Today's been one of those days where I realize once again a basic truth: I am quite ordinary.
I am not the protagonist of any great story, nor am I an outstanding student. My personality is unique, to be sure. However, I am still, in basis, very mundane.
The greatest likelihood is that no biography will ever be written about me. My name will never fall into common usage in our society. I may not even be enough to get into my selected colleges.
I have no extracurricular activities, no major awards, no outstanding public service nor even outstanding grades. I suppose it disturbs me to think of such things.
For this reason I often write myself into fantastic situations, events that somehow render my personality particularly useful...
Aye, I am no Cinderella. But is it possible that I am not even the Fairy Godmother? Nor even a witch or a parent? Maybe I am of such a breed that I have no place even in fairy tales. But if this is truly the case, for what do I work? If nothing comes naturally to me, how should I expect labor to catch me up? And if I will always be behind, what is my purpose?
Here, now a spiral of negative thought draws me in and hypnotizes me. Over and over again thoughts repeat in their gloomy cycles, telling me how to feel.
I hope for a career of medicine, but what will become of me if this dream cannot be actualized? Am I to fall to the wayside, some confused being who is moderately educated, over-motivated and without resources? Why is it that I allow myself to think like this?
Because I enjoy it. Somewhere, some sick part of me feeds of the feeling of despair that dwells here, in this place where I have locked myself. I know I can escape, but I will not leave. It's repulsive. I torture myself with a sense of hopelessness, and angry beasts of the past rise to great me, to suck my blood and to feed of my pain.
There is something sensuous about insanity, and I cannot quite put my finger on why. It is not good, not proper and not enjoyable. But it is intriguing. The darker side of every psyche is drawn to the depths of insanity just as the eyes of a human are drawn to a crash on the side of the road. Periodically I enter brief episodes of what is probably the closest thing to true insanity that allows one to keeps control of themself. And in my mind, something dark and beautiful and gory and sexual and disgusting and entrancing rises out of dust like a snake, dripping with something deeper than blood; a special kind of gore reserved for the mind. I change. I imagine that if someone were to watch me, my pupils would dilate and my muscles would relax, my mouth opening ever so slightly and perhaps my nostrils flaring. My consciousness ebbs. I float away on a silver cloud of angry nothingness and watch the storm brewing below, in the underworld of myself. In Hades. The devil is neither man nor woman, just a creature with distinct characteristics of both sexes. I call it a "he" arbitrarily. He works among the reanimated bodies of human torture victims, walking slowly, confidently, in a way that makes you somehow hate and admire him, loathe and envy him. Your skin puckers and blisters, turning a bright angry read and scabbing over. The burns cover you entirely, but you pay them no attention, you can only watch the devil. Your breath comes out slow and green, and the devil smiles. The teeth are pointed and yellow, the breath putrid, the tongue forked. And yet in that smile there is some hidden characteristic which draws you in, spinning deeper into oblivion. You move closer-- how close are you? His eyes are bright and black, sparkling. You don't know his intent, but you do not care, either. You look deep into his eyes, puzzling the mystery of his existence. The attraction you feel to him is not natural; not like a man and a women or even like a parent with their child, or friends. It is instead like the need of a housepet to leave its domain before dying; like the unsummoned desire to attack when one is angry. Quick as lightning, his hand is around your throat, with long, thick nails digging into your neck. He laughs a cold, mirthless laugh that stirs your mind into confusion and passion. As everything goes black, you smile.
I know that if I was smart, I would erase the paragraph I just wrote. But it felt incredibly good to write it. There is no way to fully express the depths of insanity. That was, perhaps, a little piece. I tend to think I might be committed if I tried much harder. So, perhaps I am not quite as ordinary as I thought. Perhaps I am ordinary in every outward manner but hold some twisted element within. Perhaps I am simply better at expressing things which everyone thinks than other people. Maybe I'm just not smart enough to hide it thoroughly.
Here, perhaps I redeem myself. Because I want to write about the thought I had on the way home, as I sat looking out the window into the rain. I imagined myself from behind, the picture that would be created. Plain dirty blond hair, drawn back into a low ponytail behind the neck. Chin resting in the palm of my hand as I stared listlessly into the rain. Very ordinary. Somehow a little profound. I think that maybe we underestimate the beauty in a certain kind of ordinary.
Because ordinary doesn't have to mean stereotypical.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
So Much
This one I am writing today. From a computer at my mother's work. My mind wanders freely over many of the million things weighing on my mind.
Last night I was swarmed by odd dreams. Climbing bridges, sneaking onto boats. A small black boy who thought of me as his grandmother and who wanted to return to a better time. A time neither he nor I had ever seen. A basic confrontation with right and wrong left me thinking. There's something hovering just below the surface of my consciousness. Almost ready to come into the light. Almost ready to end this period of The Crazy. It has lasted a short time- less than two months- undoubtedly because I have recognized it in myself and because of the support I have received from others. Even yesterday I was overwhelmed, frustrated, sad. Today I feel somehow brighter, perhaps a simple testament to the fact that during sleep both our minds and out bodies are healed. I knew this time would come again. I imagine it will continue in cycles, over and over for all my life. But I don't mind. These cycles are periods of growth and adjustment. I do not develop slowly, evenly, like most. Rather, my mind is shredded into a million frustrated pieces, and as I struggle through the confusion, new strength-- maturity-- ideas-- enter me. Overnight my mind seems to have healed, new scar tissue fortifying it. It's very much the same concept as exercising.
You work out. You destroy the muscle of your own will. You heal, with scar tissue and new muscle growth. And you are stronger the next day.
I still have a lot of work. I might even be in over my head a little bit. But I'll make it through. I'll be perfectly fine. Right now I'm just happy to have gotten through my second period of the great sadness; the crazy; depression without some of the things I resorted to the first time. I'm alive. And happy, albeit tired. I think that maybe everything will be okay. I think that maybe that's what was hovering below the surface.
Last night I was swarmed by odd dreams. Climbing bridges, sneaking onto boats. A small black boy who thought of me as his grandmother and who wanted to return to a better time. A time neither he nor I had ever seen. A basic confrontation with right and wrong left me thinking. There's something hovering just below the surface of my consciousness. Almost ready to come into the light. Almost ready to end this period of The Crazy. It has lasted a short time- less than two months- undoubtedly because I have recognized it in myself and because of the support I have received from others. Even yesterday I was overwhelmed, frustrated, sad. Today I feel somehow brighter, perhaps a simple testament to the fact that during sleep both our minds and out bodies are healed. I knew this time would come again. I imagine it will continue in cycles, over and over for all my life. But I don't mind. These cycles are periods of growth and adjustment. I do not develop slowly, evenly, like most. Rather, my mind is shredded into a million frustrated pieces, and as I struggle through the confusion, new strength-- maturity-- ideas-- enter me. Overnight my mind seems to have healed, new scar tissue fortifying it. It's very much the same concept as exercising.
You work out. You destroy the muscle of your own will. You heal, with scar tissue and new muscle growth. And you are stronger the next day.
I still have a lot of work. I might even be in over my head a little bit. But I'll make it through. I'll be perfectly fine. Right now I'm just happy to have gotten through my second period of the great sadness; the crazy; depression without some of the things I resorted to the first time. I'm alive. And happy, albeit tired. I think that maybe everything will be okay. I think that maybe that's what was hovering below the surface.
Release
I’m not posting this directly; by the time it makes it to the blog it will have been saved to my flash drive and posted from a computer whose Internet is currently functioning, unlike mine. But I’m having a moment of misery and finally realized that the only thing that would make me feel better would be to do what comes naturally to me: to write. So today is actually September 17, 2009, at 10:28 PM. God knows what time it will be when I finish.
Several minutes ago, trying in small, distorted ways to make sense of my life, I realized- or perhaps simply imagined- something. The reason that I hold not one, but many personas; the reason pretend and bury my emotions is because I know that if I expose myself fully to the bleak, cold light of reality I won’t be able to stand it, emotionally. I thought, “I may not be strong enough to cope with reality, but I’m smart enough to protect myself from it.” Though this statement is, at the very least, interesting, there’s a devastating undertone ringing in my ears. I have always- always- valued strength. Strength of body, mind and heart. I have strength of body (though it’s something I enjoy improving upon…), and I have strength of mind. I have motivation and resolve. I have the strength to take four advanced, accelerated or AP classes and still come home and make dinner. I have the strength to be persistent when necessary and to stand up for what I believe in. Yet somehow I don’t seem to be strong enough to fully accept what is true; what is real. Instead, I appear happy in the day and break down alone.
Lately something ominous has begun. Or re-begun. At times during my days I will part with someone or end a conversation and, as soon as I am detached from the other person, tears spring into my eyes as if they’d been waiting until no one was looking. Once today during a conversation I turned away from the person to walk in front of them in a stairwell and feel my face crumple into an image of despondency.
This has happened before, and what ensued was something that I will neither forget nor relive. Instead of suppressing my emotions I’m trying to let them be. However, this has very nearly resulted in crying in public—over nothing. I try instead to cheer myself, a technique that has worked spectacularly for me in the past. Nothing. I find that in me there is something that doesn’t even want to feel happy. That scares me. Nothing is so dangerous as the disorder which is accompanied by complacency; the disease which brings to the victim a loathing for health.
So I turn my mind to optimism. I think, “I work now for the future.” Somehow that’s not enough at the moment. Somehow the opposition from so many places is pulling me down. And were it not for my few allies, those who care enough to listen and understand, I may fight tooth and nail. But at present I simply cling onto others for life support while ceaseless fire reigns down upon us. Being an outcast is something I don’t mind. Something I even enjoy. But it is somehow disturbing when the adults—so-called role models—discourage and practically punish an adolescent for being willing to work hard and to pull more than their weight.
Perhaps the most tiring thing of all is that my personality is such that people sometimes cannot help but take advantage of me. I offer myself up as a doormat, unquestioningly accepting work and responsibilities that others simply don’t want, or lending out my patience to people with long and ultimately mundane problems or a desire to waste my time. Even those people I am closest to can’t help it. I want not to trust them; to be callous or rude and deny them my effort and my patience and use it for my own means. Yet I cannot and do not want to. If any strength remaining in me is admirable, it is that patience which enables me to be taken advantage of over and over and continue to give unconditionally. It is both disgustingly unrespectable and deserving of great respect.
Once again I feel as if I owe some gratitude to the wonder of technology or to the art of writing, for in a short time my frustrations have been wholly cleared. Oddly, even though I am very much inclined towards visual art, nothing allows me peace of mind like writing. Whether I write about my difficulty or about something completely irrelevant, I invariable feel new afterwards. Now, to my great displeasure, I must return to the objective, boring work of everyday life. Perhaps if I am at a library soon I will have time to write some fiction—I’m in the mood to write myself into a vessel of space and time and explore the bounds of reality.
Several minutes ago, trying in small, distorted ways to make sense of my life, I realized- or perhaps simply imagined- something. The reason that I hold not one, but many personas; the reason pretend and bury my emotions is because I know that if I expose myself fully to the bleak, cold light of reality I won’t be able to stand it, emotionally. I thought, “I may not be strong enough to cope with reality, but I’m smart enough to protect myself from it.” Though this statement is, at the very least, interesting, there’s a devastating undertone ringing in my ears. I have always- always- valued strength. Strength of body, mind and heart. I have strength of body (though it’s something I enjoy improving upon…), and I have strength of mind. I have motivation and resolve. I have the strength to take four advanced, accelerated or AP classes and still come home and make dinner. I have the strength to be persistent when necessary and to stand up for what I believe in. Yet somehow I don’t seem to be strong enough to fully accept what is true; what is real. Instead, I appear happy in the day and break down alone.
Lately something ominous has begun. Or re-begun. At times during my days I will part with someone or end a conversation and, as soon as I am detached from the other person, tears spring into my eyes as if they’d been waiting until no one was looking. Once today during a conversation I turned away from the person to walk in front of them in a stairwell and feel my face crumple into an image of despondency.
This has happened before, and what ensued was something that I will neither forget nor relive. Instead of suppressing my emotions I’m trying to let them be. However, this has very nearly resulted in crying in public—over nothing. I try instead to cheer myself, a technique that has worked spectacularly for me in the past. Nothing. I find that in me there is something that doesn’t even want to feel happy. That scares me. Nothing is so dangerous as the disorder which is accompanied by complacency; the disease which brings to the victim a loathing for health.
So I turn my mind to optimism. I think, “I work now for the future.” Somehow that’s not enough at the moment. Somehow the opposition from so many places is pulling me down. And were it not for my few allies, those who care enough to listen and understand, I may fight tooth and nail. But at present I simply cling onto others for life support while ceaseless fire reigns down upon us. Being an outcast is something I don’t mind. Something I even enjoy. But it is somehow disturbing when the adults—so-called role models—discourage and practically punish an adolescent for being willing to work hard and to pull more than their weight.
Perhaps the most tiring thing of all is that my personality is such that people sometimes cannot help but take advantage of me. I offer myself up as a doormat, unquestioningly accepting work and responsibilities that others simply don’t want, or lending out my patience to people with long and ultimately mundane problems or a desire to waste my time. Even those people I am closest to can’t help it. I want not to trust them; to be callous or rude and deny them my effort and my patience and use it for my own means. Yet I cannot and do not want to. If any strength remaining in me is admirable, it is that patience which enables me to be taken advantage of over and over and continue to give unconditionally. It is both disgustingly unrespectable and deserving of great respect.
Once again I feel as if I owe some gratitude to the wonder of technology or to the art of writing, for in a short time my frustrations have been wholly cleared. Oddly, even though I am very much inclined towards visual art, nothing allows me peace of mind like writing. Whether I write about my difficulty or about something completely irrelevant, I invariable feel new afterwards. Now, to my great displeasure, I must return to the objective, boring work of everyday life. Perhaps if I am at a library soon I will have time to write some fiction—I’m in the mood to write myself into a vessel of space and time and explore the bounds of reality.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Another Wait
It's been- once again- too long since I've written. This time, though, I'm at a public library. I'm thoroughly convinced that our home computer is in the process of dying.
I haven't had much time to daydream lately, as I managed to let some of my Summer school work to slip until the last possible minute. As things stand, I have to complete a timeline and a book, answer questions which correspond to said book, create a poster, write a summary and a reaction paper. I also have to make sure I know the meanings of each of a list of Biology vocabulary words, can sketch a world map, locate the Galapagos Islands and trace Darwin's route. School *technically* starts in 6 days. Surprisingly, though, I'm not all that worried.
Right now, I'm taking a break. I just finished looking up the information for the timeline and the maps for memorization. I have twenty minutes left on this computer, and then I plan on making a reservation with a "workstation" computer so as to do the time line.
Apart from the work I have yet to complete, I'm actually quite excited for school to start. It's now been two months since I've had a daily structured routine, and I'm quite ready for it to restart. I think the biggest thing I'll miss is riding my bike everywhere. In theory, I could ride on weekend, but the snow here makes it hazardous and nearly impossible on public roads. But-- can't complain. I won't allow myself to.
I very nearly forgot until just now. The moon was full last night. I react in a very extreme way to the full moon on a clear night. Better if it's a late summer's night.
So in the midst of my reading a bright light caught my eye, like an old friend waving from the back yard. As I turned a page in the book, the soft paper shifting between my fingers, I looked absently out the back door. There hung a bright silvery orb, low in the sky. The light was exquisite, blanketing the grass and the trees in something so soft and so magical that it almost seems to whisper as it is reflected from object to eye. Without thinking, I pulled the smooth string of my bookmark to take the place of my waiting thumb, and the book settled onto the table as I rose to my feet.
Face pressed to the glass, I saw the cold crisp light of the moon dance through the air, come to a rest in the clean dew which had itself just landed upon the grass. Worried by my strange behavior, my dog walked close to my feet, snatching away my attention with the soft caress of his fur. Startled, I brightly said, "Wanna go out?" He reacted by prancing in a circle and running towards where we let him out on a long leash by the back of the house. I followed him in a trance, gently taking in collar in between my fingers and coaxing the door open. The refreshing unfiltered light fell across my arms and face, slipping in through my pores and making me into a new being. As I allowed the cold metal clasp to close around the dog's collar, I stood up and spread my arms wide, embracing the moon and feeling the light like liquid static flowing in through my pupils, bathing ever cell of my being in magic.
The dog trotted further out into the yard, glowing with the light of the Great Luna. Slowly then I lowered my arms, placing my hands in front of me, palms up, so that I could see the light reflecting off my hand. I inhaled deeply, almost convinced that if I tried hard enough, I could become part of Luna herself, a walking creature of moonlight and magic, purifying the Earth with clean, cool white light. I felt the moonlight on my tongue, playing over my nerves like a snake charmer softly convincing the creature to trust, to obey. I myself was unsure whether I was charmer or snake, predator or prey, or perhaps the charm itself, a vehicle through which all might be made right, a tool for purification of life by Luna. Bringing my hands together, I realized something beautiful. Moonlight can never touch itself. Even if one were to place his hand to the moon, his hand would cast a shadow onto its surface. Because the moon itself is no more than a mirror. I revelled in the simplicity of the idea that had never before occurred to me as I turned my back on my beautiful friend and walked indoors. Though Luna is in my mind a force which deserves the utmost praise, I know in reality that She is no more than a product of physics and that to spend time giving undue worship would be the greatest of fool's errands.
I haven't had much time to daydream lately, as I managed to let some of my Summer school work to slip until the last possible minute. As things stand, I have to complete a timeline and a book, answer questions which correspond to said book, create a poster, write a summary and a reaction paper. I also have to make sure I know the meanings of each of a list of Biology vocabulary words, can sketch a world map, locate the Galapagos Islands and trace Darwin's route. School *technically* starts in 6 days. Surprisingly, though, I'm not all that worried.
Right now, I'm taking a break. I just finished looking up the information for the timeline and the maps for memorization. I have twenty minutes left on this computer, and then I plan on making a reservation with a "workstation" computer so as to do the time line.
Apart from the work I have yet to complete, I'm actually quite excited for school to start. It's now been two months since I've had a daily structured routine, and I'm quite ready for it to restart. I think the biggest thing I'll miss is riding my bike everywhere. In theory, I could ride on weekend, but the snow here makes it hazardous and nearly impossible on public roads. But-- can't complain. I won't allow myself to.
I very nearly forgot until just now. The moon was full last night. I react in a very extreme way to the full moon on a clear night. Better if it's a late summer's night.
So in the midst of my reading a bright light caught my eye, like an old friend waving from the back yard. As I turned a page in the book, the soft paper shifting between my fingers, I looked absently out the back door. There hung a bright silvery orb, low in the sky. The light was exquisite, blanketing the grass and the trees in something so soft and so magical that it almost seems to whisper as it is reflected from object to eye. Without thinking, I pulled the smooth string of my bookmark to take the place of my waiting thumb, and the book settled onto the table as I rose to my feet.
Face pressed to the glass, I saw the cold crisp light of the moon dance through the air, come to a rest in the clean dew which had itself just landed upon the grass. Worried by my strange behavior, my dog walked close to my feet, snatching away my attention with the soft caress of his fur. Startled, I brightly said, "Wanna go out?" He reacted by prancing in a circle and running towards where we let him out on a long leash by the back of the house. I followed him in a trance, gently taking in collar in between my fingers and coaxing the door open. The refreshing unfiltered light fell across my arms and face, slipping in through my pores and making me into a new being. As I allowed the cold metal clasp to close around the dog's collar, I stood up and spread my arms wide, embracing the moon and feeling the light like liquid static flowing in through my pupils, bathing ever cell of my being in magic.
The dog trotted further out into the yard, glowing with the light of the Great Luna. Slowly then I lowered my arms, placing my hands in front of me, palms up, so that I could see the light reflecting off my hand. I inhaled deeply, almost convinced that if I tried hard enough, I could become part of Luna herself, a walking creature of moonlight and magic, purifying the Earth with clean, cool white light. I felt the moonlight on my tongue, playing over my nerves like a snake charmer softly convincing the creature to trust, to obey. I myself was unsure whether I was charmer or snake, predator or prey, or perhaps the charm itself, a vehicle through which all might be made right, a tool for purification of life by Luna. Bringing my hands together, I realized something beautiful. Moonlight can never touch itself. Even if one were to place his hand to the moon, his hand would cast a shadow onto its surface. Because the moon itself is no more than a mirror. I revelled in the simplicity of the idea that had never before occurred to me as I turned my back on my beautiful friend and walked indoors. Though Luna is in my mind a force which deserves the utmost praise, I know in reality that She is no more than a product of physics and that to spend time giving undue worship would be the greatest of fool's errands.
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