*Sigh*

Been sick since Friday; out of school yesterday and today. Today I finally had enough energy to get out of bed. I even showered. Tired again, as expected, but oh well. I can't stay in bed forever. I think I'm on the tail end of H1N1. Yay me.

Thinking a little about expectations, and love. How well do the two go together? Can you love someone without having expectations of them? And can you love only your expectations. Sometimes I think it's all a bit much for me. Already I miss my fantasies a little bit. Sure-- ignorance is bliss, but knowledge is power. And I'd rather be strong than ignorantly happy, but... not all knowledge brings power. Some just brings frustration.

Can you love someone and still want that person to change for you? And if one person cannot love you because he wants you to change for him, can you really love him when you want him to change that one thing-- and love you for who you are?

I say that to love truly is to love for both assets and faults; not despite faults. But certainly not having the capability to love you for who you are is a fault... is it possible to love that? Perhaps I was wrong all along, and perhaps I am a hypocrite. I try not to be...

I think of days past where all was a dream. I don't understand.

A thought for the day

One day.
A week's stress.
Over, finally.
I don't know what the future will bring, but somehow I have to live with the present whilst letting it go. For clinging like a child to the present is of no more use than clinging desperately to the past.
Why must we hold on at all? Time is what life is made of, and for some reason we don't want to let it come as it will. Instead, werush, we stall, we reach back. Life will come and it will go, and all the while we may be looking the other way.
Why?
I focus on goals, but do not focus too intently to see what is along the way. I live life as it comes, I try to find something positive in every day.

When it comes down to it, you may as well enjoy yourself-- who are you hurting by being unhappy?

Given the nature of my most recent post, I'm not sure that I'll be able to continue this blog. Most certainly not with my original intent.

Wrote this in school

Contemplation of a state of mind sprung from nothing...

.

This person I have become is my greatest triumph, and

yet here I feel so defeated, knowing that in all my

connectedness, I am utterly alone.

.

Before, I lived witth my daydreams, happy with my creations.

Suddenly I was disillusioned; all my fantasies fell away

at once. As yesterday I wrote, "Here I stand, naked

and shivering in the harsh light of reality."

.

My escape is gone. I have nothing left but to face

absolute truth. In this truth, I see that only I love me

sheerly for what I am-- without expectations, without

a view of potential, without seeing only a mask.

.

Perhaps, if my situation had changed to this result,

I wouldn't mind so much. But to see that you were alone

from the beginning... this realization is almost devastating.

.

And so nothing has changed,

...................................except that I see reality.

.

...And with this loneliness comes the selfishness I never had.

......Though I work to make others happy, as always,

.........My decisions are made only for myself,

.

whom I love.

Disillusioned

Fantasies stripped away, I stand naked and shivering in the cold light of reality.
No one else stands with me, and so I stand tall without shame.
I see myself in my nakedness, appreciate the beauty that is me.
Here there are no fallacies, no makeup and jewels to cover all the

imperfections.

But with no comparison, how can imperfections be imperfect?
I am the only one, and therefore the pinnacle of humanity in this strange place.

Below me there is soft, dewy grass.
I blink stupidly at it, feel it gently give way to each new step I take.
The breath is that of an early autumn morning, as darkness ebbs away but before the sun has risen.

There is no fear here.

All my comforts, all my lies, and all the beauty that I saw is gone; I am a child without a security blanket. But I know that it was I who gave these things to myself, and I also who took them away. One cannot mourn what one purposefully left behind. Somehow I am stronger here, naked and alone. Shock waves move gently through me, pushing me to sway as a piece of seaweed in the tide. I know that I will allow myself to depend on others, and help them as always. After all, nothing has changed. I have simply

opened my eyes.

There is only one difference with this new reality. I will live for myself. Only I can love me for this person who I am here. Only I love me without a goal; without expectations. Others love masques and potential. But here I am nothing but myself, and here is the person who I love in me.

So now for this person I live; I work to my own expectations. I cannot live trying to be perfect for everyone else and still be happy with myself; surely I will be smothered under so many masques.

In this new place I lay upon the ground feeling the purity of the dew upon my back. I love everything, even without it loving me back. By living for myself I learn altruism.

Here without my illusions I still reel from the shock. Here in my nakedness I try to understand just what I was hiding from, and just what was here... my illusions sheltered me, but with them I felt warm. Here I am utterly alone, and though I know with all of me that I have strength to carry on, I am not sure I want to know that no one was by my side

in the first place.

Internal Conflict

I want to be perfect, and I want to be perfect for myself; no one else.

Yet somehow I'm still wondering, what if I'm never good enough for you?

I am my own best friend.

"..And what a surprise it was to me, when I saw that no one else could ever love me the way I loved myself..."

Last night, half awake and quite upset, I wrote these words upon my leg for lack of paper. However, despite any of the various afflictions to my mental state during that time, it is true. By love I don't mean the simple, universal love; I mean "love" as we use it to mean caring about another person. It came first from the idea that I need a friend like myself. Upset, I knew that no one could have comforted me, even if someone had been there. I wouldn't have allowed them to. I would have frozen up. Alone, though, I cried to myself and comforted myself, explained each thing that made no sense and told me that everything was going to be okay. For just a moment, I filled all the roles a life could ever need. It was then that I realized that no one else could ever love me as "well" as I love myself. This is because I understand myself far better than anyone else ever could; after all, I live with myself all the time. In addition to understanding myself, I accept myself. With all my faults, with all my problems, with everything I do wrong, screw up, fail at, don't try or give up, I can still tell myself that I'm worth it. Truthfully, I'm not sure that anyone else could fully accept me like that. I don't blame people for it; it simply isn't within the human capacity to accept every characteristic available to man, and the likelihood that they'd accept the exact grouping of my characteristics is rather slim.
For awhile I cried with myself over the fact that no one could ever love us to such a degree as we loved ourself. I knew that the things I had done to myself; to my mind were signs of a bad relationship. But that was before I loved myself at all... how strange it all is. I worried for several minutes whether such an outlook would be viewed as some sort of a mental disorder, after all, I was thinking of myself as two people, one comforting the other, a further one comforting a more central one, loving her for the person she is. When I calmed down, my identity merged into one, as it should remain...
Still, I can't be sure whether I should be comforted or disturbed by that idea. The comfort is that I can trust myself completely, knowing that I won't ever betray myself, stop loving myself, or leave myself in any way. I am my own best friend. However, there is a certain... arrogance to thinking that no person could compare to you in a relationship with yourself. True, this idea would never lead me to reject my friends; I love my friends. But is it wrong to favor yourself (in a third person view) above your [other] friends? This is not self-importance, I am favoring myself. Perhaps I am more odd than I previously thought. Fortunately for me, though, I know that I'm dependable.

My Mind

I feel sleepy today, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Sometimes I wonder if I'm stable. I tend to think that I am; that I have control of what I do and say. Yet, there's always that "What if?" Always the questions. I wonder if, in the event that I'm not as stable as I think, what it would take to make me snap. I wonder what my best coping mechanisms are.
For the first time in a long time, I feel quite lost about where I stand, relative to others. For the first time ever, I'm lost in this way and completely comfortable with it. Perhaps the biggest conundrum that rises into my mind lately is the issue of my aptitude as a partner in a relationship. I'm not the type who prefers to "fly solo" just for the heck of it, or so they don't have to commit. Rather, my problem is that I don't want to bring anyone else down. Sure, the freedom of being single is an okay idea, but it's more... I don't know that there's a word. Not responsibility, because I have no problem taking on responsibility for others. But I'm just to extreme. I don't want to take others down with me, and so I put their interests before my own in almost all instances. I lose myself into a vat of interaction, and then find myself blinking stupidly into the harsh light of reality when I realize that the other person has sacrificed very little in comparison. I don't mean only romantic relationships; in fact, this applies more directly to friendships for me.
I have some fantastic friends, but all of my friendships lie upon the condition that I will, at some point in time, be taken advantage of. People don't try to do it; I just offer to help when they need help. what are they going to do, refuse? No, only people like me do that.
How is it that I am so unlike so many other people, and yet so mundane? Am I really mundane? Am I really unique? And if I am... what can I do to maximize my usage of my uniquity? It seems to me a certain obligation to use anything unique about oneself for the good of others. Do for others what they cannot do for themselves.

I don't know... and why should I? I am only human, after all...

But enough of this nonsense. It hurts my mind. I much prefer the kind of nonsense that soothes me. Like moss on a log, bright green and soft and moist, delightful to the senses. The log beneath is rotting, and the smell that emits from it is that of most fertile soil; it is exquisite and warm. A brown caterpillar works his way of the side of the log, perhaps looking for food. In my minds eye I watch the caterpillar, knowing that his search is futile. Carefully, by its midsection, I pull the caterpillar from the log. His head moves first away and then towards my skin, as he realizes that he cannot free himself. The coarse fur plays along my finger as I walk, feeling the damp grass give under my feet. On a nearby tree I release my caterpillar friend, allowing him to crawl up towards the foliage above. I imagine that in a soft voice he says, "thank you." I walk away from the tree, through my imaginary forest. The light is bright green, reflected off of so many leaves. In the corner of my vision I see a small white moth moving effortlessly through the air, and as I ponder the moth's past two squirrels appear a ways away from me, chasing one another playfully through the trees. I crouch down and watch for a long time, careful not to disturb them. As the squirrels disappear from view, my green light becomes a deep blue cast over the walls of my house and the sun begins to fall towards its resting place.

Reality isn't always so bad.

Talk to Strangers

I don't know exactly why I'm posting this here, except that I can.
I'm thinking of starting a mini project of my own, entitled, "Talk to Strangers." The premise is that we live in an overly individualized world. Even though we're always connected, we manage to make it all about ourselves. No one writes letters anymore. Why? Because that would entail actually reading and replying to the response. It seems that we don't care about other people; that we're all detached.
Personally, I think that our society's lack of intimacy is a disease. I had that disease. Fear of being close to others, as if you could get contaminated by their thoughts, emotions; by their lives. Now, though, I want that. I want to know what so-and-so is thinking. Not to be nosy; just because I care about that person and want to understand them. What does it matter whether or not I know them? I care about them already.
So my project, my Movement for a Common Intimacy (I think this name would scarea lot of people...), is Talk to Strangers. If all goes according to plan, I'll go onto common email websites and type in some usernames, writing down those that are taken. Then, I'll send an email, which will give them the option of replying to or ignoring me, and those that reply will [hopefully] become my virtual anonymous penpals.
I'll probably suggest that they use a pseudonym, as I myself do. Because it doesn't really matter if they tell me the truth; it's a persona they'll be building, and it's the persona that I'll get to know.


...Yet more proof that I am a very odd person.

Control Freak

Something's not quite right in my mind. Like the feeling when you need to crack your back. After a long time and many diversions, it occurred to me that writing is my mental chiropractor.
I seem to have a lot of frustration, and it seems to bubble up at odd moments. My mind roves over dreams and tries to ignore the monster in my veins.

First, the distraction: today I have a twin. An identical twin, except that it's a boy. This occurred because we were both born as hermaphrodites, and the "fixed" us into different sexes. This, of course, provided an amazing opportunity for studies. Our parents were separated, and so our father got the boy and our mother got me. We met when they told us what they'd done, trying to study whether genetics or environment had a greater effect on "male" and "female" characteristics. Genetics played the major role, because he and I were very similar. we talked for hours. Just what I needed. A friend exactly like me.

Second, the problem. Four nights ago, I felt practically possessed. There was an angry monster running through my veins like fire and static, biting me as he went along. I wanted to let him out, but I couldn't. Can't. It's wrong. I can't. And so I lay there with the monster, arms pinned under a pillow and thrashing whilst restraining myself. Sobbing in perfect silence. And again last night. And as much as I love my insanity, I think... what if I were normal? What if I didn't have crazy spells? And how much can rationality do to bury a true problem?

Today I am trapped in between all the forces of my mind, floating in infinity. The monster is reduced to perhaps an ant, angry but with little force. With music, with words, I block my mind. Fill myself with a happiness that is neither real nor artificial. When I allow myself to lapse I tend towards sleep, which I do not have time to do. I work on schoolwork, but wonder idly just how much I can do before my mind is overcome with boredom. I write, I write, I write. It makes me feel better, but can it always be enough? Or what if it becomes a catalyst in a lethal reaction? I think too much. How often I do ponder gruesome outcomes to improbable events... and for what? Nothing. Or perhaps I am simply afraid of losing control. Little by little I discover the ugly aspect of myself, when I never before knew that I cared so much for control. True, I do not want to control others; only myself. Still, though. Why must I obsess over it so? If I am strong I will have control over myself. If I am weak another will hold control, and it will be my and only my fault. Maybe I'm trying to make up for an inherent weakness through obsessive planning. Is it really possible, though, that so many of my problems could stem essentially from a lack of self confidence? and why should simple belief hold so much weight? I am a very odd creature indeed, and it seems to me that I had better do something to benefit myself.

I think perhaps that I could try to write a book. However, it seems of late that I am far too scatterbrained for such a project. Indeed, I can barely concentrate enough to write my foolish pieces here. If only, if only... If only I could focus. If only I believed in myself. If only I were better. Stronger. Smarter. Once upon a time I was like so many others who pushed my problems off upon others. Now I take the World's problems upon myself. Why can I not find a happy medium, and stay there?

I wonder sometimes if there is not happy medium for me. If I will spend all of life living on opposite extremes, the reaches of my mind battling for attention on ground that is not theirs, but mine; destroying none but me in the process. Why is there no end? Books have ending, happy or sad. But at least they end. Long ago one book in the series of my life should have ended. But it seems a character whose death ended that book has returned now in the next as a ghost. I am the author of this series, but there is a petulant character who I am unable to write out.

..................and how can I fear a loss of control, when it seems I have none at present?