out:
shoes and backpacks.
The soles are getting thinner, the fabric might have holes.
When I buy them secondhand I feel like I'm cheating because the wear is not mine.
I did not contribute.
I did nothing to thin out the rubber on the bottom, the footprints causing this to happen had nothing to do with my feet.
The tiny holes in the fabric of the backpack didn't result from anything I did.
When these characteristics were being added, when this experience was being added to these objects,
I may have been lying in bed.

Back From Coachella!

It's very odd to go back to everyday life after being at Coachella for 3 days. I constantly wonder why no one is dancing at school and work. YOU GUYZ. Have some fun.
Yes, we were followed back to our hotel room at 2:30 in the morning by a carful of boys. Yes, we did sneak onto another hotel's shuttle. Yes, Paris Hilton blocked our view. Yes, we did wake up at 4 in the morning due to an earthquake (Coachella is on major fault lines). Yes, we did get majorly sunburnt. None of this matters in the slightest, though, when you're surrounded by your favorite live music all weekend. Also, Beyonce is our show twin. She either genuinely likes good music or her publicist is like, "Beyonce. You have to look hip. Please make yourself seen at various independent musical shows. Bob your head, preferably."
Some highlights:
Sleigh Bells. (I was in euphoria.)
Girls
Local Natives (every time.)
Jonsi
Edward Sharpe
The XX
and a "Coachella 2010" song written on the spot by our beloved Bradford Cox.