No time, no time.
Always time, always fine.
Cannot cannot.
Stop, it's not something that should be fought.
Can't stay can't stay.
Just a minute you won't be late.
No time, no time.
Be that way, fine.

I just want to relax and sleep. I want it to be comforting. I'm not exactly anxious but I'm not exactly calm. So what is up with my head.

I don't like my body much. But I don't hate it much. But I also don't know if I'll ever truly enjoy it.

I worry about writing and showing my boyfriend because last one he said was uninteresting. I'm scared of uninteresting. Was it my writing, my words, or me? He almist certainly means nothing malignant by it, but my head is still a recovering paranoia addict and writing is its worry kryptonite.

I worry on and off about my actual writing prowess. I worry more often about finding a new novel to write. If I tell everyone tht writing is like breathing to me, then why aren't I breathing more?

I'm a little stressed about this semester. Not class-load wise, but because of the wearing down in my bones I feel sometimes. I'm just doing so much. All things I love. But so much.

I'm trying not to worry about family stuff. Its not helping me and there's nothing I can really do. Its just hard.

I can see me again. That's something that's good though. In fixing myself I lost the goofy, selfless me that used to be and I am so happy to see her again.

I'm working on my abandoment problem. I think that's why bring alone bothers me so much now. Now that I have people, and I know what its like to feel like I belong, I'm so afraid of being alone and locked up in my head again. But I'm spending more spurts alone to deal with it, and I'm not dead or abandoned yet so something must be working.

I have a gorgeous sleepy boyfriend who sleeps next to me every night. That something that always makes me smile. I may be unique and fun and cute, but it still astounds me this adorkable, brilliant, funny man likes to spend his time with me. Not complaining, but with all the possible brilliant girls he knows he meets, he picks the crazy, writing obsessed dreamer who just happened to stumble upon him. I just can't believe I get to look at his face so much. His face, his mind, all of him, it just... He knocks me out.

Things are complicated. And I'm always weary and always a tad stressed and always busy. But I'm happy too. And I'm not alone; I'm out here, for far longer than just one day. I belong somewhere, and I am loved somewhere. I my still have a thousand miles to go, but I can't believe the thousand I've made it through.

Guess I'm not too shabby, even if I am Grace from Wonderland.

Down the rabbit hole
Such a strange place
Into a world
Were your gone with no trace

Down the rabbit hole
Oh wouldn't it be fun
To leave your life
Be free and run

Down the rabbit hole
My final dream
To meet with the white rabbit
And become a team

Down the rabbit hole
A silly wish of mine
Were you fear you are mad
But there, mad is fine

Down the rabbit hole
'Tis merely my own mind
Were dreams and ambitions
I there, do hope to find

Take my hand

And watch me go

To places that are unknown

Follow my feet

Under this bridge

Down the rabbit hole

To meet again

Just like Alice

Lost in wonderland

She frolicked through trouble, and dandled with mischief. Alison Wonderland; everything I wished I was and so much more. Ever emanating her doe-eyed façade; proclaiming our jests mere “mischief.”
Yet, an unspoken verdict (Foretaste? Conception? Notion?) had cloaked the truth: wickedness rippled beneath our parade.
I nuzzled her contours; my peripheral eye – nailed to her profile, her blueprints, her chassis. I stalked her mirage – dancing with vapor.
She glissaded about, no fool to my truth, varnishing my mantle.
I belonged to Alison: perpetually at her side. Our couplet became a “we.” So, We regretted nothing. We veered for the pyre: caroming(skimming?) those embers alit with vice.
She narrated my mental seminar. Discarding my dogmas to uphold her own; and thus, my mind was hers.
My mind was her mind.
Alison made heads turn, and mouths water, as we sidled – hand in hand – down the street. She was my Christmas morning: each colloquium – giftwrapped with finesse. She personified paradise, she illustrated utopia. Hatching our Carnival; netting us, enamored, sidling the Carousal. We’d skim, we’d sail, her halo – my fossil. Her lips, her eyes, her hands… they echoed the innocence of a child. Niave, innocent, and giftwrapped in wonder.
Little Miss Wonderland: my very own fairytale. She was mine alone; she was mine to keep.
Did I want her, or did I want to be her?
Alison Wonderland.
Her aura – so celestial – paralleled my prose. When she banished my husk – Maple Thatcher – I cackled good riddance… And I grew a new personality to accommodate her own.
For, without Ali – devoid of our we – I doubted the very existence of me.
On my composition, she bestowed rhythm. She gave tune to my silence; her chimes, her cadence. My ink was her song – fusing a symphony. A symphony of Alison: the melody to solidify our tryst.
My mind was her mind.
And yet… somehow, I missed a carriage – or two – aboard her train of thought. For, the same felon spiting my existence, was the angel I loved to life. Gladly, I huffed, and I puffed, and I blew Maple down.
Fused against Alison, I needed none of Maple.
Carnival infatuations…

Alison Wonderland.

She said, I’ll look for Wonderland
I’ll find it in the snow
I’ll find it in the setting sun,
I’ll find it in a rose
She travelled every which and way
up every staircase to
the promise of a land so vast
full of hearts and tales so true,
but the farther that she wandered
the more she realized
that Wonderland is not a place
but a certain state of mind.

So she sat under her Bodhi tree
and waited for the leaves to fall.
She waited for the silence
and she waited for the dawn;
she waited for the rain to come,
so wet and wild and blue
to cleanse her of the pain she had
mistaken for the truth.

And time grew thinner than a ribbon
and the branches grew so bare
and she found that as her burdens lifted,
so did all her cares.
And when the spring-time came again
as the fates guaranteed it would
she found the birds still singing songs
of everything that’s good.

And no longer were the branches bare,
no longer was there pain—
but now just brilliant green leaves of light
waltzing in the rain.

And she found a new seed sprouting—
one of madness and of love,
and as spring paved the way for summer
she heard the golden secret buzz.
It was a child—no, it was a lamb,
or maybe the Mad Hatter she heard say, that
“Madness is the same as love,
and both just want to play.”

A blanket of white on the ground.
The same covering the trees around.
Wind blowing the snow in my face.
Honestly, I love this wintery place.
It's home to everything I know.
In January, all we can see is the snow.

I can only imagine
the beautiful canyon
filled with the towering
trees as high as skyscrapers,
where the animals run free
on the leaf-carpeted meadows
and blooming flowers dancing
with the breeze of the wind,
in the golden glow of the day.
This enchanting wonderland
is the perfect place to bury old
memories, ponder on the
mysteries of life or to just cry
in a quiet, comforting place.