Like Myspace and Top 8s and 'Falling' for Boys

Earthy, erring on the side of punk rock. Do you call that a hipster? If you say so... All my college friends thought so, in little bumble fuck Pennsylvania. Is that what I wanted? Am I who I wanted to be, nay, want to be? 

"We were meant to live for so much more; have we lost ourselves?"

It's playing through the shop right now, and I remember the album on repeat in middle school. Oh, the sad days, when I tried to scratch my wrists with plastic knives because I was so, so invariably sad and the world was horrible and everyone, EVERYONE, was doing it. I couldn't cut through the skin, blood freaks me out. I'm not upset about this failure, for today, none of my scars were intentional.

Pick up maybe 6 years later. November 30, 2011, I write: 

"When it does that

I look up, sparkles in vision

Like a film rolling before my eyes

The clouds shield cornea from crisp

And perfection in a Devine moment 

Reveals a Glorious peace of mind that I continually forget exists." 

Ooooh Cass, you're so fucking deep. How articulate, what imagry. So much passion! So spiritual. If you say so...

I had just lost something very important to me then, stolen with my iPod that waltzed right off its speaker port while my roommate was gone and I'd lost my key in some stupid boy's car. He said he looked, but didn't, and I had to leave my front door open for a weekend until he decided to check the floor of the passenger's side. It was my fault, the iPod, and the real loss. I gave-in too easy. If you say so...

I used to be so good with creating metaphors. Now it's funny how it just appears, the iPod stolen with everything I had to give, gave because I had it, not because I was forced, but because I was able to give and knew no better. The music: gone, the Switchfoot album in MP3 form lost forever, but floating through the office windows from the shop this morning, as if I hear it not in actuality, but from a distant memory, on a CD walkman through headphones encased with light black foam ear protectors.

The defiance, the piercings and tattoos, not for looks: for feel, for pain and healing, for knowing these things take time. So call me a hipster, or emo, like middle school, or what-fucking-have you. If you say so, it is so, because what am I without you, but just a bunch of letters arranged to form a name I was given 23 years ago?