This is the first time I've been alone in a very, very long time. It's been even longer if you don't count the times I've been alone but busy working. And it's very strange. All I can think of are the Wednesdays I'd spend alone in my room all day. Those were years ago, yes, but they reveal a little something about me that I don't think would have occurred to me otherwise. It was like a challenge. A matter of principle. If you leave this room, you fail, you let yourself down.
The entire time, I knew it was absolutely meaningless, but my stubbornness wouldn't let me leave. It was the only kind of ultimatum I ever made. To myself. Because more important than keeping my word to anyone else or anyone else keeping their word for me, I had to keep any promise I made myself. I lied and cheated often in my life, but always prided myself on being honest with me.
Even though I never really was.
But I don't think any of us ever can be. Looking back on my childhood, I never was normal. I'll divulge an embarrassing secret to illustrate the point: when I was twelve, I kept a diary in a black notebook where I'd etched into the cover "Suicidal 12" even though I definitely wasn't suicidal and wasn't even terribly depressed, if I was at all. What can I say--it seemed like a good idea at the time?
I liked to pretend I was all sorts of things I wasn't. Sophisticated, especially. I had an obsession with being more mature than anyone around me. In a way, I still struggle with this. I'll never admit it in person, but I like to think I'm better than people. I desperately want to believe that I'm brilliant because my life loses all significance if I haven't accomplished at least something meaningful.
As I sit here alone, listening to music at an oddly low volume (perhaps to better feel my own solitude?), I'm trying to reflect on my life. Trying, I say, because it's terribly hard to be an objective observer in something as subjective as one's own life. I wish I had more childhood secrets to share, because those always seem to bring a smile to my face because of their ridiculousness. I have plenty of stories from adolescence, but some of those are still too close to blog about. I'm sure they'll come out eventually, but not yet.
I'm pretty sure I had plans to do something productive with the time tonight, but it's been a while since I've listened to music and thought about life, so I don't really regret it. I wonder what you'd say if you saw me now. If you'd look down on me for sitting in on a Friday night or if you'd scorn the mess that is my room or if you'd join me in this little corner that is mine and sit in a comfortable silence. But each you would do something different, and some would inevitably do something other than the above.
I can't tell if I'm quite proud of my life or greatly disappointed. I was a "gifted" child, but never a prodigy. Part of me always secretly hoped I was. Regardless of what I was or wasn't or am or am not, I've always had trouble finding a measure of my success. Happiness is a difficult one to use when one may or may not be depressed. Income and other possessions never appealed much to me. The number of people I slept with stopped meaning anything as soon as it hit 1. The nights I didn't remember...well, I never had those, so they don't mean anything either. It's hard to judge myself by the standards set forth by today's society because they mean so little to me.
I have no religion to use as a standard for a good life. And my personal morals never fully developed. So how do I tell if my life is fulfilling or not? Is it good enough? Am I good enough? I like to pretend that I don't care what people think about me, but really I do, because it's an easy way to measure myself against others. Because even though other peoples' opinions aren't nearly as important as one's own, they help to form it, to give it a certain shape. And that's always been as good a framework as any for me.
I don't really know where my life is going from here. I hope I'm doing things well to get to where I want to go, but I have no way of really knowing. I'm sure I'll understand life better one day than I do now, but that doesn't mean I don't understand it at all. I just hope I don't misunderstand it terribly. But I guess I'll find out...eventually.
Friday, March 30, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Friday, March 23, 2012
With each passing day
I just want to write. I want to write and write and write until my fingers are numb from tapping on the keys and my mind is blank from having spewed out every word that ever called this brain a home. I'm overwhelmed by my thoughts. I don't know what to do with all of them. I want to talk to someone. I want to tell these stories. But I don't know where to begin. I don't know what to say.
I wish I could write the way I wrote a year ago. I wish I could make these words flow because oh god they were beautiful. I was so intensely proud of my writing then, and I still am, because that was damn good. It was impressive. I can't believe that I wrote those things. That it was me. It's not possible that something like that came from my mind, flowed through my fingertips. Because even if it was me, even if that monologue was me, that personal narrative was me, those unfinished stories and even the few well-written poems were all me...why can't I write like that anymore?
I didn't cry. It almost bothers me that I didn't. One day I'm going to go back and sit on that bench and everything will overwhelm me. I'll remember the people I kissed there. The conversations I had. I'll remember how much started there and how much ended. I can't stop. I can't not think about it. It bothers me that I didn't cry because it meant everything to me. It's everything that hurt me, everything that destroyed me. It's the root of the person I became, and all I felt was this tittering anxiety. This nervous happiness because it was so different but so much the same.
People have said before me that they had experiences like this there. I never once believed it until I looked back on it. Because now I understand. More than I could have imagined, that place made me...me. I want to talk to someone who understands it without hating it (no offense and all that). But I feel so lonely right now. I'm not really sad and I'm not really lonely, but it feels like I am, just because I don't have anyone to share this with and it feels like something that needs to be shared. I can't even put it into words. I just want to look into someone's eyes and know that they understand this.
PostSecret was my life that year. I have submitted dozens of secrets, most of them during the course of that year, because for some reason, it made me feel complete. And I know that there are people who understand this. Which makes me want to submit a secret now, but I don't know what to say. More than that though, I know that anybody who felt the way I do about it won't have anything to say back at me. It's a miserable brotherhood. We all understand it. We also know that there is no way to speak of it.
I don't want to stop but I'm running out of steam. I need one of those nights. With the heat and the humidity and maybe even the bugs. Those late nights when we never wanted it to end because it made us feel so alive. It's been a long time since I've felt that alive. I miss it. I really do.
I wish I could write the way I wrote a year ago. I wish I could make these words flow because oh god they were beautiful. I was so intensely proud of my writing then, and I still am, because that was damn good. It was impressive. I can't believe that I wrote those things. That it was me. It's not possible that something like that came from my mind, flowed through my fingertips. Because even if it was me, even if that monologue was me, that personal narrative was me, those unfinished stories and even the few well-written poems were all me...why can't I write like that anymore?
I didn't cry. It almost bothers me that I didn't. One day I'm going to go back and sit on that bench and everything will overwhelm me. I'll remember the people I kissed there. The conversations I had. I'll remember how much started there and how much ended. I can't stop. I can't not think about it. It bothers me that I didn't cry because it meant everything to me. It's everything that hurt me, everything that destroyed me. It's the root of the person I became, and all I felt was this tittering anxiety. This nervous happiness because it was so different but so much the same.
People have said before me that they had experiences like this there. I never once believed it until I looked back on it. Because now I understand. More than I could have imagined, that place made me...me. I want to talk to someone who understands it without hating it (no offense and all that). But I feel so lonely right now. I'm not really sad and I'm not really lonely, but it feels like I am, just because I don't have anyone to share this with and it feels like something that needs to be shared. I can't even put it into words. I just want to look into someone's eyes and know that they understand this.
PostSecret was my life that year. I have submitted dozens of secrets, most of them during the course of that year, because for some reason, it made me feel complete. And I know that there are people who understand this. Which makes me want to submit a secret now, but I don't know what to say. More than that though, I know that anybody who felt the way I do about it won't have anything to say back at me. It's a miserable brotherhood. We all understand it. We also know that there is no way to speak of it.
I don't want to stop but I'm running out of steam. I need one of those nights. With the heat and the humidity and maybe even the bugs. Those late nights when we never wanted it to end because it made us feel so alive. It's been a long time since I've felt that alive. I miss it. I really do.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Touch
I've never been a particularly touchy-feely person. I never liked hugs before I met you. Even these days, I shy away from physical contact sometimes. It's just not one of the things I'm a particularly big fan of. And yet, I find myself craving touch. Not wanting to be touched, but wanting to touch.
Somehow, I seem to have made a connection between knowing people and touching them. As though the curve of their skull, the line of their jaw, the softness or roughness of their hands could explain them to me as a person. I know it doesn't work that way. I know as well as anyone else that the shape of your skull doesn't make you a criminal or not. But I just can't stop thinking about knowing people through touch.
Maybe it's the idea that touch breeds intimacy (or is it the reverse? I think it might be). We only let people touch us who we are comfortable with, who generally know us. So maybe the desire to touch really stems from the desire to know people. Which makes sense, to be fair, since I do want to know people. That's the whole point.
This hasn't been well-written or well-organized. I have put a lot of thought into it but I have barely organized it at all. The most vital thoughts in my mind are always the ones I find hardest to sort and put down eloquently. All of the most important things are the ones that are hardest to write about...I learned that lesson well a year ago. But I've said what I meant to say. I don't know what else to add. Sorry.
Somehow, I seem to have made a connection between knowing people and touching them. As though the curve of their skull, the line of their jaw, the softness or roughness of their hands could explain them to me as a person. I know it doesn't work that way. I know as well as anyone else that the shape of your skull doesn't make you a criminal or not. But I just can't stop thinking about knowing people through touch.
Maybe it's the idea that touch breeds intimacy (or is it the reverse? I think it might be). We only let people touch us who we are comfortable with, who generally know us. So maybe the desire to touch really stems from the desire to know people. Which makes sense, to be fair, since I do want to know people. That's the whole point.
This hasn't been well-written or well-organized. I have put a lot of thought into it but I have barely organized it at all. The most vital thoughts in my mind are always the ones I find hardest to sort and put down eloquently. All of the most important things are the ones that are hardest to write about...I learned that lesson well a year ago. But I've said what I meant to say. I don't know what else to add. Sorry.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
What we are is the sum of a thousand lies.
The more time I spend thinking about people, the more I find myself hating them. I often joke about becoming a monk in the mountains of Mongolia or something, but I'm starting to wonder if this isn't something I should start considering seriously. None of it matters. Everyone is so busy fighting for something, against something, because of something, and none of it matters. I don't need a deity to believe in or a great cause to live for or an excellent life. I just want to be left the fuck alone.
I hate that nobody knows what to do with themselves without a smartphone or a laptop or this tablet shit anymore. I hate that nobody remembers what it's like to be alone, or particularly how it feels to be happy alone. Suddenly, it's not normal if you want to spend time by yourself...something is clearly wrong with you if you don't want to spend every hour of your life surrounded by people. Everyone is so busy trying to tell everyone else how to live, and I just want to be left alone.
I'm in no way perfect. I am judgmental and hypocritical and just as dependent on technology as the rest of the world. But I'm just tired of having all of this shoved down my throat. I'm tired of feeling like I'm not allowed to not give a flying fuck. And part of it is just that I'm tired on the whole, because I haven't been doing a very good job of keeping up with my life lately. But that's my fault. And I am complaining about it on the internet, in a mostly anonymous fashion. So if you don't like it, then don't fucking read it. If you really don't like it, tell me to fuck off, and I'll disappear from your screen. I'll move these words into a paper form where the metaphorical ink bleeding from my brain will become physical ink pouring from a pen.
Society. Humanity. Sweeping generalizations. I just don't care. Everything is going to hell in much the same way it has been going to hell for the entirety of human history. Maybe it's happening more quickly, but hey, the universe is expanding more slowly, which balances it out, right? Not at all. But again, I don't care. Is apathy a disease? Because if it is, I've caught quite the awful case. Oops. That seems to be the case with a number of diseases or not-quite diseases in my life...including, ironically enough, hypochondria. I don't think that's a disease, but that's okay.
I think this has been enough rambling for one day, right? I'm not sure what more there is to say. I'm out of words. I don't know if I want to say things or shut up forever. Really, I just don't know.
I hate that nobody knows what to do with themselves without a smartphone or a laptop or this tablet shit anymore. I hate that nobody remembers what it's like to be alone, or particularly how it feels to be happy alone. Suddenly, it's not normal if you want to spend time by yourself...something is clearly wrong with you if you don't want to spend every hour of your life surrounded by people. Everyone is so busy trying to tell everyone else how to live, and I just want to be left alone.
I'm in no way perfect. I am judgmental and hypocritical and just as dependent on technology as the rest of the world. But I'm just tired of having all of this shoved down my throat. I'm tired of feeling like I'm not allowed to not give a flying fuck. And part of it is just that I'm tired on the whole, because I haven't been doing a very good job of keeping up with my life lately. But that's my fault. And I am complaining about it on the internet, in a mostly anonymous fashion. So if you don't like it, then don't fucking read it. If you really don't like it, tell me to fuck off, and I'll disappear from your screen. I'll move these words into a paper form where the metaphorical ink bleeding from my brain will become physical ink pouring from a pen.
Society. Humanity. Sweeping generalizations. I just don't care. Everything is going to hell in much the same way it has been going to hell for the entirety of human history. Maybe it's happening more quickly, but hey, the universe is expanding more slowly, which balances it out, right? Not at all. But again, I don't care. Is apathy a disease? Because if it is, I've caught quite the awful case. Oops. That seems to be the case with a number of diseases or not-quite diseases in my life...including, ironically enough, hypochondria. I don't think that's a disease, but that's okay.
I think this has been enough rambling for one day, right? I'm not sure what more there is to say. I'm out of words. I don't know if I want to say things or shut up forever. Really, I just don't know.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Remember me?
Hi there. It's been a while. Supposedly people still read this, which amazes me, because I seem to blog two or three times then go silent for two weeks at a time before repeating this cycle. It's always excuses. It's too late. I'm too tired. I'm too busy. There's too much I have to do. And it's really easy to just say "I won't do this right now because I have other priorities, but when I do sit down and write, it will be well-developed and good."
Except it never is. Not really, anyway. Not any more so than anything else I'd write. I can't make myself write well. It just doesn't work that way. Sometimes I have more ideas, other times I just have nothing to say. Like right now. I guess.
I feel like this started off pretty well and then just went downhill, as my writing is prone to do. This may also be due to the fact that it is fairly late at night and I am sleep-deprived. But this is something. Which is good. I just felt like I needed to start writing again. With that, then, I am going to try to catch up on sleep, and hopefully write more something better in the near future. Good night. Apologies for constantly vanishing.
Except it never is. Not really, anyway. Not any more so than anything else I'd write. I can't make myself write well. It just doesn't work that way. Sometimes I have more ideas, other times I just have nothing to say. Like right now. I guess.
I feel like this started off pretty well and then just went downhill, as my writing is prone to do. This may also be due to the fact that it is fairly late at night and I am sleep-deprived. But this is something. Which is good. I just felt like I needed to start writing again. With that, then, I am going to try to catch up on sleep, and hopefully write more something better in the near future. Good night. Apologies for constantly vanishing.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Monsters
Everyone has their demons. Some are external, some are internal. Some haunt actively, others passively. Some are persistent and torturous, others spontaneous and opportunistic. Whatever they are, however they behave themselves, I think that everyone has demons. And they're not necessarily quantifiable entities. Sometimes it's just a feeling that strikes. A mood that comes over you that's hard to escape. Or maybe that's mental illness...I'm not sure, I have a hard time telling the difference sometimes.
Mine have teeth. Fangs, I guess you could say. As soon as I am relaxed enough, once my thoughts are allowed to roam, they puncture right through my skin and poison me. I can feel it spreading through me. First one thing goes sour then everything follows. It starts as a tiny bruise and ends in organ failure. Figuratively, of course. These demons slowly poison me. And I'm never sure if I want to tear them out of myself or if it isn't better that way. If maybe the fact that I let them in means that I can't take care of myself, that I'm better off relinquishing myself to these thoughts.
I think it's ironic, really. The more I think these thoughts, the less I give in to them. I indulge myself. I tempt myself. I try to see just how bad it can get without me giving in. And I haven't given in, which really surprises me, honestly. I'm not known for my self control. If anything, people are more familiar with my indulgences of odd thoughts and fancies.
I don't know what's going on in my brain right now. All of these signals constantly firing. The connections between nerves. I can picture the net of nerve cells that is inside of my head, and I wonder how it works. I wonder if something is broken because something's firing incorrectly. I'm incorrect. I'm not sound from an evolutionary perspective. If we were animals, I would have died out long ago. Nobody with this kind of thought process does well at passing on their genes. And so I'm sure that I won't either.
I've been told that the gene pool would benefit from having my genes in it. I've been told many things, ranging from my intelligence to my physical appearance. And people have commented repeatedly that I have good genes. But if these genes are so damn good, it doesn't look to me like they want to go anywhere. They seem perfectly happy to die with me. And really, if anything, I'm a blend of excellent genes and rotten ones. I'll take my chances and spare any potential offspring of mine the trouble of controlling the rotten ones. The ones that make me broken.
I like the word broken. It doesn't mean that something's unfixable. It just means that it isn't currently fixed. Broken isn't a permanent state. Necessarily. I think that broken things can sometimes be more valuable. Think about children's toys. The only pristine ones are the ones that sat on shelves and never got played with. It's the broken ones that were handled and loved.
That's all we are. We are each other's toys. We get played with and used. And some are rougher on their toys than others. And sometimes people, like things, just break. I give up on trying to draw a metaphor here. I don't know what I'm saying. The nerves are firing incorrectly again. I can't tell what I'm trying to think, although I'm sure there was something. But I don't know.
Mine have teeth. Fangs, I guess you could say. As soon as I am relaxed enough, once my thoughts are allowed to roam, they puncture right through my skin and poison me. I can feel it spreading through me. First one thing goes sour then everything follows. It starts as a tiny bruise and ends in organ failure. Figuratively, of course. These demons slowly poison me. And I'm never sure if I want to tear them out of myself or if it isn't better that way. If maybe the fact that I let them in means that I can't take care of myself, that I'm better off relinquishing myself to these thoughts.
I think it's ironic, really. The more I think these thoughts, the less I give in to them. I indulge myself. I tempt myself. I try to see just how bad it can get without me giving in. And I haven't given in, which really surprises me, honestly. I'm not known for my self control. If anything, people are more familiar with my indulgences of odd thoughts and fancies.
I don't know what's going on in my brain right now. All of these signals constantly firing. The connections between nerves. I can picture the net of nerve cells that is inside of my head, and I wonder how it works. I wonder if something is broken because something's firing incorrectly. I'm incorrect. I'm not sound from an evolutionary perspective. If we were animals, I would have died out long ago. Nobody with this kind of thought process does well at passing on their genes. And so I'm sure that I won't either.
I've been told that the gene pool would benefit from having my genes in it. I've been told many things, ranging from my intelligence to my physical appearance. And people have commented repeatedly that I have good genes. But if these genes are so damn good, it doesn't look to me like they want to go anywhere. They seem perfectly happy to die with me. And really, if anything, I'm a blend of excellent genes and rotten ones. I'll take my chances and spare any potential offspring of mine the trouble of controlling the rotten ones. The ones that make me broken.
I like the word broken. It doesn't mean that something's unfixable. It just means that it isn't currently fixed. Broken isn't a permanent state. Necessarily. I think that broken things can sometimes be more valuable. Think about children's toys. The only pristine ones are the ones that sat on shelves and never got played with. It's the broken ones that were handled and loved.
That's all we are. We are each other's toys. We get played with and used. And some are rougher on their toys than others. And sometimes people, like things, just break. I give up on trying to draw a metaphor here. I don't know what I'm saying. The nerves are firing incorrectly again. I can't tell what I'm trying to think, although I'm sure there was something. But I don't know.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Scattered Thoughts
I try not to promise myself things anymore. It used to be a thing of mine. "I promise I won't ever..." or "I promise that if ... happens, I'll never..." Maybe it was a little game, to see if I could actually do it. But I guess that in the end I never really could, because every promise I made to myself I broke. And some I made to other people too (I'm sorry, I just can't forget).
I'm always afraid I'll break them. Because of course, when one breaks a promise consciously, at least for me, there's always a compelling reason. A sort of "I didn't see this as a possibility at the time and so this is an extenuating circumstance which justifies my actions." But I don't like that thought process. It's just another excuse. It's like saying "okay, I didn't think it through so I really shouldn't have promised in the first place."
This is brooding too much. It feels like it's leading up to a confession, although I have no such confession to make. I feel better today. I got to talk to someone I haven't seen in a long time, and it was pleasant. It reminded me of simpler things and also gave me a perspective for the future.
My thoughts are scattered. I can't keep them straight. It might be because of the headache. I'm tired and the week ahead of me is long. I should write more when I get my thoughts together. I'm really not sure what the point of starting this was. Apologies.
I'm always afraid I'll break them. Because of course, when one breaks a promise consciously, at least for me, there's always a compelling reason. A sort of "I didn't see this as a possibility at the time and so this is an extenuating circumstance which justifies my actions." But I don't like that thought process. It's just another excuse. It's like saying "okay, I didn't think it through so I really shouldn't have promised in the first place."
This is brooding too much. It feels like it's leading up to a confession, although I have no such confession to make. I feel better today. I got to talk to someone I haven't seen in a long time, and it was pleasant. It reminded me of simpler things and also gave me a perspective for the future.
My thoughts are scattered. I can't keep them straight. It might be because of the headache. I'm tired and the week ahead of me is long. I should write more when I get my thoughts together. I'm really not sure what the point of starting this was. Apologies.
Monday, March 5, 2012
"Everyone dies alone."
I don't have a bucket list.
I didn't mean to stop there, but those words bring back so poignantly a paragraph you wrote a year ago that I can't for the life of me remember the train of thought. I wonder if maybe that hasn't rubbed off on me, but I think it may have been the case for quite a while before you put those words down in an eloquent and coherent form.
Every time I watch Fight Club, where they're driving down the highway and Tyler Durden asks all of them to say something they wish they'd done/want to do before they die, I try to think of something. And I always come up blank. Sometimes I cheat and say something like jumping out of a plane, or going to Australia. And while I'd love to do those, I could die happy having not done them. They don't matter to me. I think, as you said, that I've done everything I could want to do with this life. I'm happy with the way I've lived it and with where I've ended up.
Which is very strange, because I can't get past what someone else once said about being afraid of dying before being ready. There are still things I would like doing. I'm on a path, professionally, that is showing me things I am absolutely in love with, intellectually, and will only continue doing that. I love what I do. And I want to keep doing it, I want to see what comes ahead. I know that I have a future to look forward to, that if I was to die now, I'd miss out on it.
Yes, those last two paragraphs were completely contradictory, and I honestly have absolutely no idea which one resonates with me more. They both do, and that's a problem, because I am logically inclined. I don't like living with contradictions. I guess I still have some time to decide which one of the two options is closer to the way I feel, since I'm not going anywhere for a while (unless an improbable health problem or accident arises in the near future, but that's a risk we all face).
On a slightly unrelated note and coming back more to the title of this post, I'm afraid of grenades. Metaphorically. If you've read a certain book, you'll understand, but most people haven't, and I don't particularly want to explain, so ask me and I'll tell you what to read. I'm not afraid of death so much as I'm afraid of being left behind. Is it selfish that sometimes I wished...just so I'd know what it'd be like? I don't even need to ask, I know it is. It's the sort of terrible thing you think but never admit to, except I've given up on not admitting to things. It's selfish and terrible and I know I didn't mean it, but that doesn't mean I didn't want to know.
Likewise, I'm afraid of leaving people behind. I'm afraid of hurting them. If I wasn't, my life would be different. I would have said something a long time before you kissed me. I wouldn't have spent that summer in agony, I would have just taken what I had and run with it. And see, here I am back to two years ago, but it's the closest example at hand, so I'll go with that. Anyway, the point is that I don't know how to deal with this finite life. I don't know if I like it or hate it, just like I'm never sure whether I like or hate myself.
And maybe one day I'll figure all of this out. Maybe one day, I'll find a methodology for living that works for me. Or maybe I won't, and I'll spend my downtime as I do now, contemplating the afterlives I don't believe in and the meanings I don't accept. I think I'll be okay. I hope.
I didn't mean to stop there, but those words bring back so poignantly a paragraph you wrote a year ago that I can't for the life of me remember the train of thought. I wonder if maybe that hasn't rubbed off on me, but I think it may have been the case for quite a while before you put those words down in an eloquent and coherent form.
Every time I watch Fight Club, where they're driving down the highway and Tyler Durden asks all of them to say something they wish they'd done/want to do before they die, I try to think of something. And I always come up blank. Sometimes I cheat and say something like jumping out of a plane, or going to Australia. And while I'd love to do those, I could die happy having not done them. They don't matter to me. I think, as you said, that I've done everything I could want to do with this life. I'm happy with the way I've lived it and with where I've ended up.
Which is very strange, because I can't get past what someone else once said about being afraid of dying before being ready. There are still things I would like doing. I'm on a path, professionally, that is showing me things I am absolutely in love with, intellectually, and will only continue doing that. I love what I do. And I want to keep doing it, I want to see what comes ahead. I know that I have a future to look forward to, that if I was to die now, I'd miss out on it.
Yes, those last two paragraphs were completely contradictory, and I honestly have absolutely no idea which one resonates with me more. They both do, and that's a problem, because I am logically inclined. I don't like living with contradictions. I guess I still have some time to decide which one of the two options is closer to the way I feel, since I'm not going anywhere for a while (unless an improbable health problem or accident arises in the near future, but that's a risk we all face).
On a slightly unrelated note and coming back more to the title of this post, I'm afraid of grenades. Metaphorically. If you've read a certain book, you'll understand, but most people haven't, and I don't particularly want to explain, so ask me and I'll tell you what to read. I'm not afraid of death so much as I'm afraid of being left behind. Is it selfish that sometimes I wished...just so I'd know what it'd be like? I don't even need to ask, I know it is. It's the sort of terrible thing you think but never admit to, except I've given up on not admitting to things. It's selfish and terrible and I know I didn't mean it, but that doesn't mean I didn't want to know.
Likewise, I'm afraid of leaving people behind. I'm afraid of hurting them. If I wasn't, my life would be different. I would have said something a long time before you kissed me. I wouldn't have spent that summer in agony, I would have just taken what I had and run with it. And see, here I am back to two years ago, but it's the closest example at hand, so I'll go with that. Anyway, the point is that I don't know how to deal with this finite life. I don't know if I like it or hate it, just like I'm never sure whether I like or hate myself.
And maybe one day I'll figure all of this out. Maybe one day, I'll find a methodology for living that works for me. Or maybe I won't, and I'll spend my downtime as I do now, contemplating the afterlives I don't believe in and the meanings I don't accept. I think I'll be okay. I hope.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Scared
I often wonder if the people I think about ever think about me. If I'm important to them in any way. It's very important to me that I am important to someone. I guess it comes with not believing in a deity or a divine purpose. I don't think I have a purpose to my life. So I generally approach it with the thought that if I am important to people, if I help them, if I make them happy, if I give them something to think about, if I change their lives, that's enough.
I think about people often because they are important to me. Not the people I displace my loathing on. But the people I once did legitimately hate. The people I've loved. The people I've understood in ways that resonated entirely too well with the way I understood myself. I think about people often because of the ways in which they've shaped my life--good and bad.
I'm starting to worry not only about not having effects on people, but also about nothing significant happening in my own life anymore. I tend to get caught up on the last really significant occurrence of my personal life. The last was two years ago, which is where I seem to have been stuck for a while. Before that, it was a little over six years ago now. I just get stuck and can't move past these things, I keep trying to connect everything to them and not really moving forward with my life.
And even though I think I am moving forward now--doing things, accomplishing things, meeting people, and so on, part of me is undeniably still back there. I don't know how to wrench myself free. And I don't think I'm going to have moments that are as meaningful or personally significant for quite some time. I will have professional accomplishments, undeniably, I may have emotional triumphs, but not in the same way, I don't think.
It scares me because my life is growing boring. I'm at the point where I'm not even terribly interested in meeting new people anymore and I don't think I will be, not any more so than I am now, anyway. I'm settling down. And I'm afraid that settling down for me means being stuck at a point in my life that grows more distant each day.
I'm a very different person from the one I was then, but parts are undeniably unchanged, and I don't think that's by choice. So yes, this scares me very much. And while I can hide it behind my work when I'm particularly busy (which is quite often these days), it's the sort of thing that haunts me over pauses like this and in the late hours of the night when I can't fall asleep.
I think about people often because they are important to me. Not the people I displace my loathing on. But the people I once did legitimately hate. The people I've loved. The people I've understood in ways that resonated entirely too well with the way I understood myself. I think about people often because of the ways in which they've shaped my life--good and bad.
I'm starting to worry not only about not having effects on people, but also about nothing significant happening in my own life anymore. I tend to get caught up on the last really significant occurrence of my personal life. The last was two years ago, which is where I seem to have been stuck for a while. Before that, it was a little over six years ago now. I just get stuck and can't move past these things, I keep trying to connect everything to them and not really moving forward with my life.
And even though I think I am moving forward now--doing things, accomplishing things, meeting people, and so on, part of me is undeniably still back there. I don't know how to wrench myself free. And I don't think I'm going to have moments that are as meaningful or personally significant for quite some time. I will have professional accomplishments, undeniably, I may have emotional triumphs, but not in the same way, I don't think.
It scares me because my life is growing boring. I'm at the point where I'm not even terribly interested in meeting new people anymore and I don't think I will be, not any more so than I am now, anyway. I'm settling down. And I'm afraid that settling down for me means being stuck at a point in my life that grows more distant each day.
I'm a very different person from the one I was then, but parts are undeniably unchanged, and I don't think that's by choice. So yes, this scares me very much. And while I can hide it behind my work when I'm particularly busy (which is quite often these days), it's the sort of thing that haunts me over pauses like this and in the late hours of the night when I can't fall asleep.
Loathing
It's simple, really. I wouldn't tell you because you were thinking about other things. I'm still not sure I want to tell you, because I don't think you'd have anything to say, and that makes it feel like it doesn't matter. So I'll put it here instead, which I was going to do anyway, really, and then I'll know that you will read it eventually and I won't have to sit there feeling like I bared my soul while you have no response. I'm sorry, but that's how it is.
I need to hate someone. We already knew that, it's pretty obvious from the fact that I can't stop despising the people who live around me. But I think I've figured out why. Because if I'm busy hating someone around me, emphasizing their flaws in my own mind, it means I'm not hating myself. There is, for some reason I can't for the life of me understand, a minimum level of hatred that I feel for people. And if I don't hate the people around me, it all gets turned back on myself.
I'm surprised I didn't notice it earlier. Because looking back, it seems like the most obvious thing. Maybe what it really is is that I have this fundamental quantity of self-loathing (if such things can be quantified), but when I hate someone else, it gets redirected. For a minute, I get to paint myself in a rosy light, like someone who is doing it right, who is successful.
When I am the happiest about my own life is when I hate other people the most. And yes, I know that hate is a strong word, but it's the only one that fits with the correct intensity. I don't know if that's correlation or causation there, that my self-loathing and my loathing of others have an inverse relationship, but that's very much the case, certainly.
Why is there a fundamental level of self-loathing? I don't know. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense that my brain chemistry may in fact be askew. But that would just be another excuse, even if it is the case. I know the change of scenery was supposed to help, and it did for a couple of months. But those things never last. And I'm not saying that this is bad. Maybe I've finally found my coping mechanism in hating others. I can't say that's a good thing, but, well, whatever works, right? Maybe, maybe not. We'll see.
I need to hate someone. We already knew that, it's pretty obvious from the fact that I can't stop despising the people who live around me. But I think I've figured out why. Because if I'm busy hating someone around me, emphasizing their flaws in my own mind, it means I'm not hating myself. There is, for some reason I can't for the life of me understand, a minimum level of hatred that I feel for people. And if I don't hate the people around me, it all gets turned back on myself.
I'm surprised I didn't notice it earlier. Because looking back, it seems like the most obvious thing. Maybe what it really is is that I have this fundamental quantity of self-loathing (if such things can be quantified), but when I hate someone else, it gets redirected. For a minute, I get to paint myself in a rosy light, like someone who is doing it right, who is successful.
When I am the happiest about my own life is when I hate other people the most. And yes, I know that hate is a strong word, but it's the only one that fits with the correct intensity. I don't know if that's correlation or causation there, that my self-loathing and my loathing of others have an inverse relationship, but that's very much the case, certainly.
Why is there a fundamental level of self-loathing? I don't know. The more I think about it, the more it makes sense that my brain chemistry may in fact be askew. But that would just be another excuse, even if it is the case. I know the change of scenery was supposed to help, and it did for a couple of months. But those things never last. And I'm not saying that this is bad. Maybe I've finally found my coping mechanism in hating others. I can't say that's a good thing, but, well, whatever works, right? Maybe, maybe not. We'll see.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
Return
There's a quote I've read before, about knowing people. About wanting to know a person's hands, their skin, the shape their body takes. It's clearly more eloquent than me, but that's not the point. But I just got this feeling of wanting to know you. Only I couldn't do it by running my hands over your skin. Skin has relatively few stories, and I already know them all by heart. It's the music that tells another story. Where there's only one song in the folder, that's what gives it away. Albums are one thing, but when it's just one song, it says a lot more.
This writing bothers me. I want to delete it, but I put a lot of thought into it, so I'm not going to. I feel guilty because I put it into words. There are some things I think and never write. And I feel like this should be one of them, but for some reason I went and spilled it onto the screen before me anyway. Life is a terribly sad creature, and I somehow can't get past that right now. Blame it on the book, if you so desire.
I never feel more alive than when I'm at an extreme. Either when something hurts so much it feels like it will never end or when I feel like I've conquered everything or, more realistically, conquered myself (it's quite a battle, I assure you...I put up quite the fight when it comes to facing my own self).
His writing makes me sad that I'm not someone else. That I'll never have the perfect love story, even if it doesn't end well. It's the kind of sadness that makes me happy in a very strange way. It feels real in a way that nothing else does, sometimes even my own life. I'm rambling, but at least I'm writing again. On that note, I'm sorry I haven't been around; the last two weeks have been unreasonably busy, but now I'm back. I'm even reading for pleasure, which is always a nice change.
Being here is always strange. It always has the same effect these days and I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing. Oddly enough, I feel more like myself here than I have the entire time I've been away. Because when it comes down to it, I'm still the same person. I still think the same way, even if I think about different things now. This brings me back. It makes me feel better because I still like being alone. It gives me the chance to actually think about who I am instead of being so busy being me that I forget about what it is I'm actually doing with my life.
This writing bothers me. I want to delete it, but I put a lot of thought into it, so I'm not going to. I feel guilty because I put it into words. There are some things I think and never write. And I feel like this should be one of them, but for some reason I went and spilled it onto the screen before me anyway. Life is a terribly sad creature, and I somehow can't get past that right now. Blame it on the book, if you so desire.
I never feel more alive than when I'm at an extreme. Either when something hurts so much it feels like it will never end or when I feel like I've conquered everything or, more realistically, conquered myself (it's quite a battle, I assure you...I put up quite the fight when it comes to facing my own self).
His writing makes me sad that I'm not someone else. That I'll never have the perfect love story, even if it doesn't end well. It's the kind of sadness that makes me happy in a very strange way. It feels real in a way that nothing else does, sometimes even my own life. I'm rambling, but at least I'm writing again. On that note, I'm sorry I haven't been around; the last two weeks have been unreasonably busy, but now I'm back. I'm even reading for pleasure, which is always a nice change.
Being here is always strange. It always has the same effect these days and I'm not sure if that's a good or bad thing. Oddly enough, I feel more like myself here than I have the entire time I've been away. Because when it comes down to it, I'm still the same person. I still think the same way, even if I think about different things now. This brings me back. It makes me feel better because I still like being alone. It gives me the chance to actually think about who I am instead of being so busy being me that I forget about what it is I'm actually doing with my life.
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