“According to quantum theory there are not only second chances but multiple chances... Every quantum experiment conducted has shown, again and again, with dismaying mischief, that particles can hold positions contradictory and simultaneous.

Quantum theory states that for every object there is a wave function that measures the probability of finding that object at a certain point in space and time. Until the measurement is made, the object [particle] exists as the sum of all possible states. The difficulty here, between the logical common-sense world and the complex maverick universe, is that at a sub-atomic level, matter does not exist, with certainty, in definite places, but rather has a tendency to exist. At the sub atomic level, our seeming-solid material dissolves into wave-like patterns of probability, and these patterns do not represent probabilities of things but probabilities of connections.

The property of matter and light is very strange. How can we accept that everything can be, at the same time, an entity confined in volume [a particle] and a wave spread out over huge regions of space? As the Hindu mystics put it centuries ago, smaller than small, bigger than big. We are and we are not our bodies.
If we accept Hawking's idea that we should treat the entire universe as a wave function, both specifically located and infinite, then that function is the sum of all possible universes, dead, alive, multiple, simultaneous, interdependent, co-existing. Moreover, “we” and the sum of the universe cannot be separated in the way of the old Cartesian dialectic of “I” and “World”. Observer and observed are part of the same process. What did Paracelsus say? the galaxa goes through your belly?.
What is it that you contain? The dead, time, light patterns of millennia, the expanding universe opening in your gut”

-Jeanette Winterson, "Gut Symmetries"

It's almost as fascinating to me as dustfromamoth's writing on that we might all have tiny meteorites it enchants me, as if there's a galaxy of constellations in my palm whenever I run my hands through my hair.

dive for dreams
or a slogan may topple you
(trees are their roots
and wind is wind)
trust your heart
if the seas catch fire
(and live by love
though the stars walk backward)
honour the past
but welcome the future
(and dance your death
away at the wedding)
never mind a world
with its villains or heroes
(for god likes girls
and tomorrow and the earth)
in spite of everything
which breathes and moves, since Doom
(with white longest hands
neating each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds
-before leaving my room
i turn, and (stooping
through the morning) kiss
this pillow, dear
where our heads lived and were.

"dive for dreams" by e.e. Cummings

+

anyone lived in a pretty how town (with up so floating many bells down) spring summer autumn winter he sang his didn't he danced his did. Women and men(both little and small) cared for anyone not at all they sowed their isn't they reaped their same sun moon stars rain children guessed(but only a few and down they forgot as up they grew autumn winter spring summer) that noone loved him more by more when by now and tree by leaf she laughed his joy she cried his grief bird by snow and stir by still anyone's any was all to her someones married their everyones laughed their cryings and did their dance (sleep wake hope and then) they said their nevers they slept their dream stars rain sun moon (and only the snow can begin to explain how children are apt to forget to remember with up so floating many bells down) one day anyone died i guess (and noone stooped to kiss his face) busy folk buried them side by side little by little and was by was all by all and deep by deep and more by more they dream their sleep noone and anyone earth by april wish by spirit and if by yes. Women and men(both dong and ding) summer autumn winter spring reaped their sowing and went their came sun moon stars rain.

"anyone lived in a pretty how town" by e.e. Cummings

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loves: lots of things. <3
slicing up apples in your hand, the idea of autumn, the smell after it rains, ambiguous morality and mortality, balloons and balloon animals, vintage stuff and wicker baskets, ribbons and Barnes n' Nobles, rooms filled with books, ancient libraries, literature and beautiful covers, being between best friends, couples, the halo of light around streetlamps in the midst of light rain, looking into people's windows while walking the streets, being hysterical and still getting things done, the small things people do, mental flow-charts and gibberish, Icelandic and other languages, cameras with lots of lenses, having enough money to buy things for real for real, finishing fifty books a year, all the lovely stories that fan-fiction provides us with, my role-playing site, werewolves, seeing people for who they are, seeing future relationships in the midst of an electric storm; in a ship similar to one from where the wild things are something that travels and explodes and ends as quickly, at the most five years, at the least three, being okay with that anyway, having excuses to stay home and plans that stick and stay and work out, spontaneous combustion, reincarnation, music in different languages and those songs which when you hear them, they end up being on repeat for a few hours or even a few days, finding new loves and eating ribs like a cannibal, fighting with sticks and being in groups of close friends to act absolutely retarded and excellent and comfortably eccentric, making new friends and connections by simply being around certain people enough, and then keeping them yourself, stealing them away outside, being amused and the importance of being earnest (literally!), being wide-eyed and innocent and curious and having that be used as a way to completely revoke any feeling of awkwardness, pretty, pretty, pretty boys with whom you could talk too and should, putting on thinking caps and tin hats and knowing that obsession still lurks at the edge of your mind for whatever had you caught up in before, the dangerous expectancy of getting too attached, careless laughter without reason, smiles in the dark that you can tell, friends reading your mind, reading poetry, people teaching one another, going to movies in mobs and being snarky because of the freedom that you're stable enough in relationships to keep from needing everyone to like you, stickers that move and smell and ones that you can squish, masquerading masks and poetic language and excellent teachers that make you respect them simply for the way they teach and act and laugh goddamnit, not being able to run out of things you love, carousels, being taken to new places by friends, getting lost in the city or in counties, having something to brag out and not running out of things to say, reconnecting with old friends you thought you lost but you didn't, not really, knowing that you can call up people multiples of them and speak on the phone for hours because you can, being able to be naive and self-aware alternatively, to leave the first stages of mind into ones that you can drown in, being a voyeur because you're allowed, setting people up and watching it work out and having a choir of you're awesome in your head, being able to continue things for ages because there's enough, of seeing things in colors and having an old song come up on itunes that sends you into nostalgia or reflection or the memory of what was happening when it played, what colors and illusions sprang into your head, painting in watercolors even if you suck, hourglasses and imbalances, getting close friends over the internet that you end up talking on the phone too and finding out that they still are awesome, being philosophical and having beautiful people in philosophy class, knowing more than the teachers, deviantart, latin, being over the word limit and really being fond over your own work, having those fever-induced dreams of where madness lies, turning your room into a sauna, fevers that you still have after taking all the anti-fever drugs but being filled with muse and long rambling sentences that never end and end up being something delirious and beautiful at the same time, etc, etc, etc.




i want so many types of cameras, a minolta srt 201, a Minolta xD5 with a 50mm f1.4 lens; a Minolta with auto-focus and six lenses a minolta rokker 45mm, a minolta rokker 55mm, a tokina 80-200mm, a osawa MC 35-70mm, a telesor 135mm, and a kamero 2x converter. I want to get into professional photography as a hobby, I like things immortalized in photographs, I like the idea of being more artistic than I am, I  want to keep beautiful things because I'm greedy and the world does not fit into my pocket and I can't re-watch everything and I do love re-watching old times, ones that make you depressed or nostalgic but are still there, somehow still living through that screen in videos or pictures, a time-machine of these ages, at least.

I wait on life like a tender, trying to master the points of existing, but I doubt it ever turns in the right direction, but maybe it works. My mind doesn't seem to cloud over as it did before in new situations, intent on creating my personality to be intangible and silent.  It's not like that so far but maybe it's because the people are different, and I know them better. But I seem to feel pretty laid back, and my mindset is more present than I thought it would be, so last night's feeling didn't quite leave and, I feel like I could get my thoughts in order better. And nothing really momentous happened, expect for me experiencing a moment as I would if I was high, but well, I wasn't, and I haven't ever tried it, but the experience felt the same. Metaphorically, like I could press at a point in the universe and have the dimensions fold over me, quantum physics at it's best and most sci-fi, I suppose. Be stuck inside your head, watching stuff from a distance, but have the ability to go and change and direct the surroundings of the TV and it's characters. I see angles better, sharper, lined and direct with mayhemed geometry, bright and sharp as a laundry store's lights (to use the place I was in, and the way the lights are so very white, and how the room was flooded with it, while outside it was dark and the boardwalk's lamplights soft and drowsy, like lanterns, hazy around and the aura one of a waking dream.) The contrast was absolutely delightful, and sunshine_mort got the brink of my late-night ramblings, but really this circular life, these behavioral patterns, and the side to side parallels of our parents bonding and the whole question of will that be my future?

It terrifies me a bit. I, I would like to be boundless, an adventure in myself, like tealighttrees wrote in this entry and it was just, very alluring, and one of my friends of whom I showed it too did say, but it is all of us and I suppose our lives themselves are an adventure, but it feels a lot more constricted and latched in, and there is always things to worry and need care for. I suppose this is why I write, roleplay. I need some characters to live the parts of my life that I simply cannot, and live through them and my writing of them. Or even read, each book is a world to me, one to visit, and always have the ability to visit again and again.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Just. How do I help make it stop?
I don't know what to do. And I can't say anything that's not vague because. Fuck.

I can't even not be angry. But I'm not stupid. There's just. No way to help. I want to keep saying the word fuck until something changes but I really can't. Because, fuck, it's useless, and I'm really, really addicted to swearing. But fuck I feel so useless in the situation.

I have a secret journal on a different site, and I sound more poetic there, but I usually only put stuff that I just can't say around, in full view.

But this is only a week old, and not secret at all.

-
Somewhere on rainbow-kite wings and stretched out designs with sequins and buttons and just sparkles and glitter and a really heavy hand of poker cards, and everything would be perfect if everyone got drunk and no one remembered anything and it’d feel like something cut off into something forgotten but painfully alive – the headache thrumming beneath your eyes.

Maybe just a way to swallow it up, everyone’s experiences and smiles and pains and keep them all, juggling them against your gut with expressions flitting past your face – as open as a mime’s, and just as quick to change and turn and hide; those mimes, silence be ridiculous, but, if speaking is too much of a pain, and ridiculous comes with the costume and the face paint and the smiles; similar simpler things, hide underneath your bed sheets

Something to drink wine in, crystal perfect clear cut diamonds, eyes large and reflecting, seeing yourself ;

It’s more a drag of the cigarette, the smoke hazed air of a black and white movie, set upon the apocalyptic scenery – that made him want a camera, film, a cast, a baton to use as a director’s stick, a chorus to start up, an orchestra to create and build up with nothing but imagination and ideas, something to make real ; everyone craved to be everything.

I think bandom entrances me because those groups, all of them, interconnected and always together and that one story of summer haunts, days that repeat themselves always the last day, always the last moment ; I love what they do there, I love I love I love the connection and knowing everyone you love and no rules and insanity and anything, anything, anything at all, bonfires, parties, being able to take drugs and booze and wake up with no bad results, just, just, that freedom that really means your suck, but, do you even age? Oh, what a dream to be captured in, over and over and over again, it’s terrifying.
-

That story is quite amazing actually. (Summer Haunts By littlerhymes) I have a secret lust and want for immortality. Like the man in the movie The_Fountain or like what Jack Sparrow wants and what Peter Pan has. Neverland sounds amazing.

I should post one of my journal entries and claim it as a story. But I've just admitted it, so it would be obvious.

Maybe I want it to be.

I really don't know what to say about today.  I want to kinda worry about whycan'tItalkwitheveryoneIwanttoo. Because really, those problems are pissing me off, and fuck , I thought they were gone. Reasons for other reasons, they're both unhelpful but not as foolish as they should be. But I was in a place I didn't even know existed, and I find that awesome for the self-explanatory.

Public journals, you make me speak in code.

So I've seen something real, read something real, and if life lasted longer than moments, then what a lovely time. Moments the intermission to remind us that yes, <i>life</i> is really better than you remembered, to keep us in that zoned utopia- but no, I wouldn't like to live in a utopia. Define perfection. Define reality. Define insanity or sanity or how people name stereotypes.

Define me.
But you can't, can you? I don't want to know myself perfectly. I want to be able to surprise myself too. But I'm a person of contradictions, so never take me or my words as concrete. Sometimes I want both or nothing at all. Sometimes I don't know.

I don't want to know everything but I remember times when I couldn't imagine not wanting all those lines in books, in life, in history, before it, ingrained into my mind and wide open, lists to grab in the wind, information circulating, pocketed, opened, always there. But I don't know. I can write ideas of the results. We can all write universes.

I want to help, I do. It all looks plausible in my mind, but reality has always been so much harsher.