I almost did something stupid crazy exciting adventurous tonight. But I didn’t. Maybe it was too last-minute. Maybe I was feeling too shy and introverted. Maybe I’m complacent. Maybe I’m too comfortable where I am right now.

Sometimes I wonder when the scales will tip that balance. When — if ever — will I be unsatisfied enough with things to step out of my comfort zone and take those chances?

When will I catch that ride?

I suppose I’d have more to say if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve pretty much said everything already. I’ve dealt with the uncertainty, the unanswered questions. I’ve suffered enough.

I’ve served my time.

Now I’m free.

Show me Bach, she said with her hands.

Show me love, I said with my lips.

Jack: What kind of movies do you prefer, the ones with the sad endings or the happy ones?

Claire: The sad ones definitely. I like movies that make me cry.

Jack: Then you’re with the right guy.

Jack is the leading man. Such screen time is only reserved for protagonists, though anti-hero’s fit this mould too. You want to root for him, to discover that in the end he’s smart enough to give up the criminal life, to stay out of trouble, to truly appreciate the one who loves him. That’s what Claire is banking on too.

She wants to fulfill the dream that she’ll get the bad boy, and she’ll be the one for whom he gives up his criminal life. A story that’s been told time and time again, in life and on the screen. But he won’t, and that makes her want him even more.

Through their relationship, you have a hard time believing that anyone would be so self-destructive to fall for a guy like this, the way you don’t believe a professional assassin would suddenly develop a conscience when discovering that his mark is a 12-year-old girl. But this is Hollywood, and we’re lead to believe that anything is possible.

And as he cleans Claire’s blood off his bedroom floor, you realize that it’s harder to believe he was able to fill a bucket of water from the faucet when he just got out on parole and his utility bills have been unpaid for over a year, than a girl falling in love with someone so bad for her. After all, life has not proven otherwise.

This quietly fills you with bitterness.

It hasn’t stopped raining since I woke up this morning, and now it’s dark, with only the streetlamps and their reflections in the puddles for light. It’s cold outside.

This is a good thing.

I feel like the eponymous character in Onegin. Sitting on the balcony in the dead of winter, waiting for a letter. His servant, handing him a stemmed glass of vodka, asks him to come inside because it’s cold. “I like the cold” he replies, as he resigns himself to his fate.

He walks down the streets of Saint Petersburg, and his motif comes in on the piano, followed by strings. FADE TO BLACK.

A stoic face to the world. Can I say stoic? I like stoic.

These titles are getting harder and harder to write.

And I want to say that I’m melancholy, but I’m not. But I’m not giddy either. My emotions aren’t black and white. They’re a mixture of ups and down. I don’t know what to say when I don’t know what I’m feeling or what comes next.

I’m just waiting. Passive. Yielding.

I admit that I not only save other people’s posts, but entire blogs.

Sometimes, there are entries I like to read over again. Other times, I just like to be reminded of how right I was. But more often than not, it’s the ephemeral nature of blogs in general, combined with the fickle nature of adolescent writers still trying to “define themselves” on a free medium, that gives me the itch to save. So many writers I used to follow have changed domain names, started protecting their entries, or deleted their blogs.

Some things are garbage and should be forgotten or thrown away — but some things deserve to be kept too. Word-for-word, exactly the way it was spoken, because that’s the way it was expressed.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on your point-of-view, our words do last. Just because they aren’t there anymore, doesn’t mean they were never spoken.

There are consequences to the things we write, whether we want them or not.

I hope John’s wrong. Not because he’s a pessimist, but because he’s a realist. I came to him overflowing with excitement, perhaps with a bright naïveté, only to be brought down in seven words, and the words have been ringing in my ears ever since. I use to think he was tactless and unsupportive. Maybe he is. But he tells the truth, and instead of my hopes, I can only turn to him for this.

That doesn’t change the fact that I’m a fantasist, who wants this right now.

Who needs this right now.

Sometimes, life moves too fast for words.

At least this means I’m a nice guy.

I always thought I’d meet you at a concert. One of those moody, bass-heavy shows as if Robert Smith was fronting Portishead telling us to dance, dance, dance through the fire. The music’s good but too loud, and the lights are warm orange and reds.

But you’re too Suicide and I’m too xXx.

The guys, they tease me. Call me “fucker”, half joking, half jealous. I nervously laugh it off, but this gives me away. They know they’re right; no direct negative acknowledges their suspicions. I don’t want to admit it, but I can’t stop laughing. We’re all thinking the same thing.

To deny myself is to deny them too.

The new me doesn’t please you, and the old me didn’t care.

Not everyone gets what they want.

I have to get this down before I lose it.

The new Starsailor album is out this month, and I’m not sure if I’ll buy it. There’s something about the general sound of Starsailor songs that evoke an almost ineffable emotion in me. I never even knew they existed until last month, but for some reason, their 2001 Love Is Here album cover is oddly familiar. Every time I see the sun-washed tracks falling into the horizon, I get an odd sense of déjá vu.

As one who rarely has such an ephemeral, mystical experience, this strikes me as a extremely poignant thing. I feel as if I know this album, that I’ve seen it before, even had emotions associated with it. It’s something I can’t explain, and whether the emotions are good are bad, I can’t recall.

Their music moves me nonetheless. The chord progressions are unpredictable yet dulcet, bitter yet sweet. I can’t decide if it’s sunset or sunrise music, and the album cover serves to emphasize this equivocality. I can’t even tell if the music makes me happy or sad.

And so remains my problem. Do I want to listen to this music or not? I always find it odd that someone would not want to think about or experience something simply because it makes them sad. Doing so seems to be so cowardly, as if one is running from one’s self.

Yet the problem remains, with other music as well, and as clear as this logic is for me I find it difficult to queue up certain songs. Listening to The Postal Service brings back so many amazing, unforgettable memories, but so many painful thoughts as well.

I choose not to ignore either, and end up being emotionally torn, unclear in my heart and in my mind.

No wonder I’m insecure.