It has been a long time indeed since I've written here. A lot of things have changed, I must say, and a lot of that has been for the better, in my opinion. School has been very good lately. My grades are improving and..track! I'm the second best girl on distance running, and I certainly don't mean that in a bragging sort of way. The best girl was gone for drama yesterday along with two of the other distance girls. So it was one other girl and I, and she hurt her leg. To make it short, it was I and the four distance boys running. And what did I do? I beat two of them! hahaha :) I love track alot, seeing that it involves my favourite sport, swm, and my friends. My life seems pretty much in order, save my family relations. It's been rough communicating with them. I cannot write much right now because I have to go to bed. There's someone important I have to see tomorrow :)Jeez my writing sucks. I'm so out of wack!

He stumbled backwards, a wheezing breath catching in his throat. With a wrinkled, shaking hand he felt for the counter behind himself and missed. Space was suspended for a few terrifying moments and time slowed.
The next thing Frank knew was that he laid on the floor, frozen with shock, and the cooled, bloody mess was soaking into his green cardigan. It was strange to him, really. The only thing the old man was considering was the fact that he could never wear this particular outfit again. He stared up at the water stained ceiling, took in the gray, subdued room.
“Isn’t it strange, Tilda?” He whispered to his wife’s body. “I would think that any other man in this situation…” He paused to clear his throat, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head from the fall. “would certainty be going mad, for they’ve just murdered the one person, the only person that truly loved them back.”
He bit his lip and released a pent up sigh. Outside the wind was teasing the bare trees, abusing at the house with it’s cursed yowling. Frank knew the only thing he had left to do was to simply dispose of his recently deceased partner’s body. But how?
The old man let out a groan as he forced his brittle body to sit up. It felt the same as sitting up from bed every morning, besides the fact that the woman beside him, sprawled out in a bloody array would never sit up with him, never again. All the soreness from a long life of hard work came back as Frank pushed himself to his feet and planted his hands on his hips.
The room before him was in absolute disarray. Just ten minutes before it had been a completely normal place. Now it was home to a crime scene.
“And you’re the wise ass that set it up, cracker.” He muttered to himself, reaching to turn on the tap.
It was an old, Victorian style home of three stories. Frank couldn’t remember the last time his poor, aching legs had allowed him past two flights of stairs, so the very top remained alone, gathering it’s own friends of dust and cobwebs. In the living room there were a few overturned chairs, but the rest remained as it had, with its tacky décor as Tilda had liked it.
But the kitchen, on the other hand, was in quite the disposition. The counters were liberated of any kitchen utensil, and all lay shattered and ruined on the floor. Itself, the floor was stained in blood, and littered with a woman’s body. Frank stared at her for some time, trying to accustom himself to the way her right shoulder protruded more so than her left, how her soft, gray hair was now in a hateful mess of crimson.
“Oh Tilda.” He whispered in a soft voice, weighed with sadness. “What am I going to do with you?” Of course she didn’t dare respond in so reposed a state as she was.
Frank hobbled to the window and parted the musty lace curtain. He remembered very clearly that they had been a wedding gift for his wife and himself. Now at the old age of fifty-five they had certainly seen better days.
Outside all things were normal. The wind made the day seem even more so gray, and the houses of the neighborhood seemed to be especially cramped. Frank winced, for at that moment he felt as though all eyes were on him, and on his sin. And panic began to set in, diminishing his strange calm.
He rushed back into the kitchen and began to drag drawer’s out of their places until he came upon the black garbage bags Tilda had, for some insane reason of hers, insisted on buying in bulk. Ripping one out of its package, Frank set about cleaning up his half an hour old crime scene in the wrong order of ways. His old heart complained over the heavy-duty work of picking up the corpse and shoving it into the bag. By the time he had finished, his back ached in the worst kind of way, and stars danced before his eyes. He set her down in the living room, not minding the fact that blood on the outside of the bag was getting all over the worn rug.
It took the man four hours to clean up the scene, including coffee and newspaper breaks, of course, to turn the kitchen back into what it had once been: a ram shackled mess. No one would know the difference.
Now he collapsed into one the of the cheap, plastic green chairs from the seventies and let his head hang back, sweat dripping down his wrinkled neck. He coughed a few times and lit a cigarette. God, murder was hard. Frank wished already that he had chosen a plastic bag instead of a knife.
“And for what?” He wheezed, taking another drag. Tilda had never allowed him to smoke in the kitchen, but that didn’t appear to be a problem now. “Why did you kill her, you cat loving pussy?” Frank didn’t know. Was he going insane? He sat still for a moment, studying the tiny specs of dust in the dull light from the kitchen window. There had been no reason, really.
He thought about all the stories he had read in the paper about murders. The killer had always had some damn fool reason to deplete their loved one, but Frank couldn’t recall one for his. He had simply stabbed the crap out of her.
“Alright, old man, you’ve gotta do somethin’ with her.” No matter how much he really, really didn’t want to, Frank brought himself back up to his weary feet, now visibly hunched over. He glanced at the clock and scowled. It was already twelve-thirty. He looked down at his clothes and sighed. There was no way these clothes could be cleaned up. His kaki, forties-style pants had dried blood all over the seat, and his favorite green sweater was crusted over in a thick layer of the stuff.
The stairs groaned and complained just as badly as his legs did, and Frank bent over, planting his hands on his knees at the top of the stairs for a breather. He slowly brought his head up and stared into the mirror before him. He was shorter now, than he had been in his earlier years, and his bare head resembled a rotten peach. Now, deep, blue-ish spots carved out the places under his eyes and his veins had begun to show themselves at his temples. The old man sighed and stretched up to standing. He shed his clothes and clomped down the hallway, liberated of man’s burden: fabric.
Frank sorted through his meager supply of clothes until he found an old, faded t-shirt, some loose drawers, a pair of ripped factory pants, and his aged corduroy jacket. He forced a smile onto his face as he buttoned his cufflinks.
“It’s the big day, Tils.” He muttered under his breath. “Wanna go swimmin’, or do ya want a big hug from the cold ground?” He wiped a spot of saliva from his mouth as he descended the stairs. “Ya know, Tilda, I always lived my life with no regrets. I think ya should take it as a compliment that this is the one thing I’m really havin’ trouble not regretting.”
The house felt empty. Too empty. Frank stood in the living room for a few moments, staring at the black garbage bag on the floor in front of him. A part of him wanted it to start moving, and for Tilda to rip a hole in it and climb out. He could see her, a wrinkled old woman standing before him covered in blood, mangled. She would plant her hands on her hips and give him one of her famous exasperated sighs, a smile surfacing just below.
“Frank Wichoswski! What in tha hell were ya thinking?! I ain’t ready to be dead!”
He smiled at the image of her in his head and waited a few moments, half expecting for it to truly happen. But it did not. The bag remained still and the house still kept it’s eerie, empty feeling. Frank slowly bent over and shoved his hands under the edges of the bag.
He could feel his wife’s limbs through the thin plastic and he shuddered. With a great heave, he lifted the bag up and saddled it to his right shoulder, spine giving a few painful cracks.
“I’m much too old for murder.” He mumbled, stumbling towards the front door.
Soon the old man was behind the wheel of his 1986 Oldsmobile, shivering in the late autumn air. He glanced in the mirror at the trunk, which refused to close all the way with Tilda inside. There had been too much crap inside, seeing that Frank’s exceeding laziness prevented him from clean the damn thing out. He had use a bungee cable to fasten it, nerves on end. Getting this scheme over with would prove a difficult task and Mr. Wichoswski didn’t have a clue as to where he was off to.
Frank turned off his road and poked his way through the suburbs. His philosophy was that yes, he was an old man, so he would drive like one. A person shouldn’t try to be something they’re not. He also had an intense fear of being pulled over. He was afraid Tilda might give him away.
“You ain’t a murderer, Frank, so why ya acting like one?” He put his foot lightly on the gas pedal and nudged down Sven st.
A sudden bump dragged a wheezing gasp out his throat, and there was a muffled clumping noise, barely audible to his worn ears. A glance in the mirror nearly stopped his already tiring heart. Behind the car, in the middle of the road, was the black garbage bag, torn open.
“Fuck!” He breathed, stomping on the brake. The car lurched to a stop two feet farther and Frank struggled with the sticky door for a moment before he was able to rip it open and pull himself out.
He hobbled down the street, head swinging in all directions for onlookers. Getting this body back into the car without arousing suspicion was going to prove quite difficult. He was just about to hoist the bleeding bag into his arms when the peal of a siren almost killed him with surprise.
...ugh. writer's block.

Sometimes, just sometimes, I love

Sometimes I feel as though bliss makes me dull. Yes, I believe such is true, for I find when I'm in a miserable state I am truly in a creative mindset, although some may find it depressing more than anything. Not a part of me can deny the fact that today was an absolutely perfect day, save for this evening in which I'm dealing with an insufferable headache and I'm full from a small to normal amount of food, which is not a good sign. I believe that I will go to bed fairly soon.
This morning wakened like a new birth; something I do not feel often. I felt happy, full of life, ready to challenge the world. The humorous thing about this is that I find the idea of challenging an already corrupted world, ruined the day it was made or so, very cliché. I suppose it can be said that I was ready to be what I wanted and be happy that way. And it was raining. The very best thing about this morning was that fact, in all it's simpleness. There was no snow and no lukewarm sun today, no, but simply a chilly, rainy day. That, my friend, is something I relish.
School has remained the same as it's been for the past week. My best friend, in all his stubbornness refuses to talk to me. He likes to shoot me poisonous looks, else he completely ignores me all together. In my mind I cannot quite figure what he's so angry about. I miss his friendship but I've certainly found my way around that to be content. I will not waste time trying to make him change his mind when he will not. I know already that whenever there is mention of me around him a something terrible will be heard about me from his mouth. Yet another thing I cannot consider enough to feel harmed. Besides, I've many more friends that simply he, and perhaps one day he will realize he's wasted time being so damned angry at absolutely nothing.
Today I started track practice, which I find in someways challenging, but as my vocabulary is pathetically small at this moment, I can find no other word suited but blissful. I love being with my friends and I love running and doing all the exercises required. It's a considerably nice thing to experience, I think.
Besides these things which I've put above I've nothing else in my mind to express. Perhaps the glorious gray that tinted the windows? The wondrous feeling of letting everything out with our jog in the rain today? The feeling of the cold drops hitting my skin, skidding down my face, hiding my tears and showing my smile. And maybe that renowned voice of the rain, speaking softly in the form of drops hitting the glass outside my room. What can I say today? I am irrevocably happy, decidedly willing to take a chance at my hopes. I don't know who to thank for such a day as this, since I cannot say what I believe. I will, in turn, then, thank my friends, my family, and most of all, myself. Admitting the hilarity and clichéness of this idea, I thank myself because I chose to not listen to my feelings, and I chose to be happy. So thank you, Lilium, for being good.

I need to write here. I know not many read, but still, I'd like to keep it up. Today, no offense to the church friends, was rather dull. I find that I cannot concentrate in the meetings, and I have no one to talk to, barely. It's not even fun for me. I don't understand why I should be going if I'm not enjoying hearing the word and I have close to no friends. Oh well.
In the past week I've lost three friends, and only one was truly at my fault. This makes me wonder. Two of the three, which weren't my doing told me that I need to 'grow up', and perhaps I do. Maybe I'm just feeling sorry for myself? All the time? Maybe all my problems are dust, and maybe I'm simply dramatic. I can't be sure if this is entirely true. But I can say one thing. I'm not too disappointed in this fact. It happens, and I'm ok with it. I'm sorry to say that the people I've lost aren't..eugh. I cannot bring myself to say it, because I suppose it's too mean.
I haven't much to write about. Life is good, really. I've been running a lot, and I'm happy. I've made new friends also. God, I'm entirely too dull writing here. I can write nothing exciting that has been happening here, for I fear the condemnation and the reproach.
I went on an unquestioningly amazing run today. I ran around five miles, and I loved the freedom in it. I didn't want to stop but I knew that the pain was going to get bad. Oh well. I'm tired and dry of ideas. goodnight. Maybe I'll be more enthused in a few days.

I haven't written here for a while. I loved my trip to Norway, but I don't feel much like recounting it all. I've learned that with every choice I make it affects someone else. Maybe they make it worse than it is. I guess I have to keep going on. Doing what makes me happy is important at the moment. I hate the struggle. But things are really good right now. I'm going to be fine. I hate these entirely blunt little sentences that I write in when I'm pretending that I'm not distressed. I knew the fall would come, since I've been enjoying these past two weeks. But no, something bad had to happen. I knew. Oh well, I'm happy right now. Maybe these things can blow over, and maybe it wont. I believe I'll be fine :)

Today I woke up not feeling any such thing in particular. I didn't decide that I would have a good day and I did not assume that it would be a bad one. I simply woke myself up after a restless night of half sleep-half awake nightmares; something in which I experience almost every night.
I dressed myself and went to the gym. Like I've mentioned before, it's a rewarding feeling to work out and I very much like it. I love being able to listen to my music, my mind mulling over unimportant concepts.
Sometimes the things I think about are in fact highly important to me. Then I wonder, does it matter? I'm simply going to die one day anyhow. Is there a point to living, to learning? I suppose there is. I do not care to leave a mark on society, but know that I lived well. Sometimes I do not even care for that.
I felt sorry myself particularly so today, because of the relationship I have with my younger sister. We've never been close friends, but I quite love her because she is my sister. How can I not? But there is something about our relationship, something very unlikeable. It seems as though I can't get along with her no matter how hard I try. I wont pin it all on her, because there must be a fault of mine, though I can't see it very much. I try to be nice to her, I really do. The other night she randomly listed all the things she hates about me during supper. I wanted to cry, because most of those things I am working on or I cannot control, really. I dare say it's jealousy towards me. I don't want it to be that way.
I don't have much else to say now. I leave tomorrow for Europe. Goodbyes..

I've already used this title.

Today's my birthday, yes. Uneventful :P
I went to the gym this morning, which was awesome as always, and then I went to school. My friends cut something hilarious out of a magazine and they all signed it. I laughed so hard when I looked at it :) I love my friends. I stayed after today and me and d. rehearsed a play while I worked on my self portrait for art. I insist it's terrible when everyone else says it looks like me/it's good. Ugh. I want to paint a moustache on it since that's my greatest fear. The play, by the was, was hilarious. S. played the dead body, I was the annoyed deputy with the Indian accent, and d. was the dumbass sheriff who knew nothing with an outrageous southern accent. It was awesome!
I've been invited my some friends to sing for their band seeing that the singer left for college. I really want to. I accepted, of course, since they're awesome. It should be fun if it works out.
Well it's really nice out and I'd like to go for a walk. See y'all on the flip-flop!

This could have most possibly been the most tiring week of my life, in all honesty. Every mourning I get up at ten of six and go to the gym. I am, by nature, a lazy person so I believe I can do a bit of complaining. I feel better about myself, I have to admit. I love being healthy.
Nothing happened this week. I got happy. I got depressed. I got in trouble. I was good. Three word sentences. I don't have much to say.
My birthday's on Monday. Have I told anyone? No, of course I have not! Birthdays are something that people are supposed to remember, not something I have to announce. If they don't remember, then they probably don't care enough. I don't care about it enough to say anything, anyhow. And if my friends at school don't remember, then I get something new to complain about. I'm already prepared to have a fit if anyone DARES to have a surprise party for me. I'd rather be difficult.
I'm not by nature a difficult person. No, not at all. Rather, I'm quite agreeable and humerous. I love to be...crazy? I do not get angry easily unless a bad memory is brought up, but more that brings on depression. Most believe I'm quite nice, I think. So my friends went to go see Alice in Wonderland. Of course I wasn't invited. Oh well. I'm worried sick about something right now.

Fall to your knees, discovering nothing...

I can't lie when I say that sometimes it feels very much like too much to bear. It gets so heavy that I alone cannot sustain myself, it seems. But then I'm still alive, and I feel insanely happy and excited about the future. It's almost as though I can't stomach the happiness. And then it fades again when I'm not even thinking about it. Memories of the terrible thing I did keep coming back. I don't know how to keep them away, and every time they strike I feel weighed down with shame and depression. I was forgiven by both god and him, but I don't feel as though I deserve it. I try to convince myself that I'm only human. I should make mistakes in order to learn from them. Surely the pain must pass with time, right? Then why has it worsened for me? I'm a wreck sometimes, and I can't help it at all.
Like I described earlier, sometimes I'm very happy. These periods last in short burts before I calm down or the sadness sets in. I still harbor a hope for the future, though. I hope with all my heart that this will pass with time, and that I can change my thoughts. I try to think positively and I believe I will succeed sometime. I will be better. Sometime. And these pics? Oh, they're simply for your entertainment :)