I made a new & entirely different kind of blog.

Check it out: http://kristineclaghorn.blogspot.com/

Doing this and that, just keeping my mind busy. My mind is numb and my feet are asleep. The beads of sweat are beginning to blend in with the tears racing down my cheeks and my fingers are rubbing shapes underneath my eyes. I'm pinching my arms to wake myself up from this dull dream, but I'm not even asleep. I'm just staring into the distance and all I can feel are hunger pangs, but I feel nothing for anyone and I feel nothing for myself. I keep trying to sing, but my voice keeps trailing off. I long to walk barefoot for miles and miles up the Rio Grande, skipping stones and humming to myself without a care in the world. I felt independent and warm. My days consisted of laughing and learning and never wanting to leave where I was. Every time I return, I feel even more lost in a place whose map I could trace on the back of my hand by memory. I can't wait to scrape up just enough money to leave again, come back, and repeat.

constantly missing, searching, finding, losing, needing, wanting, loving, hurting

it's the strange combinations of images that come to us in dreams
the songs that pull at our heartstrings
that one person that makes our hearts beat with resonance
with both harmony and dissonance
it's knowing that a broken heart is only temporary,
only if you want it to be
it's listening to dead silence
and hearing lively sounds

how delightfully terrifying life can be. it's a series of choices and you have to remind yourself over and over again that life is only going to be as good as you make it. i've been stuck in this rut of pessimism for far too long. i woke up this morning with a feeling of unknowingness, i do not know who i have become. i'm ready not to go back to the way i was before, but to get back on the right track, living and enjoying every ounce of what's around me. i've been spending far too much time thinking about what's just out of grasp, beating myself up because i'm not as smart, or as beautiful, but that's just it, there's no reason for me to compare myself to others when no one person is comparable to another. i woke up and looked at myself in the mirror and smiled. my back has been killing me all day, but i can still walk. i can still sing. i have to be thankful for what i can do instead of what i can't.

i know this is completely different than most of my posts, but this is more or less for my own reasons. it's not meant to be beautiful or poetic. it's just the externalization of my current thoughts.

freckled skin tightly wrapping itself over aching bones to frozen fingers and toes, clenched to unclenched. tired eyes holding back a collection of thoughts, unorganized. lips locked lips, locked silence & talking, talking, talking, but never really talking. i long to feel volumes, happiness in misplaced time.

waking up to a startling alarm, to running late, to running, to heavy breathing, to eating rice for every meal, to empty wallets becoming even barer, to typing, typing, typing tedious papers about lackluster topics. walking with hands intertwined, to a cup of tea (maybe two), to kisses & endless laughter, to music resonating within, to heartbeats as a metronome, to skin stretched over & across bones like some sort of canvas. to thinking, thinking, thinking about nothing in particular, to heavy breathing, to tears, to sleep.

do you really?
yes i do.

i want so much to capture the harsh stillness of silence that can only be measured in heartbeats. all you can hear are the crescendos of your breathing and your heart beating out of your chest. i long to hold the way the sunlight bends through the curtains and dances its way across the hardwood floor. if i could, i would keep that look you get in your eyes in my pocket, you know, the look that makes my stomach drop and my heart beat fast. i want to paint my walls with the beauty and distress broken glass causes when it shatters across the floor. each fragment catching a ray of light or an unfortunate shade of red as you carefully tiptoe across your room, regretting the fact that you remained shoeless amidst the inanimate battlefield your broken bottle has created.

i wake up in a blind stare, rubbing my eyes without gaining focus. all i see is the blurry picture of sunlight bending its way in between the mismanaged blinds. the light is scattered across my floor like broken glass, piercing my feet with its coldness. i have goosebumps on my bare skin and i swear i can see my breath as i walk across the hardwood floor. i feel like i'm stranded inside of my head and all i want to do is be back where i was before. i long to be consistent and worthwhile. pry into my mind and try to understand me, i'm sick of trying to understand everyone and everything that doesn't make the least bit of sense and i'm tired of  everything being lackluster, including me. i am thoroughly uninteresting.

shortness of breath

i remember things like the way you don't sit up straight, the way light bends around your shadow, the face of the stranger that smiled when i walked by. i don't want to forget how it feels to have my skin exposed when the blanket doesn't cover my toes or the way it feels to turn over the pillow in the middle of the night. i want to capture all of these moments, as simple or enigmatic as they may be. i want to collect not only the memories, but feelings to which they're connected.

 i'm starting to believe that my dreams are mocking me. i wake up rolling my eyes. i can't move out of this position because my cat's purring in her sleep, cuddled up in the nook my bent legs have made. after ridding my eyes of their morning blur, i can place my focus on the little universe your freckles make on the skin of your shoulders, placing my fingers on the different constellations i find.

so let the sun shine in and i'll tell the time by the shadows in between your ribs and spine

you belong here.

or do i belong there?
it looks lovely over there, but it may storm tomorrow.
i'd like to travel just behind the rain as it moves.
watching it pour onto rooftops and out of gutters, just avoiding my windshield.
i'd rather read a secondhand book than own a new one.
i like envisioning someone else's hands where mine are now.
someone else's calloused fingers turning the pages,
at someone else's pace.
someone else's eyes,
maybe eyes painted the color of the ocean,
soaking up a meaning other than my own.

it's sunday. your skin is warm and your lips are soft. my mind is always racing and racing, but my body doesn't feel like moving. my blanket's facing the wrong way and my feet are cold, but my head fits so well in the nook between your head and shoulder that i don't care to fix it.

a stemless wine glass full of merlot shattered on my floor tonight. my room has a nice aroma, but my feet sting.