distance.

i wake up and you are not here. beside me. tangled in my limbs. you abandoned my bed in the middle of the night. yesterday's light turns to clay in my hands. and this. this feeling. this feeling is all too familiar. this single. solitary. feeling. that separates us most-- the one word that makes my heart race and sweat pour out from my palms-- distance.

i am sick.

i am here you are there.

i hate this feeling. this feeling deep in my stomach that burrows itself deeper. and deeper. into the depths of my stomach until it claws its way into my heart. and salivates on my soul.

somehow i knew this would happen.

i felt it in the middle of the night. i try to blame it on barometric pressure. the full moon. insomnia. but this feeling i know. and i know it all too well. the fear of the unknown. the unfamiliar familiar. and my bones ache.

it's 2:30 a.m.

my heart is pounding out of my plush chest. i crawl out of bed and go for a drive. no destination in mind. just distant from the distance.

old cd's skip faintly in the background. their lingering remains are faint and disappear. drowning in the bellowing roar of my breathing. hot air. my windshield is blanketed in fog. fog that coddles my unsettled self like an infant as i try to make sense of this. this feeling. this all too familiar feeling.

panic.

was it all just manufactured thought? manufactured feeling? maybe they are right. maybe nothing good lasts forever. i can't stop thinking about what parrish said. what's new is new. and just because it's new, doesn't mean it's the best.

i am home now.

a two hour journey. flying over highways and back roads. through skyscrapers and past sleeping houses. you are still asleep.
i want to crawl into your bed and feel close, but this distance is keeping me concrete and frozen. downstairs. but i can still hear you breathing. your breath trickles down the stairs and flows into room and floods my memory.

hello.

you knock on my door and turn the crooked handle. you look heavy. i've never seen your eyes look the way they do now. at this moment. unfocused. vacant. scanning and chasing after the thoughts that run rampid through that head of yours. that gorgeous head of yours. behind alleys, and in corners tucked away. hidden. under old thoughts. they spin. and they spin. and they spin. and your eyes follow. chasing them in circles; the way a dog chases its tail. round and round. and round. and round.

you said you need the quiet.

you lay down beside me. you are pressed up against my body, but i feel miles apart. maybe i am writing this because you asked for the quiet. consciously unconscious of wanting you to feel this distance. feel this distance while i write this beside you, as you watch, annoyed by the scratching of the tip of my pencil. i am watching you quiver. i know its song makes you uncomfortable. i am. distant.

and then.

that distance, though it may have not been physical, it is what brought us closer. together. together in this moment. i kissed away your pretty tears. my head on your chest. listening to your heart beat. slower. and slower. anxiously awaiting the metamorphosis. of you. letting go.

i know we are going to take good care of each other.

feels like home.

angles and beaming light. color and light cascade down my steep legs and flesh from the skylight above.

these rooms are overflowing with energy.

when i am alone i play with the vibrations of my voice; i throw them this way and that, and bounce them off the ceiling, the tiles, even the door knobs. i tangle myself in the swarm of pitches and tones that rickashay off every surface and i spin. and i spin. and i spin. if you were here, i'd dance circles around you.

i can hear myself breathe here. i lay on my bed, transfixed on the dance that my chest rehearses over again and again. up, down. up, down. i imagine what your breathing sounds like, wherever you are, and try i to mimic so that my chest will rise and fall with yours.

at night i chase my shadows, and listen to the quiet; the quiet that is occasionally interrupted by the beautiful people that i live with.

the first is a fabulously gay man with the most beautiful legs i have ever seen. he is statuesque. i imagine him standing among the greek and roman statues. tall, dark, and contrapposto.

he says things like, "does a cock ring count as an accessory?"

he makes me smile.

the other is the most beautiful thing i have ever laid my eyes on. i am drawn to him. i am painfully observant; i watch him and the way he rinses dishes, reacts to words, and absorbs light.

he makes my heart skip beats.

my main man.

the evolution from existentialism to absurdism doesn't only tolerate the realization that life is futile; it endures a real conclusive solution to cope. this solution is practical; as we are asked to accept the lack of meaning we are bound to endure, we accept the lack of meaning rather than attempt to find an unresolved one. it is through this acceptance that we can go on with living our day -to -day lives despite the unsolvable questions that may arise along the way.

mr. camus, you rock my world.

savannah.

i lived in savannah for a few years.
i have mixed feelings about it.
i moved to atlanta last may and
my life completely changed.

nothing is the same.

i made a lot of beautiful memories in savannah.
i found myself in savannah.
i found love in savannah.
i went back for the first time in a year
and made sure i visited tybee island.

i wanted to leave it the way i wanted to remember it.

i can remember that day when we stuffed balloons with wishes
and launched them into the cool, gray autumn sky.
i still remember everything i wished for
that day on the beach.
it was so cold
but the energy between us
was enough to keep us warm.
that is my favorite day.
my favorite memory.

things change

and new memories flood the old ones.
wishes are lost somewhere in the vast sky
floating in the darkness
and part of me still wants those wishes to come true
for you.
i must have made a million wishes that day
but there was one wish i wished twice.

i wished that you would find your happiness.
and i still do.

1,500 invitations. wowza.

i am a printmaking major at SCAD. i printed 1,500 magenta invitations for SCAD style on the vandercook. oh, letterpress. it felt good to be up and crankin', but i never. want. to. see. magenta. again.

it was a great experience, and it gave me the urge to print some artist books.

is it weird that i love the smell of ink, and lead type? its musty. kinda reminds me of the way my grandma's house smells. its comforting.

check this out. www.macychadwick.com.

salutations.

i am not one for soulless communication, but i figured that i mine as well bite the bullet and create one of these suckers. i'd like to use is as a vehicle to display the shit i make and share my thoughts.

one of my professors told me something a few weeks ago that i just can't seem to get out of my head. he said,

"the best advice my mother ever game me was, 'if you drink your coffee black, they'll always make it just the way you like it.' and you know somethin'? she was right. and now i drink the damn stuff black. no sugar. no cream. no nothin'."

i keep going back to our conversation and really thinking about what he said. i know he wasn't being literal. he hardly ever drinks coffee. i usually see him with a cardigan on dipping a tea bad and sipping on his tea. i think what he meant was quite simply if you keep it simple there is less room for error or disappointment (human error or not/perhaps fate even). so i have been keeping it simple. and i have been less disappointed.

however, you can't expect everyone to take their coffee black. i can't stand the stuff. bitter hell. and as much as this keepin' it simple shit is workin' for me for the past few months, i'm just not so sure i like it. there's less to experience, and i have learned that most people--- take their coffee with entirely too much cream and sugar. glutinous fools.

anyways, i've been thinking about things. i'm always thinking. the name of my blog is athazagoraphobia. it is the fear of forgetting or being forgotten about. i need to keep better track of my thoughts so i don't forget them, and i need to share them so i wont be forgotten. thus, the emergence of this blog.

"all the things one has forgotten scream for help in dreams..." -elias canetti


salut.