Nothing else.

I'm in the type of mood where I would stay home and write piece after piece after piece if I could. Stay up all night, stay in all day, for however long it lasts. I just feel. Generally that sentence has an object, but today, I just feel. Feel everything. I could will myself to dig deep and feel everything I ignore 167 hours of the week. I could glaze over and feel nothing but the urge to feel.

I'm sentimental and withdrawn. I'm feeling like loving and still terrified of any commitment deeper than my skin. We're never alone, but we're never 100% relatable, either. On days like today, I listen to Brand New. I listen to Jack's Mannequin starting with Everything In Transit. The Mixed Tape to Hammers and Strings. Deja Entendu. Another Mixed Tape. No sweet jams or dancing. Head nods and thinking. You might like to dance and jump and fall and drink and sweat and sleep. I like thinking. I like all that other stuff too. Sometimes.

I'm paying attention to the way I type too much. I'm getting too used to the comfort of my personal blog. Could be that I'm losing the nerve I'm famous for writing with. I don't think so. I just have no one I need to call out, nothing I need to confess. Nothing I want to confess anyway. Nothing I should be thinking. No one I wouldn't turn down if they would have me. This isn't who you think it's for. You don't mean much to me, but I can't say you don't mean everything. And I thought I had nothing to confess.

This CD never gets old, and neither does feeling like this. Nothing hurts. I feel brave; maybe I should go for a drive and jump, not that anyone would ever believe me. Dear Monday, make me brave, okay?

Seventy Times Seven. Seven plus Seven equals two today, six for the next three days. Number soup. Last names like alphabet soup. It's a regular preschool paradise. Time to circle up and talk about our favorite animals. Remember when holding hands with strangers was so easy? On days like today I'm itching for everyone to just get along. I miss you even though I just saw you less than 24 hours ago. I'm prone to nostalgia; I promise it isn't contagious.

Modified.

Tattoos. Countless discussions on this somewhat controversial topic have me thinking pretty hard today. To get the obvious out in the open, yes, I am a proud owner and wearer of three beautiful tattoos. No, I don't (and never will) regret them. Yes, I understand the generational differences when it comes to this subject. Now, on with the show.

Tattoos are permanent. I know I said I was done stating the obvious, but I guess I had room for one more giant duh statement. This is something we know by the time we can comprehend. To me, the permanence of tattoos are part of their undying beauty. Taking the step to approach a parlor, make a design, and give the thumbs up for an artist to press that needle to your skin is a conscious and sacred process, and one I've found myself in awe of. It's breathtaking- all that goes into making that piece of art you'll carry on yourself. It starts with paper, and the second you see that stencil, your stomach jumps and your heart skips a beat. To me, it felt more than right. It was like that design, that piece of art belonged on me.

Obviously, it goes without saying that I'm not condoning the tattoo that gets about zero thought. You know the likes of drunken nights and bets and things that seem funny in the moment. Timelessness is something you have to take into consideration when you first begin thinking about getting one. Thinking. It's something we take for granted these days, but it's something you have to do. My junior year, I was always doodling on my hands, arms, anything within reach. This is where a lot of my ideas were born. I got my first tattoo on December 3, the day after my 18th birthday. I got it as soon as I could, but a lot of thought went into creating it. I'd been messing with designs and ideas for over a year. I knew by the time I was turning 17 that I wanted tattoos. Plural, tattoos. But I let the ideas swim a round in my mind and drew and planned for what it would be, and what it would mean.

I can't forget the day I figured it out. I was at my best friend's house, and she told me she had a picture to show me, that she saw it and knew I would love it. A simple peace sign intersecting with a heart. All black, linear, clean. Breathtaking. That same day I decided that same picture would become my first tattoo, peeking at me now from the underside of my wrist, my constant reminder that I should love everyone, and always maintain my positive nature. It's a reminder to me not to let negativity take me over, and to approach every situation in life with as much kindness as I can. Be slow to anger and quick to love. I can't be a mean-spirited person with a symbol of peace and love somewhere that everyone can see. It's a challenge to me to live up to its message, and I fully intend to do so.

My tiny star, as random as it may seem, is a dreamkeeper. I've been doodling what is now a permanent star on my thumb for well over a year now. It started as a reassurance. Junior year had a shaky start; the summer before had changed me and the person I was, and it's hard to be confident when you've only just figured yourself out. I dreamed of music and writing and one day spending my time turning passion into profession. You wish on stars, so why on earth shouldn't my wishes and dreams be embodied inside a star? Right there on my thumb, where I can see it and remember. Dreams are important; they give people something to live and work for. My dream. My star. They're one in the same. It keeps me honest, and it keeps me on the track I need to be on, allowing wiggle room for a little fun along the way.

My third is my own spin on something common. Nautical star, and the year I was born right beside it. One day I was talking to a friend about tattoos. Within the conversation, I remember it being said that the nautical star was "the tattoo of our generation." I had already wanted a nautical star tattoo, and wasn't sure how to make it my own. However, being a lover of tattoos and a member of our generation, this conversation hit the idea over my head: generation. Birth year. Nautical star. Add in some plus signs, and the opposite end of the equation came out to = my next tattoo. I was a little brave with this one. I went to a trusted tattoo parlor in Madeira Beach, FL where plenty of family members (including a previous piercing of my own) have gotten tattoos and piercings, and asked the artist to help me out. Last appointment before closing found me there a few days later. I told him color and concept and he went to work; I didn't know that when I looked in that mirror two hours later that it would come out so.. perfect. This is the work of an artist. Unable to leave it a flat, typical nautical star, he laced white highlights with black lines and lowlights the complement the most uniquely beautiful shades of aquablue I'd ever seen. It was nothing I couldn't conjured up myself and everything I wanted it to be. My own spin. My smiling surprise.

It's somewhere I could cover up, but why would I want to? I hear people saying all the time that that they think tattoos are meant to be covered up. Why would I get something on me forever if I didn't want it to be seen? To me, it defeats the purpose. I suppose I can understand a "professional" wanting a back tattoo over a wrist tattoo; they don't always go over in all business worlds. Me though, I want a job where I can wear my tattoos wth pride. I put this art on me so I could represent everything that is important to me. People say that I'll hate them when I'm old, that my skin will sag and my tattoos will change. Seriously, I can't wait. Just like the things they embody will grow with me, so will my tattoos.

As I change, they will too. As I grow old, they'll mirror the wear my years have seen. I'd be disappointed if it happened any other way. Tattoos don't make my body less of a temple, people of the church. Don't we glorify the beauty of the Sistine? Aren't stained glass and sculpture and paintings a staple in most churches? Tattoos are nothing more than painting the walls, personalizing our space. Just like decorations aren't necessary in a church, neither are tattoos. But, if you ask me, both make the surface they decorate just a little more beautiful and close to the heart.

Call the first peace and balls all you want, it still means the world in my eyes. The hilarity of its likeness only makes it more quirky and loveable to me. After all, you should expect to be pleasantly surprised with every tattoo you get. If you come in with a very specific idea of how exactly the design on paper will transfer to your skin, expect to be disappointed. Come into it with an open mind, and get excited for the quirk each piece will indefinitely turn up. The third was by far the biggest surprise of the three, yet they've all turned up their unique traits. My heart is misunderstood, my star slighty faded, and I'm constantly explaining what exactly '90 stands for. With every reminder, though, they just become more fond to me, more dear to my heart. I couldn't be happier that my tattoos took on a spunk of their own, better embodying me and the things they represent.

Don't Grow Up Too Fast.

The funny thing about love is that it is daily presenting itself to be boundless and far less terrifying than ever it was when I found myself unwillingly in it. I'm so carefree these days. I'm so tired these days. Since when have I been able to sleep for more than 10 consecutive hours? It's more than likely the drive, and on a less apparent note, the separation, that bears the blame. But I shut my eyes when I can and I force them open into the wee hours. I can sleep when I'm dead. Some days I'm dead. Dead to the world. I've wasted about 75% of my summer to date doing a whole lot of nothing, but I don't regret any of it.

I look back at days when I was a flurry of activity. I think I deserve the downtime. I'm a different person. I'm as scatterbrained as I've ever been, but now I think I do a lot better job of following it, in a sense completely unrelated to that stupid new website I can't seem to understand. It has been nearly a month since the intoxication has taken me over, over a week since I've been any form of crazy. It's funny, I got away with so much when I was out of control. I was good at it. Is that a deadly confession? I let go of any kind of belief deeper than my skin. I see it in the sky, in late night phone calls on day long drives, songs, and circumstances. I laughed when I was standing next to you. That was the song I've drawn countless parallels to. Slip into something more comfortable; the night is never wrong, but we are. I'd like to call it coincidence, but I believe in fate.

Maybe clarity isn't so much an anvil to the head as it is a baby unwrapping its present by itself. Gushing mommy eggs you on; all you care about is a particularly tasty box corner. Ten, fifteen minutes to unveil another toy you'll love for five minutes and forget about. Remember how disposable everything was when you were young? I remember being about six years old, sitting on the couch, crying for a solid half hour (God knows I could cry with the best of them) about a doll or bunny or teddy bear that I'd lost months before. It mattered then, but I have no idea why. It was gone, I had loved the worth out of it. Still, in my childish mind that loved tea parties and hated clothes, I remembered and I felt sorry for forgetting about that stuffed animal.

I did this a lot, really. I'd cry, I'd search, I'd find it, and I'd cuddle it every night for a week or so then let it collect dust again. I've always been a person more prone to feeling sorry than anyone should be. Some days I wish I'd outgrown that like all the toys that were the object of it half my life ago. How much sentiment is too much? How many friends will I forget about, find, hold close, and forget about again? I don't like feeling sorry, but sometimes I know it's for the best. On days like today, I don't care. On days like today, I'm not sorry about anything. Excitement is growing in my stomach, and I'm not telling it to stop. I'm not sweating the circumstances like everyone else; I know everything will work out. By the end of the night, by the end of the week, by the end of the summer, everyone will be smiling. What a good damn time. That's what I'm hoping the summary of my summer will look like. I don't think it's much to ask for.

Lately my mind has been swirling with possibilities. I'm creating a collage, so far only in my mind. I'm alive; stay awake. I don't need a witness to know that I survived. You've got me, got me all wrong, but I don't mind. I've been thinking some shameless things lately. Something along the lines of a theme song I disguised as someone else's. Something about knowing where trouble is. Then there's a breath of fresh air in a loud, dark room and I know I'm not stuck. Not long ago I felt the shift. This summer is promising to be shameless. I've learned from the best, and now I have a feeling we're going to be a devilish team.

Smile, nothing about the next few months will hurt. Who cares about uncharted and forbidden territory. Some days, I'll sit on my ass and watch reruns. Some days, I'll make plans with anyone who asks. I'll go from sunrise to sunset with a blink or two in between, and do it all again. After all, expectations are overrated. We're still young, we can go all night. I intend to live a balanced life. My scales are different from yours. There's no agreeable measurement for living. There's nothing wrong with being young, a little stupid, and growing up all at once. Let's all act our ages, for once.

I've always been a fan of catching life as it came to me. I'll catch you there.

1,000 Is Nothing When It Means Everything.

Continue 125 miles.

Well at the end I will be 125 miles farther from home. The destination it's pointing me to is everything I've grown up growing used to. Have you heard of towns like these; places where mechanics hold a name in every state? Where once I drove south several miles with the same light souls with matching hair, I ventured a now familiar stretch. The view always is more beautiful facing northeast. How can home sit on two sides of 1000 miles of roads? It's effortless.

Surrounded by my three favorite shades of yellow, I spent a bittersweet seven days while the seasons changed. I found bright eyes, kind smiles; I found fault in eyes I once regarded as next to perfect. The world so far removed from what I call home became reality. It is strange to realize that you live and breathe when I'm not there to see the way the sun and rain collide with the fabric on your shoulders. Your laugh is in my ears; your idle time is my time well spent. The CDs I forgot can't play my emotions like the way each voice tickles my ear. What do they call someone who changes a life? I call it a hero. I'm fortunate, blessed with a small army of heroes directly northeast of where I now sit and remember. They're nothing like the vibrant colors of collector copy comic books; they're real, and that about them makes the sun shine behind my eyes. I'm like a child in awe. A tall boy and a deep voice, one at eye level with a carefree presence, two girls, one twin, one a mirror image of my best friend, a boy more genuinely kind than I've ever known, another as wild as his hair, a handful of hilarious new people.

And a girl, complete with facial exercises and a mind both refreshingly clean and intriguingly compex, who knows three very different, far removed girls better than any one person could ever claim. I hope the corruption was mild and ultimately worthwhile; we came like a hurricane in the midwest even if you claim the surprise was busted. Busted like the color in our arms, purple, blue, green, busted like every emotion I try to swallow when I looked behind me. Where once was four, three felt out of balance. You belonged with us; I blame the weather, the government, the miles that are more beat up than our skin. I reached out to grab your hand like we so often did, and it's moments like those that make everything about leaving impossible to understand. I miss our house. I miss making messes and doing what we can to clean them up. I miss the noise, the laziness, the inappropriate everything. I miss you more than anything else. But I promise you my favorite sun is shining in the reassurance that it won't be long.

Thank every wishable star for determination.