What Now?

I've been wondering all day what I should write about, what I should say, what I should reflect on in this post today.  Nothing comes to mind.  It's all the same.  The same nonsense, the same concerns, the same desires.  And I mean really, what am I supposed to write about when lately, everything I do, say, write, think comes back to the exact same thing?  I don't particularly want to write about it anymore.  I've done enough of that.  More than enough, really.

But that's where my thoughts are.  I don't even know what they are anymore, but I do know where they are.  I'm not sure if that's good or bad.  In the past couple of days though, that's been reflected everywhere.  Those who know me particularly closely understand that OneNote is a breeding-ground for my ideas, for the random phrases that float in the back of my mind.  It's how I sort through the messes in my head, and occasionally how I get the ideas for blogs or the pieces I write that I will never, for one reason or another, post here.

Lately, it's all been the same.  The content hasn't remained constant, nor has the style...but the backbone of all of that writing remains identical.  I can't think about anything else.  This is the problem with obsession.  It becomes particularly prevalent when someone with all of the insecurities and issues that I am home to becomes obsessed with something so potentially temporary, transient, immeasurably inconstant, and at this particular moment unattainable.

What am I supposed to say then?  How am I supposed to dredge something else up from the recesses of my mind to formulate a series of coherent thoughts, put them into words, then link those into sentences and in turn paragraphs to make them a comprehensible blog post?  I don't know that it's possible for me right now.  I don't honestly know if I'm even capable of really thinking about anything recently, but between the headache, the anticipation, and the dread, that's not entirely unexpected.

I realized something yesterday, though...when I'm upset, I tend to be quiet.  I want to avoid talking about it or ranting or causing outbursts.  So I just curl up within myself, provide minimum responses to maintain some form of communication and a facade of normalcy, and allow those around me to move on.  I may have also realized what threw me off so badly yesterday.  I have a feeling I knew from the very beginning, but I'm not sure why I didn't mention it, or perhaps why I didn't really allow it to register fully. 

That sentence chilled me to the bone.  It froze my breath.  It made my heart stop beating for a second (I doubt literally, but the sensation was equivalent).  Certainly, I understood.  But that didn't change my initial reaction to those words.  Maybe that made me realize just how afraid I was of that, just how confused I would be in such an event.  Perhaps it just caused the reality and gravity of it all to really sink in as it hadn't before.  I don't know.  That threw me off though, that's what started it and everything else piled on top until I ended up where I was yesterday, crying and slamming my computer shut because I couldn't look at it anymore.

So now the words are flowing.  It seems effortless, smooth.  I think this may have been the case for the past few days actually, with progressively longer posts and paragraphs.  I've been putting them up faster.  For some reason, I've been able to just start writing and go on and on and on until it felt as though it hit some reasonable (or perhaps not so) end.  Maybe it's because I wanted to change something.  Maybe this is how I'm changing it, by taking several minutes a day to literally just let my thoughts flow out, uninterrupted. 

Certainly these are far from my deepest emotions or sincerest of desires, but this lets my brain go unfiltered.  Directed, yes, but not filtered.  This has been free, almost like a stream of consciousness.  I haven't paused even once to try and establish a method for proper expression of a given sentiment or anything else.  I just sat down and started typing.  And once I began, I didn't stop, I haven't stopped, not yet, although I probably will soon.  After this morning though, when something really hit me badly, I think I feel better.  Maybe it was the reading, maybe the mindless wandering around a store.  But I feel more like myself, more able to communicate again.  I think that's good...

Bury Me

Pretty much the entire time I've been home for the past several days, I've found myself with my head buried in a book.  And whyever not?  It's enjoyable.  It also lets me get away.  I'm trying.  I'm honestly trying to be more enthusiastic, more happy, to look forward to things more.  To an extent, it's working rather well.  I'm in a pretty optimistic mood right now, I've got things I'm looking forward to, and at this moment in time, I'm not dreading anything. 

So what the hell is wrong with me?  Why am I still uneasy and uncertain and scared to death of just about anything?  In a way this goes back to what I was saying yesterday, with regards to whether there are some things better not known.  For years, I've lived in a constant state of dread and panic.  I'd gotten pretty good at not showing it.  Now that I'm working on this whole thing with being more open and honest and all that, how much can I really go on about how afraid I am?

Fine.  I've admitted it.  Do I stop there?  Or do I keep explaining it every time it comes up again?  Because this is one of those things that bothers me almost constantly.  There is a perpetual foreboding of failure and misery and everything else that can go wrong.  Am I supposed to keep repeating that to whoever will listen because I'm trying to be honest?  Or is it better if I don't let anybody know and just work to deal with it?  That's the real conflict here.  Only a part of it is a concern over how I will or will not be treated as a result of the admission.  A large portion of it is also wondering if having to talk about it means that I can't do it myself.

I've always been independent and introverted, the two combined leading me to a rather strong sense of self and the need to work through anything and everything without getting help.  Trust issues developed by a particular previous relationship do nothing to alleviate this feeling, and in fact increase the need to do it all by myself, without so much as admitting to the problem.

Then again, isn't that the approach that got me into depression?  But it's also what's kept me alive through the past five years.  So I don't know.  The fact remains though, that everything is not rock-solid.  I'm still emotionally unstable, mentally confused, and generally afraid.  I'm also a firm believer that there are times when it is necessary to put on a mask of being alright for the sake of somebody else in order to help them deal with their concerns.

Having said something about being alright (my apologies for how much this is inevitably jumping around), I might as well continue that thread.  I am alright now.  Really.  If only for the moment, I am.  And again, I'm afraid that in a moment I won't be.  So what do I say?  Do I try to explain it or do I keep it to myself?  I know that whether I do or don't say it isn't going to affect what I do; the end result is that I will endeavor to work through the fear and accomplish whatever it is I'm after.  Perhaps that makes saying it or not futile and insignificant as a decision.  But it doesn't seem that way to me. 

My head has been buried in books because I've been trying to avoid thinking about this.  I've been hoping that maybe fictional lives will make more sense to me than my own right now (and believe me, they rather tend to).  I'm not completely calm about where I stand most of the time, and I'm constantly afraid that my fear of messing up will cause me to do just that.  So really, what happens next?  I'm trying to get over this insecurity nonsense, but I really don't think there's enough patience in this entire world to put up with the mess I'm trying to sort, and not because it's that complicated, but just because if I start talking about it, I won't shut up.

Everything feels a little bit unreal right now.  It seems far removed and irrelevant, and I'm sitting here almost laughing at how stupid this all sounds.  When I'm smiling at my own mistakes, I'm happy, I'm amused, I'm entertained.  Why is it so hard to do that the rest of the time?  I've asked before, and now I'm asking again: what am I so afraid of?

Courage

Some quote or other by one respected man or another (no, I'm not particularly concerned with who right now) says that courage isn't not being afraid, it's being afraid and doing it anyway. Yes, it is another one of those cheesy motivational quotes that people like to put on posters and use as little reminders. But they don't usually change much of anything, really...even when we promise ourselves that we'll go by it, we usually don't, whether it's because we're afraid or forgetful or don't want to mess up something good (or is that the same as being afraid? I don't know).

Alright then, fine. What is it that I'm so afraid of? Right now, I'm thinking of this particularly with respect to my writing. As I was walking down the corridor when I got to work this morning, I don't know how my mind got there, but I figured out that if I knew I was dying (and I don't mean standard passage of time, I mean terminal disease or suicide or something of that sort, and just to clarify, NO, I am not planning on any of those in the near future, thanks for asking), I'd leave a note to people I was close to with all of my passwords so that they could read all of the password-protected writing that litters the folders of my computer.

What's the question then, why does fear come into it at all? I guess the question is really this: if I'm going to leave my writing for people to read after my death, why do I not want them reading it while I'm alive? Hence, what am I afraid of? Am I afraid that it will change how people see me? Am I afraid that it will make it that much easier to hurt me (as if it's not easy enough already)? Am I afraid that it will be used against me? Sure, maybe even all of those. But why do I care? I tend to be the one professing that it doesn't matter how people see me. So why am I so afraid of people seeing the truth?

Total disclosure is...difficult, and complicated, and confusing. It's not necessarily the best thing, either. For one thing, I've always been of the sort who enjoy their privacy. That means having things to myself. And just myself. Additionally, it's a question of how things are going to affect the people who read them? There are many people who want to know as much as they can, about themselves, others, the world, anything...and I'll admit that I'm one of them. But I often wonder if it isn't better for certain things to just be kept private. For example, certain bitter judgments that make us unhappy but don't bother us enough to cause trouble for us or to treat those around us harshly. Is it significant if someone knows about them? Should they be shared?

And that's one of those reasons that I'm so hesitant about sharing my writing right now. Most of it isn't negative toward anybody, most of it doesn't reveal any particularly unexpected aspects of myself (or so I think, at least). But it's still something that I like to have that is personal, that is to be kept to myself. Certain things I share that I didn't write for anybody but myself, that I wrote knowing that they would not be read, and that happens on occasion, but I still have plenty of hidden truths that are kept private despite all of the sharing going on. In a way, my blog is much more revealing than I initially intended it to be. Or maybe it isn't. Maybe that was the whole purpose of this: to get more of my writing out, to have people actually reading my thoughts and the things that I'm not willing to just hand them.

There are several pieces of writing that I know certain people deserve to read, for one reason or another. But I'm still hesitant. And that just brings me back to the question of what am I afraid of? Am I afraid of judgment being passed on me by people whose opinions I really care about? Or is it that I am afraid of not knowing what those judgments are, not getting reactions to what I wrote when those must certainly exist? Most likely, my hesitance to share my writing is due in large part to both of these and possibly other concerns.

That said, there is a reason this post is titled Courage and not Privacy or Afraid or something along those lines. The fact remains, as I have mentioned, that there are pieces of writing that I have done that others have a right to read. I may not be very comfortable with this decision, but from a rational standpoint, I know that it is a good thing for me to share the writing with those people. With that in mind though, I want reactions...any and all reactions. The most private writing I've done is inevitably that which reveals my worst flaws, strangest habits of mind, biggest hang-up, concerns, fears. I want to hear all reactions so that I'm not afraid of what silent judgment may be passed over my head at that moment, I'd rather it out in the open where I can come to terms with it.

Anticipation

Well, I guess I found something to write about again...That's in large part because it just really hit me how soon this whole summer thing is going to be over.

3 weeks
21 days
504 hours
30240 minutes

Give or take a bit, but that's it. And I'm nervous and excited and anxious and afraid and so many other things all at once. Imagine what I'm going to be like the morning of...oh god, let's not.

I don't know what I think about that yet. On the one hand, I'm sick of this, sick of not seeing the people I want to, sick of dealing with people I don't want to see, sick of having nothing to do but sit and wait for the time to pass. But on the other hand, I have no idea what's going to happen after it all returns to normalcy...I've forgotten (or so it seems) how to live with people, how to deal with them, what to do with myself, and how to handle stress.

It's an entire three weeks still. But I can't stop thinking about it, fretting over it, worrying about what's going to happen. I'm completely tense, on edge, and not sure what to do with myself right now, all as a result of this. I'm sitting at work right now. I should be able to concentrate. But I can't. I really hope I don't find myself in this state for the next three weeks, because that would be extremely inconvenient.

I just want to go back. I want to get the transition over with and go back to my life. Unfortunately, I have to wait another three weeks to be able to do that. Three weeks of stress and anxiety and dissatisfaction. How am I supposed to calm down right now so that I can at least resume functioning normally? It's not working...

Fools

Sometimes you just stop and realize that you completely forgot what it was all about. Because the thing is, nobody cares about your hot girlfriend or your new sports car or the shiny $500 gadget in your pocket that's not only a phone and an MP3 player but also has the internet. You already knew that nobody else really gives a damn. But that didn't stop you from acquiring every over-advertised, over-priced, over-hyped status symbol in the book.

Moments like these, it really hits you that none of it matters. People always say that money can't buy you happiness. It's one of the things that parents always try to teach their children when they're young and asking for toys, then again when they're teenagers begging for money or the latest clothes. And despite all of the emphasis on this, here we are again...watching the children who were raised this way working only so that they can get the next status symbol and convince everyone else that they're happy with their lives.

We're all such damn fools. We all know this, we see it every day, and sometimes we even go so far as to mock it. Better yet, we live it. Every single one of us is a hypocrite for having commented on their disinterest in status symbols and demonstrations of wealth, yet all of us have also sought those same things in our lives. We've all wanted money, cool gadgets, people who seem (and even some that are) close to us.

I don't know what my point here is. It's no big secret that the human race is full of hypocrites and idiots, if not comprised of them entirely. I just sat down and figured that I should start writing. So I did, and this is what came out. I still don't really have much of anything good to write about that anybody would want to read...maybe later today or tomorrow. I'm just really tired right now, and have absolutely no idea what's going on in my mind. Sorry.

Burnt Out

So it's the end of the day. I've got maybe another hour and a half before I go to sleep, and I still haven't blogged. I've spent most of the day trying to think of something worth writing about. I'm clean out. I can't come up with anything. I think yesterday may have very well worn me out, what with three posts in one day and all.

I'd say that makes up for today, but it doesn't. That's not how I write. That's not the system I keep myself to. So here I am again, trying to come up with something worthwhile to say, and coming up blank. I mean, in all technicality, the possibilities of what I could write about are pretty much endless, infinite, unbounded. But I can't find anything interesting to really develop, to spend significant thought on.

Part of that is definitely the fact that I'm still tired, and thinking hurts a bit at this point, and I'm almost tempted to just go curl up in bed as soon as I finish this post. Which is becoming more and more tempting the more I think about it. But me being me, I doubt I will. I'll sit around and play solitaire or reflect on the work that I should have done, or maybe I'll grab a book and sit in bed reading.

Oh god, that is a terrible idea considering that I really need sleep. The funny thing is, I think that's exactly what I'm going to do right now. Well then. I'm good at coming up with bad ideas, aren't I? Oh well, hopefully I'll have something good to write about tomorrow.

Memories

I barely convinced them to let me go. The weather was supposed to be bad, and they were worried, and didn't want me to have an accident. And I begged, and I pleaded, and I looked up weather maps and spent hours asking them again and again and again. So they let me go. They let me leave. The weather was nice. There was no rain, no thunder, nothing dangerous. The construction was confusing at points, but I didn't care.

Because through it all, I was going to see you. Three hours of driving was nothing to me. Three hours of beautifully empty stretches of road and loud, beautiful music was good. More than that though, it was the thought that I would see you. I barely slept that night. And I was coming off a week with little enough sleep as it was. I could feel my eyes slipping shut every once in a while, and sometimes I worried that they wouldn't open. But they always did.

So I got there early, and I wound up waking you up. I sat on a bench in a park in a strange town that had no attachments for me and I waited for you. We talked and it was nice, and I felt the hours slip away, and then you had to go, somewhere to be, but you'd be back, you said, by three o'clock. I went out for a lunch, walked despite the heat, I looked at the people I passed as my surroundings became once more familiar, and I wondered how many times you might have walked on the sidewalks that my shoes were hitting now.

I came back and I ate in my car. It was hot. Hotter without the air conditioner, but I didn't turn it on because I didn't want to waste gas. When I finished eating, it was 1:30. So I sat around. And then it was 2, then 2:30, then 3. I sat in the front seat, the back seat, the picnic table we had been on together mere hours ago, and back behind the wheel with the windows rolled down, waiting.

Then it was 3:30, and I had been wondering where you were, and then you called. I was tired. I wanted to sleep. I didn't want to drive to the library, I didn't care to be anywhere else. So you put up with me, you walked out and sat in the car next to me, and you reached over and you kissed me, despite the fact that it was uncomfortable and it was hot and I had been sweating. We moved back out to the picnic table, and there was a breeze. But it was already 4:30, and I would have to leave soon.

Walking back to my car, holding your hand lightly, and realizing that I was leaving it all behind. The day was like a dream, like something that had never happened. And even as we stood there, after I'd unlocked the car, and we held each other, and we kissed for the last time in god knows how long...it wasn't real.

Before I knew it, I was driving back. Music covering the sounds of the car and the road and the whole world around me. For three hours, I had nothing else to think about. I had just been with you. It was not special. It was not incredible. But it had meant that I could be with you, if only for a few hours, if only one day out of months, if at the expense of six hours in a car. And I would do it all again in an instant.

When I left that day, I didn't know what would happen. I didn't know if things would be the same. If you had asked, I couldn't have explained what had compelled me to drive all the way there for the sake of several hours and a couple of kisses that day. And I drove back in melancholy, happy because I had seen you, exhausted from the past week, and bitter because I didn't know...

Now I sit here writing this, some time later, when I should be working, when I shouldn't be thinking about you. And you're gone, and I probably won't talk to you for another week. Good god, it's one week, I'll live. But I can't stop thinking, and I can't stop writing, and I don't know if I like how this is all coming out in words.

Because this is the sort of thing I feel I should be writing after it's all over. When it all falls apart. When I'm sitting here trying to explain how much I should hate you but don't, and the flaws in all of those moments and the tears that I shed on so many nights. But it's not over. Or at least I don't think it is. And I don't know why I keep remembering that, or how your fingers felt on my arm or your head leaning against mine or the way your eyes looked in that light when you said you could see the trees and the sky reflected in mine.

It'll be a week before you read this, if you ever do. And you and I both know that a week can change everything. Rational or not, I'm worried that it will. I'm worried that I will forget those moments and those hugs. So now I'm lost in my mind, and I'm drowning myself in memories. And I remember this and I remember something else and I remember so many things that I never want to forget.

I don't know what I'm saying, or why I'm even writing anymore. I don't know what the point of this is or ever was, or what anybody will think when they read it. And I wonder if this is terrible writing or if maybe it's good if only because it came out when nothing else would. But it doesn't really matter, I know it doesn't. Maybe the only thing that does is that I miss you. And not just right now.

This

"This is nice" he said.
"Which this in particular?" I murmured back lazily.

Because after all, there are so many varieties of this in the world, and so many of that. And between all of this and all of that and this and this and this...we get lost sometimes. So maybe this is everything it's supposed to be. Or maybe this isn't really anything. I guess it's just what we make of it. So sometimes we build mountains out of it, and other times we use it to cross rivers, and occasionally we just let it float sweetly on the air, breathing it in and forgetting that anything else ever happened.

What was this in that particular moment? It's slipped my memory (or so I'll say, knowing that full well to be a lie). I can't say it much concerned me anyhow. Whatever this may have been, I enjoyed it while it lasted, letting it drift over my languid form and being only half aware of it in my dreamy state. He was right, this really was nice.

Each this seems to have a given feel to it, a certain taste, a certain emotion. And this really was just that--it was nice. Not the sarcastic nice that filled in blank spaces, nor the general nice that didn't mean anything. It was the fulfilling sort of nice. This was nice. It was sweet but not too sweet, warm but not too warm, just transient enough to make it that much more worth clinging to like the rich flavor of a last drop of wine.

It's not really worth asking questions about this all that much. Most of them can't be answered, and the ones that can be...don't really need to be. I couldn't really say that this was simple. But how could it be anything but? Alas. I figured this just came and went sometimes, like those balmy summer breezes of summers long ago resigned to memory, leaving me to ponder those forlorn shadows of bliss.

Offense

Disclaimer: while those who know me will readily attest to the fact that I swear quite often in real life, I have largely avoided swearing in this blog. That said, I haven't found too much of a need to use foul language as a form of expression here. But I have finally found a topic on which I am now particularly inclined to write, and which I have absolutely no idea how to express without a couple of well-placed swears. My apologies to those who take offense.


He pisses me off. And I know that I shouldn't take offense to it, and I know he probably didn't mean to cause any harm by it, but I am legitimately very upset about it. He tries hard to be a good person and do things well, and then he looks down on everyone around him. The one person I haven't seen him bad-mouth is her, and that's because as he himself said, he thinks she's "the best thing since sliced bread."

But really, this is absolutely ridiculous. He said so much shit to me about you, and apparently he said enough shit to you about me. And just for the record, I do have good days. He just hasn't bothered to get to know me enough to see them, and that's his problem. You know, I don't take much offense to the fact that he may dislike me, or even the fact that he says these things behind my back. The thing that really pisses me off is that he does it to everyone, and around all of the same people he says absolute shit about, he pretends to be kind and polite and respectful.

That's being more of an asshole than most people I've disliked are. If you're not happy with me, with the way I am, with what I'm doing with my life, or what relationships I am or am not getting into, then tell me that. Don't spew shit at me about whoever it is I may or may not be thinking about, and don't go and throw shit about what you dislike about me at them. If you think I suck at life, then tell me that, don't go talking about it to everyone else in the world and then pretend to respect me when you're in my company.

I don't think that's even the half of all of the ranting that I want to do about this guy, but I have a feeling the rest would get redundant rather quickly. This also isn't what I was hoping to post this morning, but I'm a bit more angry than I expected, so the post I started writing last night will have to wait a couple of hours at least. Anyway, my apologies for the rant, and probably also for getting so worked up about this, but I just wanted to get that out of my system. I'm done now, thanks.

Decision

So there. I made a decision. I picked something. And I'm not going back. For once, I did something. I'm generally bad at that. I don't do so well with decisions, choices, things I can't undo. Why did I do it then? Why did I not only come to a resolution, but also put it into words, spell it out, in my own audaciously silent way, declare it?

It feels unreal, like I never decided anything, like nothing has changed. That's not true though. That night was a wake-up call. I don't know why it affected me so much, or how it triggered any of this. Whatever it was though, it shook me awake. And I needed that. But that doesn't leave me any less confused.

So here I am...twitching. Because now that I've determined that something's going to change, I need to actually do it. Saying it is easy, doing it is the hard part. I guess that's what I get to do though, since I made the decision and all. Alright, I know none of this is well-written in the least. I'm in the wrong mood to write. I have too much thinking to do. Sincerest apologies for that. Hopefully I'll have something more worthwhile, or at the very least more coherent to say tomorrow.

Two Years

Two years ago now, I was about half a month away from moving away, leaving my old life behind, and starting afresh elsewhere. I'd struggled with depression for a couple of years by then. Some of my closest friends knew this. One of them, I was talking to shortly before leaving. And I told her one day, "When I get there, I'll give you the phone number of a psychologist. If I seem depressed, for my sake and yours, please call them."

I'm not sure why I said that. I'm not sure whether I really meant it or not. Either way, I didn't give her a number when I got there. But at that point, it didn't matter. I wasn't depressed. New things were happening, everything was novel, fresh, exciting. Living was good again. I was happy. Things were working out for once. So I told her this, and told her she didn't need to worry about it. We both thought I was fine at that point.

And at that point, maybe I was. But here I am, two years later. The depression sure as hell hasn't gotten better. If anything, it's gotten worse. I've learned to manage it, to deal with it. I've talked to a psychologist before, occasionally willingly, occasionally because there was concern for me floating around. I was never close to foolish action, I never posed a threat to myself or anyone else. I was still depressed, certainly, but I was managing it.

I have to wonder what changed in two years. Sure, a lot happened. And I mean a lot. The world around me changed. I changed. I stopped believing some things and started believing others. I began to live my life differently. For a while, I managed to keep the depression at bay. I was feeling fine, I was happy. I guess everything wears out after a while, though. So here I am. Apparently two years is sufficient time for this way of living to have worn out.

Either way, I'm depressed again. There's no denying that. I'm not entirely certain why, and I'm not entirely certain what to do with it. Or should I say about it? I don't know. I don't think it really matters. Maybe it changes everything. Or maybe it really changes nothing. I'm still living my life, I'm still doing things, learning things, accomplishing things. Hopefully that's good enough. And I guess it's just too damn bad if it's not.

Salvation

I meant every word of that. I still do. And right now, if I could, I would get up, leave work, and drive three hours, just to give you a hug. I would've done it last night, too. Unfortunately, life doesn't quite work that way...and it's not possible for me to do that. Which is a terrible shame. Because I would give just about anything to not have had to go to bed last night, or better yet, to have held you then instead of staring at my computer screen.

You said, "It's moments like this when I almost start to believe [her]...about us being good for each other." Well, it's moments like this that I remember why. Sometimes, nothing compares to a hug. The past few days have been the equivalent of this "sometimes," I'm fairly certain. I've been thinking about this for a while, and haven't gotten around to writing about it until now...and I still don't think that anything I say can possibly do justice to the idea, but it's on my mind, so I'll put it down in words.

My status on AIM has been "...because once you realize that you're not going to save someone, then all you can do is love them" for just about two months now. And I don't want to change it, because I still think it fits...somewhat, at least. I was thinking of you when I first read that quote. But then you asked, "do I need saving?" I couldn't say yes to that...but I didn't say no. I still liked the quote though, so I left it, figuring the question was forgotten.

And then one day you said, "Thank you...because I'm starting to realize that sometimes loving someone and saving them are the same thing." I didn't know what to say to that. At all. So I settled for a more-or-less appropriate response and said "perhaps." The thing is, I still don't know what to make of that. I'm not sure what I think of the statement in general, and I'm not sure what I think of it given the context you said it in.

To top it all off, my status on Skype is now, "This is the correlation of salvation and love, don't drop your arms, I'll guard your heart," quoting the song The Unwinding Cable Car by Anberlin. What is it lately with me and all of this about saving people and love? I don't know what to make of it. Is there a correlation? It would certainly appear to be the case. But then look at last night, look at the night before that, look a couple of months back...is that salvation? Can the torturous hell caused by love really be referred to as saving someone?

I'd really like to believe it does. I want to believe that this is good, that it's not just a path being paved straight into hell as it very well may be. But I'm afraid that it really is only one tempting mistake that's being made. Because this isn't right. And that applies to so many versions of that it's not even funny. I don't really know if any of it is working. If it was...would last night have been the way it was? Would it hurt this much?

I don't know. I'm sorry if I wrote too much. I'm also sorry if that made little to no sense. It sure as hell doesn't make sense to me, so I have no idea how I was hoping to explain it in words. I'm still trying to figure this out. I guess maybe sooner or later some of it will become clear...or maybe it won't. Either way, this is life, this is the decision I made. I don't regret any of it for even a moment.

Inevitable

I've been saying for months that this is the worst decision I could make. I said it before it was any more than the most remote possibility. I thought it when I was on the threshold of a mistake. I proclaimed it once more when I was walking through the door. I felt completely confident that this is the absolute worst choice.

And now I'm starting to wonder if it isn't the best. How can I say that about something that breaks me so thoroughly and completely? I don't know. I don't know why or how or when I made that decision. Maybe that's a lie. I told her once, "I couldn't. I knew I should have stopped it, but I absolutely could not. There was no way." Of course she didn't get it. There's a lot she doesn't get about me. But it shut her up. She couldn't argue with it.

I don't know that I could have possibly made the decision any other way. Every day, people give you all this nonsense about strength and how only you control your life, and how only you put yourself in the situation and direct your life. That's not really true. Sometimes things happen that we can't control...moments come up that we are incapable of changing, and we realize something that maybe we didn't want to admit.

I realized it a while ago. But that night it wasn't a hypothetical, there was no question of shouldn't or should. I couldn't do anything else. I guess it had all really been decided for months then...but I hadn't really known it for a fact until then. It really hit me then. And I still don't know if was good or bad. All I know is that something in me is set in stone, and I can't change it, and honestly, bad as it may be sometimes, I don't think I'd change it for anything.

Good Enough

And I stood there. With the shower-head pressed to my chest. The water no longer warm. And I stood there, with my hair still dry, pressed against the wall, feeling the icy tile greedily consuming the warmth of my back, cold water pouring down my limbs, mirroring the still-glistening trails that tears had traced down my face.

And they tell me that they would kill to have this. No, no they wouldn't. You haven't been me until you've stood in that shower run cold, groveling for an answer to questions unknown posed in words unspoken about feelings incomprehensible. You've never really known what it is to be me until you've all but prayed for one reason good enough. Knowing full well it doesn't exist.

It never seems to really strike people that everything I have, I am, I do...I got somehow. I paid a price for it. I still do. Because this...this...this isn't pretty. It's not glamorous or stunning or dramatic. It's pathetic. And I know it. But this is what I get. This is what I am. Nothing more, nothing less.

Somehow I'm alright with that. I'm alright with it because it doesn't mean anything. Because it leaves me where I've been all my life, standing in that shower with the water run cold, waiting for one reason that's good enough. It doesn't even need to be good. It just needs to be good enough. Just enough that it outweighs the consequences of failure. Just enough that I have the excuse I need.

It wouldn't take much. Not anymore. And unfortunately, I know that. So I stand there, wishing that maybe if the water gets cold enough, maybe if I lose enough sensation, maybe if I just wait it out...

Tuesday

It's 7:52 am. It's a Tuesday morning. Every other Tuesday morning at 7:52 am, I would be out of here by now, on my way to the train station, getting ready for another day at work. And because I'm obviously writing this right now and it's not possible for me to have gotten to work yet, I'm clearly still at home. Still writing. I don't have much to say right now, certainly not anything that I should, under any circumstances, be writing for any reason, most definitely not on a blog.

So fine, here's what's on my mind. I'm scared. I don't like admitting to that. Especially not where people can read it. But I guess I'm just trying to avoid an explanation right now. I could barely move this morning...I've had stomachaches before, I've had nights of terrible sleep, I've dragged my ass to classes, work, and all other obligations under the vast majority of those circumstances. Yet here I am, sitting in front of my computer, clutching a pillow, instead of on my way to work.

It's been over a week since I've gotten a solid night of sleep. There hasn't been a single night when I haven't woken up at least three times, if not closer to seven. And there's definitely something wrong with that. I've also felt less than well in the gastrointestinal department for the past few days. But it hasn't been bad enough that I could get over it and drag myself to work. That's what worries me most.

I've never been the sort of person to use pain or other excuses to get out of things. I don't just call in sick on a whim. Which is why this is so frustrating. Ten minutes after I got up, I just realized that I was in too much pain to work today. This doesn't happen. This isn't supposed to happen. Something is obviously wrong, and I have absolutely no idea what.

I hate thinking about my health. It's one of those topics that I avoid as much as I can. And right now I can't avoid it, because now, this problem is getting in the way of my life. I feel generally, on the whole, unwell. I can't pinpoint exactly what hurts or how or anything. I just know that I'm in pain, and there's no really good reason for me to be, and I'm scared.

There's nothing I can say, no way to explain it...I'm just confused.

Rash Words

I never meant it. Even when I said it, as I opened my mouth to say it, I knew full well that I would ask to take those words back. They were foolish and irrational and had nothing to do with anything. They were a pitiful excuse for anger, a pathetic attack at a kind sentiment that I wasn't in the mood to accept.

All of those stupid words, the miserable explanations, my failed attempts at explaining it away through a fearful apology. The cold of the blade and the heat of the tears, blending together and mingling in an attempt to take it all back, to take away the hurt and make those words cease to exist. I wanted to forget. I wanted to go back and never say those words. But it was too late. I knew it was too late when I opened my mouth to say them.

I never meant them. I never wanted to cause pain. Or maybe that's exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to feel something, to tear through layers of myself and understand something, anything. And I understood pain. I always knew that. I knew no less then, that the best way to cause myself pain was to see it elsewhere, and to have to live with the fact that I had inflicted it, had brought it out.

I was right. I cried until 2 that night. I didn't care who heard me or what they though, I cried. What else was I to do when no apology could make up for the mess I caused and no amount of persuasion could convince me that it wasn't my fault? Because it was my fault. I did it. I held up the metaphorical gun, and pulled the trigger when I let those words slip off my tongue. I knew what I was doing. That made it worse.

But that had been my intent after all, had it not? I wasn't foolish. I knew it all along. It didn't make it any less painful. It wasn't intended to. So I held myself for those hours in the dark and I wondered why. I wondered why it always came back to pain, why there seemed to be nothing without agony. I didn't know then. I still don't know now. But I did know those words were a mistake, and I knew no apologies could vanquish them from my mind. I'm left to live with them now, those words and their consequences, pervading every second of my life.

Things I Miss

I've spent most of today trying to figure out just what I should write about, and while I've been doing a lot of writing lately, it's all been of the sort that I'm never going to post, the things that are written to never be read. I'm just not sure what to think anymore. I feel like everything is becoming so distant and I'm drifting eternally further away from reality and sanity. But I guess this post is as close to what I'm thinking right now as anything else, so I might as well write it that way.

I miss that place. I miss the freedoms it offered me and the way in which it let me just breathe. Because right now, I'm being suffocated and strangled, I can't go a day without wondering if I'm really getting more messed up or if it's only because my life is being repressed by those around me. 31 days. That's how long I have to wait to get back there. To get back to a place where nobody yells at me for being up until unruly hours of the morning, and nobody tries to give me hell for not being perfect, and nobody insists on trying to micromanage my life for me.

But I also miss the air. I miss the clouds, and the rain, and the snow, and the biting wind, and the soothing breeze. I miss lying on the hill in the late afternoon watching the sunset. I miss walking along the long road and feeling free from everything else. I miss waking up with an open window at the beginning of spring and breathing in the essence of the of the flowers blooming outside, seeing the light streaming in despite the blinds.

I miss staying up until ungodly hours of the morning. The time spent talking about anything and everything and sometimes even nothing at all. Those late nights, the irrational proclamations and emotional decisions that took place. I miss having arms to run to when I'm crying, and shoulders to support me when I'm falling apart. I long to once more see the people I left behind and be able to really talk to them, to see their smiles and hear their voices.

Perhaps most of all though, I miss what I know can happen there. The walks in the rain. The hugs that could have lasted hours. The lazy afternoons. The unbounded laughter. The carefully wiped tears. I miss the belief that everything is going to be alright and the knowledge that none of it matters. Really, none of that is because of where I was at the time, none of it is bound to that place, but all of it is eternally indebted to it in my mind because that's how I learned it. That's where I found a piece of myself I hadn't realized was missing, and that's where I'm waiting impatiently to return.

Permanence

It's almost 2 am. And I'm sitting here, wondering if it's really worth it to still be awake. I'm not talking to anyone. I'm not doing anything. I'm just sitting here, eyes glued to the screen. Part of me waiting, part of me reflecting, part of me slowly wilting away to fall into sleep again. But I'm still here. I'm still waiting even though I know full well the chances are slim. And in sitting here waiting, with my mind falling to bits before my eyes and my life swimming around me in pretty colors, some things are starting to make a bit more sense.

This isn't permanent. I know it's not. There is pretty much no way for it to be. It would likely take ridiculous sacrifice and end at a roadblock that could not be surpassed. Any effort put forth to extend this beyond a reasonable point would ultimately be wasted and end in pain and misery. So it's not going to last forever. It's not even really going to last for that long. And as much as I don't want to change how this makes me look at it all, in the end, it does change things. It doesn't change my thoughts or emotions, but it completely alters the context and forces me to reconsider what I had previously subconsciously assumed.

I really do wonder how it's going to unfold. And how I'm going to say goodbye. And how it's all going to fall apart. And how much I'm going to fight against the inevitable to try and stop it from falling apart. Because I've come to know myself. I've come to realize that when I want something that badly, I am going to fight for it and not let it slip away. Perhaps not even when I know that I just need to let it go. Some things really can't last forever. This is one of them.

I don't know that I like that idea. The romantic in me is outraged by my lack of faith. The cynic in me is mildly amused by how pathetic my thoughts are. But in the end, it's got to come to a halt; somewhere, somehow, sometime. I'm afraid that I'm not going to be able to let go of it when it comes to that point. I'll have to let it go eventually, the current of life will sweep me away and pull me onward, no matter how hard I try to grasp at what will by then be in the past.

Being able to see things coming to an end...is it a blessing or a curse? Recognizing the transience of all of life, existence, even of eternity itself, it is quite a perspective to reconcile. Human nature is given to hope, to maintain faith in continued happiness and whatnot. And yet the opposite is much more often true. All good things have to end.

That doesn't make them any less enjoyable. And it certainly shouldn't tint our appreciation of them. Yet it seems as though perhaps a bit too often, I let myself do just that--forget what I am enjoying or why, and fixate on how it will inevitably break. That there is my loss. So fine then, maybe it will end. Maybe it won't work out or go on forever or be ideal. But I'm sure as hell going to enjoy it just as much as I can until the point when it does reach this conclusion. And I'm not going to worry about that conclusion until it gets there. I've messed things up before by worrying about messing them up. I'm not about to repeat that mistake.

Acceptance

7:00 am

Scarlet digits at the foot of my bed come back to life, accompanied by a screeching raucous enough to raise the dead. Needless to say, I am now awake.

7:02 am

Reality hits. It's Friday (thank goodness). I have to work. For the past three nights, I have woken up literally every single hour. I still have a sore throat, which may well be premonition of a rather miserable disease that I'm not particularly keen on coming down with.

Yeah. That was the great start to my day today. Because what I really needed on top of a bitter week full of shattered nerves and not enough sleep was the realization that I don't feel well and my life is a bit of a mess at present. I can't say I'm particularly fond of this concept of reality. Especially not if it continues being this much of a bitch.

The thing is though, fast forward two and a half hours as I'm approaching my building in the city on foot (because as per tradition, I decided to walk the 3 miles this morning), and my attitude is completely different. I don't know what changed. I don't know why. I don't really care. It was one of those moments when reality just hits...much in the same way that it hit me this morning that I was miserable, it hit me again later and made me smile.

Life doesn't really make sense. It doesn't exactly work. We have no control over a lot of the things that happen around us. And what hit me in that three-mile walk that made my throat burn even more than it had been, was that I've been clinging too tightly. In professing to let go and allow myself to live, I had been clenching my fingers in a deathly grip about my anxiety, arguably the last aspect of my life that I could control at this point.

So as I walked today, I really did let it all fall away. I felt my control slipping off my shoulders as I moved forward with each step. I felt my nerves loosen and the tensions in my mind and body relax as I pressed forward through the hot city air. I felt the apprehension, the worry, the fear all collapsing around me as I walked. For once, I allowed myself to leave it all behind.

I took a deep breath and felt my heart thundering in my chest. I could see my pulse at my neck as I looked into the mirror above the sink, and I felt the perspiration beginning to cool on my temples as my body relaxed again. Maybe I am sleep-deprived. Maybe I am coming down with an unpleasant disease. Maybe I don't know what's going to happen. Maybe I don't always say the right thing. Maybe I sometimes lose myself.

It's all going to be alright.

Nothing is ever going to be perfect, or make complete sense, or work the way it "should." Life is still going to happen, and no amount of worrying I do is ever going to stop it. For now, I'm done worrying. I'm content to sit back and take care of the things I can while keeping a close eye on the things I can't. Whatever happens as a result of what I did in the past is going to happen. I have accepted that fact. I am fine with it.

I can breathe again.

Anger

That's it. I'm sick and tired of all of this. I'm tired of being exhausted, worn, broken, hurt, upset. So I'm not. I don't care. I'm not upset. I'm just angry. I'm angry at him for putting me in this situation, angry at her for never understanding that there are some things she can't get and needs to leave to me myself, angry at them for how badly they have affected me and how they have no idea how much it's hurt.

The problem is though, that when it comes down to it, I'm not angry at any of them. I'm exhausted, worn, broken, hurt, and upset. But I'm not angry at them. The only person I'm really angry at is myself. I'm angry at myself for caring so much, for letting it all affect me, for being paranoid, and unstable, and irrational. Am I angry at myself for being human? Perhaps. It doesn't matter why though, what matters (if anything) is that I'm only angry at myself because I can't deal with my own life.

Is that a just cause for anger? Probably not. That doesn't change the fact that here I am, regardless, angry at myself with no reasonable outlet save these words spilling out onto the screen before me. I find myself wondering if the only reason I'm angry isn't really that I'm not angry at all, that I'm incapable of being truly angry. I sometimes wish that my anger could escalate into rash actions and hurtful, stinging words. But it rarely ever does. And that bothers me...for one reason or another, it frustrates me that I can't really be angry at anybody, can't maintain the irrational state of purely enraged action for any significant period of time.

No matter how angry I may have been at someone for the moment, I find myself going back and apologizing. That makes me turn once more against myself and long to make a mess, a complete and irreparable mess. But at this point, it doesn't even really matter anymore. I've made enough messes, all of them too big to refuse acknowledgment of their existence, yet too small to not be able to fix.

Part of me is upset by this, dissatisfied with the fact that I can't seem to be truly shattered. Because the fact remains, that no matter how broken I get, no matter how many pieces I fall apart into, I still seem to maintain a certain rational control. Admittedly, most of the time that control is useful and pleasant and something I am thankful for. But sometimes, I just want to be angry, and irrational, and bitter, and just not give a damn what happens as a result. Sometimes, I'm just angry at myself for not being able to accomplish that.

On Blogs and Writing

I adore blogs. I read them almost obsessively. I don't "follow" any in the traditional sense of receiving notifications of whatever sort to alert me of new posts, but I check quite literally every couple of hours to see if anybody has posted anything new. I guess in a way, I do it because people fascinate me, and the blogs that they write serve as a further way for me to get to know them, to understand them, to make some sense of their lives in a different context.

The thing I enjoy most about other people's writing, however, is the window it provides into their world. It is the sort of crevice into their lives, their hopes, dreams, aspirations, passions, desires, that I find myself drawn to inexplicably. I feel like oftentimes, in reading someone's writing about themselves, I find myself looking through a key-hole, glancing into their private universe. It is the sort of experience where, if I was one to blush, I would be crimson as no other.

I do not feel ashamed or squeamish about reading the confessions of others. I do, however, find writing to be a very personal experience, and thus I hold the writing of others very highly in my mind, as something to be considered seriously and not interpreted lightly. Perhaps that is why, when asked for an opinion of one's writing, I am so hesitant to give one. True, I am not the best with words that express my thoughts and emotions. But on the whole, I do not desire to criticize or comment upon the writing done by anybody else. I feel as though I am no longer looking through that key-hole, but have instead been shoved into the room, and because it is not my room, not my life, not my writing, I feel uncomfortable being put on the spot in that situation.

No less than anybody else, and perhaps a bit more than some, I do notice things in what people write, how they write it, I often formulate guesses as to why it came out the way it did, even if it is an unintentional detail. However, these are my personal reflections...they are my own hypotheses, investigations, conclusions. I do not fear them being disproved so much as I do not wish to intrude to the point that would be required for them to be.

In a way, that largely reflects how I view people. I understand them as entities with aspects that they flaunt to the world proudly (occasionally even arrogantly) and aspects that they retain mostly to themselves. But somewhere in between those two extremes one finds what is put down into writing on a blog, a website, a note, or whatever else. And I find that I am never certain how to treat it--whether to mention it or avoid the subject entirely. Thus I have defaulted to the safer option, to keep it out of conversation unless it is brought up by the author of the piece itself.

Even if I am explicitly instructed to criticize, to judge, to react...I find myself confused and uncertain about the mannerisms to which I should prescribe. I understand quite well the desire for privacy, and I honor that desire, occasionally more than is beneficial for anyone. Regardless, that is what I think of an individual's writing...I find that it reveals occasionally even more than was meant to be revealed. As a result, I leave it alone and don't wander too close, leaving the semi-private thoughts of the author to remain their own, unmarked by my opinions...even if they want them to be.

Disenchantment

But at the time of life, tinged already with disenchantment, which Swann was approaching, when a man can content himself with being in love for the pleasure of loving without expecting too much in return, this linking of hearts, if it is no longer, as in early youth, the goal towards which love, of necessity, tends, still is bound to love by so strong an association of ideas that it may well become the cause of love if it presents itself first.

--Marcel Proust (Swann's Way, Volume I of In Search For Lost Time)

This quote has been making its way around my mind lately, in its various aspects and different angles from which it can be interpreted. It also remains, most likely, as the only reason for which I continue to read Proust. His works are difficult to get through--they are long, and the sentences and paragraphs are extensive and bursting with such vast description and detail that it may well be called disgusting by the most patient and detail-oriented of readers.

I first read Swann's Way about a year and a half ago, encouraged by a friend to look into Proust. Several days ago, I finished In The Shadow of Young Girls In Flower, the second novel of the series. I don't think I had expected myself to return to Proust, but it was that particular quote that drove me back. When I first read it, I wasn't sure what to make of it. I realized immediately that there was something significant in it for me, but I couldn't come to entirely understand what it meant. I still can't say that I do, in all honesty.

What has particularly shaped my views on life and love from that quote is especially the first portion. The part of the quote which explains that a man does not need to be loved in return, that he does not require reciprocity, but rather loves merely because he can, because it pleases him, because it is what he wants to do. I had understood it a bit previously, having known enough unrequited love to realize that there is a certain pleasure in it too. However, that experience had been tinged with bitterness and remorse, and the particularly satisfying aspect of merely loving without anything in return still baffled me somewhat.

I don't know that I really ever understood any of this until quite recently. And maybe I still don't understand it. But the thing I do realize now is that unrequited love isn't all misery for me. It carries its own bliss. I love being in love. I love caring for someone, being there, giving up my time, moving around my schedule, watching them fall for someone else...in every bit of it, beyond the slightly bitter aftertaste, there is so much contentment, so much joy in watching the satisfaction of someone I love.

I don't need requited love. I don't need reciprocity. I don't need the same emotions, commitment, dedication. I don't need to be loved. Certainly, I appreciate it, I enjoy it. But the fact remains, that I don't need it. I'm fine without it. I have loved without it and I will continue to love without it. And that's the beauty of it all. That's what Proust really made me realize. I may disagree with that man and his writing in a number of ways, but the way that one phrase managed to capture the emotions I had felt and not even understood...perhaps that's what makes me come back to his novels, no matter how much time may have elapsed.

The thing I found about love...is that I appreciate it for exactly what it is. That's how I see it, at least. Perhaps I'm wrong. I may be wrong in what I think, I may be wrong in how I love or who I love or why I love. But ultimately, it doesn't matter. The fact remains. I do love. And I don't need to be loved for that, I do not need to be rewarded. I do it for myself. In the end, I'm perfectly happy with that, and that's what matters, if anything does.

Drowning

Today is just another one of those days. Another one of those days when nothing is really going wrong, but it sure as hell isn't going right either. It's like I'm floating in this mess of emotions, sensations, and obscure words that can't get through. And yet again, I can't help but wonder if any of it matters. Right now, I hope to god it doesn't. Because if this matters, if this. here. now. changes anything...I've messed up my life too much as is, I don't need this senseless abandon (and yes, I do mean senseless and not reckless) to carry me further down some path headed hell knows where.

I'm out of things to say. There are no words to describe how I feel, no phrases to express what's going through my mind. I've said it all before. There's nothing left for me to say, to do, to think, to feel. It's an endless cycle, and I don't know what any of the stages are. I just know that it won't stop. Not understanding something makes it easy. It forgives the forgotten and negates the forsaken promises to repent. It suffuses blind faith, yet abridges the foundation thereof until it is nothing.

In this way, through the tempestuous yearnings for something real, something not futile, something worthwhile, I find myself drowning. I am going down within myself, falling through the chasms of agony, washing with pity and remorse the sores of the earth with my own blood, metaphorically speaking, of course. Where once there was a fire, there is left nothing but charred soul, scarred flesh, and battered existence.

But that's the price to be paid for passion in the end. One day it burns too brightly and then the sordid memories must be erased. They never really go away, just lie in wait beneath a layer of deception, waiting to reemerge and ravage the blemished soul once more. That's where I wake up, where I open my eyes, and where I find myself going down through the water, yet free from the impassioned grasp of fear or agony or the desire to fight.

Every word is like a dagger pointed straight at my soul. Good or bad, elated or distraught, they all go the same way. Regardless of the intention, with each syllable that registers in my brain, I breathe in a little bit more water, I descend further by just a few steps. In short, I die a bit. I unwrap my chilled fingers from salvation second by second, letting myself slip away. Finally, I find my lungs filled no longer with air, I find myself unable to breathe, to speak, to live.

Then the daggers don't hurt anymore. The pain of steel going through flesh and organ and soul becomes a blessed relief.

Significance

"Would it change anything, for you?"

"I don't know
as always, it depends on...well, everything"

I don't know what brought that back to mind. Or why I'm thinking of it now. Or maybe I do. Maybe I knew then, too. Maybe if I lied less and told more...

"Does this matter?"

Did it? Does it? I wonder sometimes if I'm too afraid to admit that it does...or if I'm simply too fearful of telling myself that it doesn't. The fact remains then, I guess, that I wanted it to. I still want it to.

"Please, just tell me what's wrong"

Sometimes. Why should I if it doesn't make a difference? I guess that's not the question I really wanted answered. I wanted to know if it mattered. I'm still not sure it does. If only because one night I caught myself in the middle of this:

"I really wish you would have just said,
'Are you alright?'
Because that night, I would have told you the truth."

But that was a different night. A different time. A different life, really. Had I meant what I said? I never answered the question. I was afraid to. I was more afraid not to. I still didn't. How could I?

"please, shut up"

Did that change anything? Did it make a difference? Did it matter? I'm still here. So maybe it does. But then why...

"you say that as though it matters"

Doesn't it? I couldn't let myself believe that. Really, I just didn't want to. I knew that. I wanted to be hurt. I was as good as asking for it. I sure as hell deserved it. If it even means anything to deserve something anymore.

"Thank you."

It's been said so many times. For so many reasons. Two words, ones that supposedly express sincerity and sentiment. What do they even mean anymore? They roll off the tongue with no regards for the effect they will have.

"This better be worth it."

There's no such inherent thing as worth though. One moment it means something, the next it's nothing at all. And I don't let myself forget. I cling to meaninglessness and absolution in an attempt to escape them both. But it has all been said too many times before, and here I go again, repeating it.

"I'm sorry."

Weekend of Bad Decisions

One would think that after all of the messes I've gotten myself into, I'd have learned to make decisions well, responsibly, reasonably...something of that sort. But I guess that's wrong. I guess I really haven't learned much of anything in the past several years. Maybe that's going to cost me something significant right now, in any number of ways, or maybe it's just going to pass by without causing too much of a disturbance. Either way though, it is what it is. I made the decisions I did, and I get to live with the consequences of them, the fallout, the problems they may cause.

So this weekend, I went camping. And it was fun. It was a lot of fun, in a number of different ways. I saw people I really missed, I got to spend time away from home, and I got to lounge around and just relax for a change. That was really, really nice. It's a break I needed, although it's far from how I envisioned this weekend would go...on a number of levels.

Unfortunately, I made a number of bad decisions in the process of that enjoyable trip. Some of those decisions are inevitably worse than others. For example, sleep-deprivation and mosquito bites, I can handle. On the other hand, I made certain decisions that have the potential to seriously mess something up, on a mental and emotional level, too. And those are the sorts of things I'm really worrying about right now. Being sleep-deprived really isn't helping, and I'm so confused, and have no idea what to make of any of it...

That's the hard part right now...wrapping my mind around what happened and what is going to happen in the future as a result. I understand that several of the decisions I made are far from intelligent or rational or anything desirable. But I also understand why I made them. And now, all that remains is for me to wait and see how to best work around whatever comes up as a result.

The strange part is that it still doesn't make sense to me. It seems so simple, and yet so complicated. The thing is, there are so many uncertainties and possibilities and unknown elements that I really just don't know. Which means that I can't plan anything out. I can look at hypothetical situation after hypothetical situation, assess them, analyze them, and play them out in every imaginable way...but that still doesn't tell me what is actually going to happen. And that leaves me confused and uncertain and afraid of what may go wrong.

But on the whole, I'm happy with how the weekend turned out. I'm satisfied with how it went and the fun I had. It's certainly not something that I could possibly forget anytime soon. Between the conversations and the moments and the confusion and the stars, from the sunlight to the water to the comfort to the random amusement, it was just great. I think that perhaps despite all of the bad decisions that were made, this weekend will have been worth it.

For the first time in a while, I'm happy again, if only temporarily and hesitantly so. In a way, this weekend reaffirmed my faith in myself. I'm still afraid of believing it, but I'm starting to accept it, to be able to work with it, to not just ignore it anymore. Maybe that's why I'm so calm right now. Maybe it's because this might all be worth it because of the fact that I'm coming back to myself, making sense of my life again, at least a little bit. I think I needed that.

I think that this weekend of bad decisions may regardless have been one of the best decisions I have made in a while. Or at least I certainly hope it was.

Technicalities

Alright, so this is going to be pretty much entirely a logistical post. And that is in part due to the fact that I literally do not have the time today to write a legitimate post about anything interesting, worthwhile, or relevant. That's what yesterday's post was for. Today is just dealing with a couple of details, particularly concerning tomorrow.

This weekend, I am going camping. That means that I will not have a computer or internet or anything remotely resembling it for the duration of the trip. While that's not stopping me from posting today (a.k.a. now) or on Sunday after I get back, it does however mean that I will not be able to post anything tomorrow.

Thus, that's going to be the first day since I started this blog (way back in November 2009) that I don't post. So I decided it's only fair that I give a bit of a warning. I'm not sure if I really much care about "making it up" so to speak by writing an extra post on Sunday or not. I rather doubt I will though. I'll be tired enough without needing to do more, I'm guessing.

I guess this is it until Sunday, then.

Disheartened

Watching the raindrops flow down the window, the glass separating me from that dreary grey sky, I can't help but wonder where I'd be if I wasn't here right now. I don't mean it in the physical sense of what if I wasn't in front of this particular window, I mean here in my life, at this crossroads of intellect and emotion, this intersection of fate.

Even as I look down at scars, and out at the bleak, promise-less future held by the sky, I can't help but smile. I know how I got here. I made the decisions that put me into the position I occupy today. That doesn't really explain much of anything, though. That doesn't tell me what changed or how I came to the conclusions I did.

When did we all become cutters and liars, cheaters and thieves?

I almost wish I had a way to answer that. But whether it's the bleak promise, or lack thereof, for the future, or the soothing monotony of rain, I don't necessarily want to know. I'm just fine here in my melancholy, waiting for everything to transpire around me. I guess that's part of how I got here, too. I sat back and watched the world turn...and the next thing I know, I look around and I'm here.

Maybe that's not such a bad way to live after all.

I'm really not that hurt in this moment. I'm more than a little bit disheartened, admittedly. I'm looking for excuses to forget. Or maybe just finding all the ones I need to not let it go. There's a certain beauty in sorrow, and it's one I don't think I want to miss. Maybe that's why I've always rather liked the rain. People say it washes away sorrows and makes everything fresh.

But rain doesn't really cleanse or clear up anything. It just brings back memories of times past and emotions we once thought were forgotten. It dampens everything, and in so doing, makes everything we feel that much more poignant. I like it that way. It's softly bittersweet. In a way, it's like a poisoned kiss. So calming, yet ending ultimately in demise.

In every error, there is a moral triumph of its own, a certain bliss.

Lashing Out

I'm sorry. I can't do anything right anymore. No matter what I try to do, I always manage to mess it all up and do it all wrong. Then I get to stand back, cursing myself, wanting nothing more than to undo what I just did, and watch it all continue to fall apart because of me, my failures, my flaws, my problems.

I don't know why I wanted to. I know even less of why the hell I didn't...But what I do know is that it gave me no reason to lash out, no excuse to throw common courtesy out the window and let my bitterness get the best of me. Yet of course, that's exactly what I did...again. And I can't keep doing this, because I'm going to destroy myself worse than anything or anyone else possibly could if I keep it up.

The thing is, it's not that I don't know why...I know perfectly well. I know why I'm bitter, depressed, why I give up, lash out. And I know that I've been fighting this for years and that I can't seem to shake it, no matter how hard I try. The powerlessness of it all makes it that much worse, considering how much pain it already causes...

Admittedly, I know I moved on and let it all go a while ago. I know I stopped letting it affect me...except that it was only half of the story. Because while the external portion of me can no longer be influenced by that as it once was, it's changed me...it's taken away my power and ability to make sense of anything, to do anything right. As much as I want to, I have absolutely no control over it; I can't make it better, I can't make it go away, and even fighting it hurts like hell.

I am depressed. I am broken. I don't know how to put the pieces back together. This is why I said that I need to figure out my own issues first, before I get involved in other people's. And of course we can see how well that one ended...because here I am, lashing out, breaking down, and doing just about everything wrong.

So I'm sorry. I'm sorry that I'm such a mess. I'm sorry that I can't get past this. I'm sorry that I can't do anything right. I'm sorry that in trying not to cause pain, I end up causing that much more. I'm sorry that I manage to mess up absolutely everything and anything. I'm sorry that I can't explain it all in a blog post. I'm sorry that it doesn't make sense. I'm sorry that I let it eat away at me to the point where I hit this stage. I'm sorry that I can't be better. I'm sorry that I can't fix anything. I'm sorry that all I can do is apologize. I'm sorry that it doesn't actually make up for anything. I'm sorry.

Moments

There are certain moments in my mind that I can't get out of it. Certain memories. Certain instances. Certain situations. All of them taking up mere seconds of my life. Yet the time that's passed between then and now, the months and the years that have gone by...it's as though they simply vanish.

Each time I close my eyes and just remember, it all rushes back. Every potent sensation. Every delicate tremor. Every bated breath. Every vehement glance. There's no escaping memories like that. Because when I look back, my heart-rate rises and my mind races, every part of me is brought back into the moment.

Sometimes I wish it was a tangible thing, something I could reach back into and feel again...if I could just reach my hand back through the stretches of time and grab hold of the emotions, the situations, everything and anything to feel that way again. But I know it doesn't work that way, and life would be so much the poorer if it did.

One of the great beauties of life is that it's not something we can get back. Once something is gone, it's gone forever. The feelings of it are left only to linger in memory, the thoughts behind it only to be savored as ghosts of the past. Even if I could take each one of those moments back and relive them, they wouldn't be the same.

There's a certain poignancy in each experience that can never be repeated again. It is like the unfolding of infinite layers of humanity. We can only experience once such things that push our capacity for feeling to a higher level. Once. And then it can never be felt again. Not in the way it made us feel the first time, not with the shattering capacity to cause either joy or pain.

That's what the memory is for. That's where we keep those precious moments that could only once push us beyond ourselves.

Flaws

We point out most harshly in others the very flaws we find within ourselves. I heard that for the first time more than five years ago. I was in the middle of a conflict with one of my closest friends, and like most battles with me, the weapons were select subtle remarks, the cold shoulder, and logical appeals to my other friends that she was wrong in everything.

Like most of my arguments at the time, my primary points against her involved her behavior toward me and others, from her disrespectful tendencies to her contemptuous, self-advocating statements. And then I heard that we dislike in others most strongly that which is a part of ourselves. It wasn't even brought up in the context of that conflict, but it distinctly altered my perception of the disagreement at hand.

Unlike most things at the time, that statement made me look once more at myself rather than at the world around me. It gave me cause for introspection and the chance to analyze my own flaws for a change. And what I found is that for the most part, it holds true. Certainly there are occasional exceptions, but what we criticize in others, in my observation, is almost always a reflection of something within ourselves, even if merely a past habit or trait.

As far as what happened with that friend, we spent a couple of years in a discontented state that couldn't really be qualified as a friendship, the conclusion of which was reached when I left to start my life elsewhere. Interestingly enough, we somehow rebuilt a connection since I left, and she is one of the few people I make sure to see whenever I come back to visit.

We've both changed since then though, gone in completely different directions with our lives. It makes me wonder, too, if our similarity at that point in time may not have been the precise reason we were so upset with each other. I guess we can speculate on it all we want, but there's no way for us to really know anymore.

Once

For the first time, I just went and deleted a post. It wasn't a lie, it wasn't that poorly written, it wasn't anything I have a problem with posting. It was just phrased in such a way that it appeared to be coming from a certain direction and conveying a meaning that wasn't the purpose for which it had been written.

So I deleted it. And I'm not going to re-post it. I'm still not sure why I did, but the sheer fact that I did gets to me in a way I'm not happy about. The fact that I actually deleted it, that now I'm sitting here typing something else, goes against what I want to be the case. It may very well undermine the realization I had yesterday, and I don't much appreciate things that affect me that much being disproved.

Instead, I'm leaving a short and terribly written post. I guess that's what happens when I still give a damn about something. And perhaps this isn't worth having deleted that, but I'm not changing it now. I don't plan on ever deleting a post again, much like I hadn't planned to delete that one when I wrote it. Plans change, apparently.

Hypocrisy

Hypocrisy is rampant. It abounds and festers in every single action. Like a wave, it crests and breaks with every breath. We are all hypocrites in one way or another. We all have guilty pleasures, secret obsessions, unforgivable desires. And we all speak against one thing or another that we do. Sometimes, it is even the things we believe most truly to make up ourselves that we fight against most passionately.

But how can I even explain to someone who doesn't understand? It's a part of my life, it doesn't define who I am but it most certainly affect it significantly. It's not one of those things that I can merely walk away from, at the same time that I try to push it farther in everyone else. There is no explaining it really. You either understand it or you don't, it's either a part of you or it's not.

And really, it's better if it isn't. There it is again, the hypocrisy. It's better not to know, not to understand, not to live it. Yet I still do, I live this as religiously as those who follow any god will pursue their faith. That will be my downfall. I don't walk common roads, I follow this dark serpent weaving through nightmares and catastrophes, and I refuse to step aside.

If I had wanted to, I could be free. I could have left long ago, left it all behind me, moved beyond the twisted vines and the tortured fates. But I didn't. I make that choice every morning when I wake up and every night when I lay my head down to rest. I know the needles upon which I dance, and I know them well. They don't stop me.

Even as I weave my tales and follow the chasms, I steer all others away. I walk here willingly, I choose the crevices I press myself through and the rocks that tear at my skin as I pass. And that is precisely why nobody should follow me or walk beside me. I put myself through hell for reasons that are my own. Some of them I don't understand yet, some of them are not made to be understood.

But one fact remains: I am not to be followed. I am a hypocrite. I live my life most poignantly as a hypocrite. And that will forever remain. It doesn't change what I do, and it doesn't change what I believe anyone else should or shouldn't do. Hypocrisy and all, watch me...these are the mistakes that should not be made.

Simple

I miss when things were simple. I miss when they all made sense. When emotions were just that and didn't require endless explanation and analysis. When people were just people, and there was no confusion, and somehow it all just worked. Because somehow, sometime, somewhere everything became complicated.

Suddenly, it's like I don't even know who I am anymore. It's as though somewhere in the past two years, everything changed, and I knew it...but it seems to have flipped again and suddenly make no more sense (probably rather like that sentence). Somewhere along the way, I got hurt. Sometime after stepping forward, I fell flat on my face. And somehow while I was picking myself up, I left a piece of myself down on the ground that I know I can never get back.

Maybe that piece was the simplicity. Or perhaps it was merely the key. Perhaps if I still had it, everything would make sense. But the fact remains...whatever it was I don't have it; however I look at it, nothing makes any sense. People don't make sense. Things don't make sense. Life doesn't make sense. And I don't even make sense to myself.

How did I get to the point of over-complicating everything this much? I don't even know why I do, and yet I know I'm not going to stop. In part because I am afraid, in part because I am curious, and in part because some dark part of me wants to find something that every other part of me is terrified of.

That's where the simplicity completely disappears. That dark part of my soul, those murderous thought processes, the cataclysmic emotions that accompany them. It swallows up everything and anything else in my life, and it completely consumes me, driving away any simplicity I may ever have known.

Strange

So I'll be honest. Physically, I feel absolutely terrible. I am curled up right now, in a ridiculous amount of pain, literally just waiting for it to pass...and it's a slow and miserable wait that's keeping me from getting important things done. But mentally, I'm actually in a good mood. Which is surprising. Pleasantly so, but still surprising.

That may be due to the fact that I may finally have some time to myself (hopefully, fingers crossed), or it may be because I just read something that is, I guess I could say, rather entertaining to me. I don't see it as particularly well-written, nor even overly coherent. But it still makes me smile. Why? Because it's so human.

It's so wonderfully flawed, so laughable in some ways and familiar in others. It's not stylized or scripted. In reading it, I can see that it wasn't really written to be read by an audience. And that, in my opinion, is one of the things that makes something worth reading. If it was written by a person only for themselves, it expresses something that no letter or essay or other audience-directed piece of work possibly could.

In a way, that brings me back to my own writing and this blog. Most of the time, I don't write to any specific audience, although I am aware (for the most part) of who does and doesn't read what I write. Sometimes I write specific pieces to or for specific people, although most of the time, it's just musings, thoughts...whatever happens to be in mind, basically.

But I guess that in writing this, I am aware that someone other than me will read these words, likely as not sooner rather than later. And admittedly, there are certain topics I just don't post about, certain thoughts that I absolutely refuse to mention. I have reasons for that, ranging from avoiding unnecessary insult and rash retaliation, to preserving some thoughts and feelings as private to myself and those I share them myself, out of choice, rather than because it was posted.

I still try to keep what I write genuine. I work to put down my emotions as they are, and simply avoid writing about them if I knew I would distort them in the attempt. This blog wasn't intended to put words down for every thought I have, nor was it meant to give glances into my life. I guess that really, I'm writing for myself, for one reason or another...and those who choose to read it may gain something, or so I hope, be it understanding of me or a new idea about life.

I feel better though. Writing helps me like that. It gives me a chance to think and to spill out my thoughts. Sometimes that outlet is just what I need. I guess that's probably why I haven't stopped posting yet.

Comparison

"There is neither happiness nor unhappiness in this world; there is only the comparison of one state with another. Only a man who has felt ultimate despair is capable of feeling ultimate bliss. It is necessary to have wished for death in order to know how good it is to live. The sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and Hope."
--Alexander Dumas

I wonder what I would have thought had I gone back through the things I have written down and hit upon that quote. As I was sitting there, depressed, broken, my limbs spilling over the arms and back of the chair and falling limply down, obeying only gravity...what thought would have entered my mind?

I know the ups and downs of life. I've been there, I've done that. I've ricocheted up and down at extraordinary rates and I've fallen apart and come back together without half a clue why. How's that for comparison? But how extreme are the extremes I've seen? Have I really been through hell or am I just exaggerating my experiences?

And in the end, the question has to be asked of whether the comparisons are even worth it, whether the highs make up for the lows, whether elation has the potential to override the consequences of depression. Is it worth it? Does it matter? I don't know. I don't have the answer to that. I'm still trying to find it for myself. Sometimes I believe it makes sense. Other times I realize that I haven't got a clue.

When I went to find a quote to write about this morning, this wasn't the one I thought of. I was looking for another one, and I know which. But I couldn't bring myself to write about it. I can't say anything with regards to it. I'm not hopeful enough to even believe it right now. Wait and Hope. That's how I get through life, hoping when I can, just waiting at other times.

Right now is one of those other times. It's one of those times when I'm too weak to hope, so I sit here and I wait. I wait for something to happen because it hurts too much to more. I'm waiting for something I can compare to this and appreciate. It'll come around sooner or later...or so I hope, at least.