Fictitious Lives Are For Others

          It's late, that's how this always starts out. The digital dial confirms what the lack of sun and the feelings I have already believed had to say. Normal people that dare to function in the hours where the sun is cherished and the world moves onward don't tend to dwell at this time. This is my time, how wonderful, so positively wonderful. Except come tomorrow I will once again regret greeting the night time creatures, but I'll spin it out like this is okay, this is what I wanted.
           The concept of tomorrow is a distant idea, it'll never really come around. Today is yesterday, tomorrow, the present. Tomorrow though, it'll all be different, I won't feel this awkward in my skin again. Soap will wash away the remnants of my haunted mind drawn out on pale skin. Eventually it will be a part of the past, of those things that aren't meant for pillow talk. That aren't meant to be shared with people in case they get you confused with being typical.
           I am typical, I am reliable. I will always be late. I will always hate you from a distance. I will always feel as if I have something to prove, but I will never get around to trying to prove it. See, consistency. Simple, pure, constant. When three am rears its hideous head I will greet it with frustration, with the wish of something different. Maybe it's about time I coated my night with over the counter pills that whisper words of sleep, of dreams no longer harrowed by everything.
          This is how I live on a regular basis, I just normally avoid typing out the angst. Unfortunately it is late and the canvas known as my legs looks like a war zone. Colours are everywhere, they've marked everything. The stench of well loved Sharpies are coating the air around me. Who doesn't love late nights like these. Alone, devastated, and coming to realize that your desire to converse with folks is mostly a bad lie. I don't really want your friendship, I just want to stare at you like maybe we could have been friends in a different life. All of the cool people do that, right?
          Every now and again I have to double check myself on a word when in a state such as this. Is that how it is spelled? Is the definition the same one that I was thinking of? What a turbulent mind set of double guessing, triple guessing. All of these phrases and mixed up signals are meant to be stirred together. To mash up into something dramatic, something unrealistic, and something misunderstood. Easy words, tiresome words. Where is a definition and a thesaurus for easy reading? A click away, a dream away.
          When the day resets and I awaken again this will all seem like an abomination created by someone else. I will keep it around though to devour again later, to dissect. At what point during this time did I think this made sense? Did it ever make sense? Probably not, but the chance that it did chills my bones in ways I would rather it didn't. Oh well, what is a manic girl to do?
          Panic. Fret. Worry. Stress out. All of things for all of the hours. How many tiles will be on my ceiling tonight before I try to calm my nerves again? One. Two. Four. There's already too many and I have barely begun. I will not continue on like this... Even if you were the only thing that made sense. Oh those words. Wretched words. Abhorrent lyrics. They are my favorite, my chosen ones though. On everything, all over the place, scribbled into my fading memory.
          I drink to forget these moments of sheer terror, sheer adrenaline... These moments where I know I am, for no particular reason, straining to keep my act together. Then collapsing into a heap of crumbled up paper. Of burnt edges and wanton memories. Don't ask, it's all wrong anyway.    

Quietly In The Night

          "You used to care more," I whispered into the dead of the night. Quiet words with a punch carried over the air waves to someone that I used to know. My phone free hand tucked against my side for warmth as the arm it was connected to was crossed protectively over my chest. A stance the receiver of my distant call would have described at defensive if miles didn't separate us. "What changed between us?" A question to haunt the graveyard known as the world surrounding me.
           The muffled sound of breathing the only sound of life from her end at first. Followed slowly by the tap of on her manicured nails against the screen of her phone. A noise so familiar that let me know that this conversation was now private as it should have been from the beginning. A trait of hers I had grown accustomed to, but never fond of. Dragged back to a night many moons ago when I first asked her about it. Her voice calming me as she explained that she preferred to not keep secrets from the world; nothing but hollow lies these days.
          "Becky, you know I said it wasn't meant to last," the words like ice as they pulled me back to the present. Each one as solid and deliberate as she always was. "Nothing changed, you're blowing it out of proportion like you always do," she said with the same pointed tone as a crackle here and there broke up the monotony coming from her end of the phone line. Small sounds that hinted at her getting out of bed, moving away from whomever she had been with.
          I braced my self as bet I could as each frigid word washed over me. A chill worse than the one caused by standing outside taking over my body anyway. "That was a long time ago Eloise," the words coming out in a rush as I scrambled to recall the day we me, the day she said those very words to me. Letting myself drift away into those distant memories for a few too many moments.
          It had been years ago now when fate threw us together for the first time. At the time we were both lost, fresh faced freshmen in a new environment vastly different from the one we were used to, that I was used to. Pretending to blend in with the crowd around us as we casually mingled with a large array of our peers. Hollow conversations lingering heavily in the haze filled rooms, on the dimly lit porch. Vaguely I recall being lucky enough to find an empty seat squeezed between her and a fellow who looked as awkward as I felt. Neither him nor I belonged, it was obvious in the way we both clung to the requisite red plastic cups like life lines to a better world. 
          Somehow she ended up falling backwards on to my lap with a high pitched giggle. Her full cup hitting against my equally full cup causing the questionable content of each to spill over the edges, raining down upon us. The silence between us seemed endless at first, but then we were laughing as our bodies meshed together. A kiss here, a squeeze there; intensity at its finest. Movements child like in their exploration an obvious declaration of our lack of an idea as to what we were doing. We both merely knew that it felt right and that was all that mattered.
          It was early the next morning when she told me those words that came to seal our fate down the road. Each one barely making it passed her chapping lips as she whispered huskily in the dark. We untangled ourselves from one another, from those collapsed around us carefully after that. Two daring mice making a peep in the wake of dawn. Not once during our escape from aftermath did I question her. How was I to know that she still clung to that conviction as our worlds collided so effortlessly?
          "Time doesn't kill a feeling, it was never meant to be," death to something beautiful done with poetic words; a scene right up her frigid alley. Faintly in the background the hint of a door clicking open a tad and then sliding fully open to the dead of the night. Chattering teeth confirming the door opening while signaling what I already knew to be true. She had embrace the outside world in the form she said felt the most natural, most comfortable. Pale skin prickling over with goosebumps as she tempted the moon with her beauty, her nudity. How many times had I watched this ritual of hers from my bed, still lost and tangled in the bliss she could bring me? Too many times to count these days; troublesome memories that brought with them a long forgotten rosy tint to my olive cheeks.
          "Love doesn't disappear in a flash," quiet words straining their way pass my lips as I fought off defeat. This battle similar to ones in our past, wrecking havoc on my broken will time after time. Defeat would come eventually though at the pace we were going. The gut feeling wrenching through my entirety even as I dared to defy it, dared to deny it completely.
          "Who said it was love?" A question I should have seen coming. Unrequited love is a force to be reckoned with. I never should have blinded myself to those moments together when I spoke of love and she never reciprocated the words, the free falling feeling. "You were only a good time, a free ride," years of being joined at the hip summarized into an ugly, wilted thing. Beauty between us was truly gone, transformed into an unrecognizable horror.
          "This is goodbye then," my final words coming out with not hint of a shake; imaginary courage and confidence taking control. A finger tap of my own and the call was over with, the realization of salty tears on my face piggy back riding in on the end of it. Yet through that flash of regain awareness came a strange aura of peace. I knew now that in time she would fade away into the background of my life, my mind. There would be no such luck for her though. Forever a part of me would be stuck to her; a ghost for life in her shattering world.  

Kimberly Isabella Peterson

General Information

Full Name: Kimberly Isabella Peterson

Nicknames: Kim, Kimmy

Age: Story dependent

Birthday: August 16th

Sex: Female

Physical Appearance

Eye Color: Emerald green with some brown/gold specks

Hair Color: Dark brown with lighter brown highlights

Hair Length: Shoulder blade length

Hairstyle: Up in either just a messy bun or two pig tails. Occasionally braided.

Height: 5'5” (the short one of the family)

Body Type: Somewhat curvy - weight to go with it (Hispanic roots from mother)

Tattoos: None

Piercings: None

Other: Same problem as her brother; poor eye sight runs in the family. So usually contacts, sometimes glasses. Also has braces at the moment.

Family Information

Mother: Isabella Marie Peterson (maiden name - Martinez)

Father: Thomas Edward Peterson

Siblings: Younger brother – Edward James Peterson

“But you said that I could turn it in late,” the eighteen year old whined quite pointedly at her English teacher as she pushed the stack of papers in the teacher's direction. “It's not my fault that everything went wrong the day before!” Kimberly added, as if it just might change Mrs. Brighton's mind about the whole ordeal.

“I said you could turn it in later that day, not today.” Mrs. Brighton replied before tightening her lips in annoyance; disregarding further protests from her student with a raised hand before turning her back on the problem.

Of course that further irritated Kimberly who wanted to raise her fist and scream about the injustice of it all, but even she knew that would be to no avail at this moment. Instead she slid and turned on the heels of her rather tattered black converses and headed out the door; head held high as she stuffed the papers into her red tote bag proclaiming that math is delicious. Though, that seemed to be the wrong course of action as she stumbled forward at just the right moment to crash into another student who rashly jumped to pointing fingers and saying some rather colorful words.

“Yeah, right. Do you mind taking your attitude about four feet to the left?” Kimberly asked, shrugging her shoulders and pushing past the still noisy student. Usually she would have bothered with a more adequate and well voiced insult about pits and sharks, but at the moment she was more in the mood for something cold to drink. That and she was hoping to spot someone who would listen to her claims of injustice about not being allowed to turn in her sloppily written paper.

The likelihood of that happening was steadily decreasing though as her honor bound friends seemed to prefer to actually do their homework where as she thought it was a rightful joke to slack off and pass classes still. Sighing at the thought the fairly short Kimberly pulled her dark brown hair up into its usual messy ponytail as she stepped into line for the main soda machine near the cafeteria; impatiently tapping her right foot.

Decisions are Disastrous

As it turns out, my typing skills are beginning to become out of sync with what they once were. I would like to pretend the blame lies in the mess known as my keyboard, but that is unnecessarily unfair to an inanimate object. How is it going to defend itself anyway? By breaking apart even more? It's not the poor keys' fault that my decision making flies out the window with a shot or two or ten. That does, unfortunately, leave the problems to be my burden, my choice.

I could type better, faster, like I used to if only I understood motivation.

What I understand instead is falling victim to my own demented, rapidly crippling thoughts. Those demons we call inner ones that fail to look monstrous in comparison to so many others out there. Tomorrow will be better, I swear; leave me to wallow for tonight. Ease accompanies ideas that fail to require much effort, much thought, much of anything at all really if we're being truthful about the matter. 

I am to blame for myself, that is not something that I can place on someone else.

The thought behind the matter is that maybe, just maybe, if it was someone's idea beyond my own it would be acceptable. Surely a nameless person out there somewhere has a better picture of where this is all going, where it's all shambling towards. One grotesque, angled step in the wrong direction at a time; this is how we spell disaster without a d. It is not as if those that are affected by the picture couldn't see it coming. After all, bad judgment calls lined up back to back speak volumes.

I would scream, but then only the ghosts I haunt myself would hear me.

Being aware of the degree to which you should not feel haunted, horrible, or horrendous to is crushing. Emotions are a wave bent out of shape, waiting to drown as many victims as possible. Logic deems that this is all in our heads; worming around in our minds. It is, however, not real at all, just another faulty dream. People like to say that things like this get easier with time, the picture gets clearer, the edge of the world gets far enough way to not seem like you're on the brink. The problem with this is that when you're caught up in a storm, all that extra ground looks more like extra bumps to be hit by along the way back down.

I keep planning on running away from that edge, but all I do is find a new cliff.

 Not that I am particularly fond of what I find in the end, I've just grown accustomed to the inevitable. Being at the brink of a downfall is not, fortunately, the same as free falling down just to see what will happen. There is safety in the land; tangled up messily with the negativity hanging around. Safety is movable though, it can turn up in the strangest of locations regardless of what some may believe. Not every action results in a large scale change in the world, but miniscule levels of joy can still be spread due to the tiniest of actions.

I am not my biggest fan, that doesn't mean I dislike living.

Being surrounded by frustrating thoughts and feelings of inadequacy is problematic, troublesome even. It does not mean that I am prepared to cross over into the unknown, just that I am not secure in my own skin. Life is, over all, something worth living even on the darkest days. There seems to be some worry on occasion that my sinking levels of self worth, of joy, of everything are too bleak. Then there's the reverse where someone so chipper, so full of sunshine can have a down day, can want to crawl into a hole and never want to come back out.

I am what I am; a disaster, a monster, another every day girl.

Average is in the eye of the beholder, along with everything else along the personality and looks scale. What you see in yourself only impacts the view of others so much in the short run, in the long run; the latter is a bit shakier though, not everyone is strong enough to deal with constant hate. Points of views are here to shake feelings up, people up, the world up just for the sake of letting us be different. And today, well, today I am one more mistake figuring myself out. 

Some Days Are Easier Than Others

This isn't a promise or a guarantee of the truth, whatever it may actually be. It is merely a growing handful of key strokes and letters on a screen; not that they can have much meaning these days. We're all breaking down, cutting down our communication while claiming we've never talked so much before. We being all encompassing, not to be confused with you and I as specifics.

Words condemned to minimalistic standards for a conversation with such refined repetition it's nearly maddening. Hey. Hello. How are you? Fine, and you? It's an exchange of what is pleasant, what seems relevant so long as we want to play along the surface. In the end it makes it frustrating to pinpoint who do you call, message, whatever all the stupid thoughts you have during the day? Stupid being almost an irrelevant term, more who do you send random ideas to, little bits of thoughts that could be seen as eccentric to say the least.

Sure, sometimes it's as easy as knowing who knows you best for the occasional only so and so could appreciate why this is funny. Then there are those times where there's frantic energy running through your system; not quite panic, not quite depression, not quite anything. And thoughts keep being charged up, destroyed, and life seems like a mess. Logically speaking, it's not, not in the way it can be imagined to be one. Just, you want to tell people you're only friends because you provide them with something they want or because at the very least you beat the alternative of silence.


Maybe that is a fair way to stay friends. After all, we all have needs to be fulfilled, but eventually that has to seem so... Hollow? Empty? Which can make all sorts of thought bubbles erupt and you're stuck sort of hating yourself. Except, it's not really hate or anything so drastic. There's just some space that is devoid of what you're sure is proper, so you sort of teeter around obsessively searching for... Nothing. Not that these words normally get said since they have the problem of resembling some level of sadness, of desolation.


Where as I should say now, I'm not exactly a sad bee, but I am not exactly a whirlwind of happiness either. Which means, quite ultimately, that I am rather human. As a human, I find being human to be a failing way of saying how circular it feels to stay inside my head some days.

This Is What a Disaster Looks Like

         I should, perhaps, begin this whole ordeal with a proper introduction of myself and the contents to follow. Instead of the possibility of a full on ramble; a task that I'm seemingly well versed in. Though, the point of journal writing is to let your thoughts just fall out as they are, regardless of how scattered they may be. At least that's what a few years of writing instruction from various (potentially reliable) sources have taught me to believe. Yet, if I wanted to, for example, share this disaster with others, how would one tell the truth about my name on the cover and the lies between the pages? Is there an assumption at my lack of notable fame that makes it so no one would want to pretend to be me or something else? I suppose that ultimately the decision weighs and rests heavily upon my open noted riddled hands. With all of that said and done and rambled through, let me give telling a handful of lies a chance.

         Authoritative sources have a general belief that my name is legally James Elias Kingston. Yes, I'm fully aware that your name doesn't have the same level of sophistication and pizazz, but we can't all be winners. The beginning of this journal (or rather what is created after this terrible introduction) will serve as the necessary ground stones to transport any halfway intelligent creature to the start of my junior year of high school. There's a vain hope for updates beyond the ones required by my English teacher; the sole push behind this project. Even without those potential updates this journal will prove to be successful enough for my satisfaction, and that's the important part of the situation at hand. At least as far as far as I'm concerned that is and I'm conceited enough to say only my opinion matters. 

         In regards to that, specific updated schedule times shall hover around class dates and theoretical writing assignments that call upon my drab prose. Which, judging by this class scheduling, will be approximated on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays unless there's a mix up in the main office or a special event proclaiming too many places to meander to and not enough time to enjoy a prompt (however mundane it may end up). Well, that and my favoritism in regards to procrastination of school required endeavors. All of which, in the end, would seem to mean I will lack consistency, but try oh so hard to promise the world it. A theoretical problem, but one that will only taunt me from the sidelines currently before full on striking later on in life; if it does at all.

         Now, with that all written and out of the way, this first entry seems to be complete. Enough edges left shredded to leave room for a chance at being amusing and clever in words that will likely be kept in the dark. Unless, of course, the urge to throw it into the lime light of those likely to give it only a passing, surveying glance and a possible nod or shake of the head. Really, who cares about the musings, the memoir-esque writings of a nobody when there's apt to be a new starlet or star piece hitting the shelves soon? Yes, sure, their struggles are so close to home, so real; so shoved down my throat on so many programs it has begun to hurt. Really though, if it's not me down someone of the female persuasion's throat, then I cannot promise to show interest.

         With that push towards an inappropriate comment and what sounds like the beginning of the chicken egg buzzer going off, I best end this start of a rambling mess. Goodbye myself and my imaginary readers.

- With love from Kingston

Heartache is just Another Way of Saying...

Just a Quick Note ::

           This piece was originally written back in July of 2008. It's merely something that still mostly resonates true, that still gets to me almost all of the time. So, you get to deal with it being reposted... Like a boss.

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          Over the imaginary pad of paper the pen twirls, twirls, stops. Then the action is repeated; two twirls and then a break. No ink flows from the pen to the paper, just misplaced thoughts seeking out the right words before falling apart again. How do you describe heartache when even the word itself seems like an understatement and then an overstatement? 
          That’s the question that gets scribbled towards the top of the page, arrows trailing towards it and away from it. Every solution has a problem, ever perfectly thought of answer crumbles to the sidelines underneath the scrutiny of those pointed lines.  There is no easy answer, no cover all reply to reach across the borders as the various interested parties scramble for ways to defend against imaginary strikes.
           Heartache is just another way of saying I love you. Every beat a slow, painful reminder of the way things used to be, could’ve been, were meant to be. Thump; won’t you come over tonight and we can fix this problem? Each letter carefully written; flowing elegantly from the pen to the paper, no added marks of black to ruin this to be masterpiece. Thump; why can’t you just say that you need me too? An added heart for decoration with an unmistakable lack of character; there is something wrong here, can’t you feel it too.
           Heartache is just another way of saying this was never supposed to happen. How many goodbyes does it take before you will just go away? That’s the unasked question, taking refugee on the tip of my tongue. Thump; will you leave me alone tonight so that I can drown in my own imagined misery? Maybe if I learned to say that I need you this would become easier, the picture clearer. Thump; is tonight the night that you finally figure out that I’m not what you need? 
          Heartache is just another way of saying I’m not sure of what just happened and I’m not sure if I ever will. From a flash flood of tears to pushing through the pain to show off, to pretend that I don’t hurt; not because of you, never because of you. Thump; I’m sorry that my need to lie beats out my need to confess how much I need you now more than ever. If it was that easy maybe we wouldn’t have found ourselves in this mess to begin with. Thump; would you believe me if I said that I never could get over you despite everything? 
          Heartache is just another way of saying maybe this was meant to happen. You and I are disasters, undiscovered arguments disguised as the best of intentions. Thump; could you help me rediscover who I am tonight? There will be no strings attached, I just miss having a friend that I can connect to. Thump; you probably saw this coming before I ever thought that something could mess things up between us. You were smart like that, always just ahead of the curve when it came to you and I. 
          Heartache is just another way of saying that I wish I could forget you. That’s the bench I laid on as we just made noises at each other over the phone; mall shoppers giving me funny looks. Then I fell off of it and found the pen that had exploded; making noises as I went. Thump; are you haunted by as many familiar places as I am? There are so many situations running through my head, some days I just can’t take facing so many places, so many songs. Thump; do you know when all of this will finally stop? When can I finally keep myself together when looking at everything you have tainted? 
          Heartache is just another way of saying that maybe we shouldn’t have done this. Why did you and I have to be so much alike? Thump; rediscovering yourself through someone else just opens up more holes. The problem is every hole has a seal and every seal has been shattered. Thump; the first cut was the deepest. After all it was the one that made me get rid of all of the old messages that said I love you. Thump; love is a lie we don’t want to admit to anymore. 
          This doesn’t cover all of it, not even most of it. These are just some of the words I keep wishing that I could write down and send your way. Read them, scream them, sing them; just remember it’s how I feel about you and I. You’re my personal heartache, always and forever. I sometimes wish that I was yours, but out of the two of us I think I always cared more; or at the very least I showed it more. I guess this is really my way of saying that I miss you, I wish you missed me back. That I still love you, but I don’t think you love me; I guess that’s okay.