Here it comes. There's nothing I can do about it. Make my bed, put some music on, read a book, eat a yogurt, and it builds and builds until I have nothing to say but everything, and that would take too long and there is no one here to hear it and if there were, I'd prefer listening to their everything.
And it will pass and my smiles will be smiles again and I will fall asleep and wake up stronger, ready to face the depletion of my strength.
It will pass
It will pass
Yes
I am listening to The Shins in a four poster bed under a big, white comforter in my favorite T-shirt. My blinds are open and I can see the rain changing its mind. I can see leaves surrendering, after all that. It's when spring peeks out that I feel like letting go, too.
I love The Shins. I love U2. Evaluating my admiration of people makes me nervous. People evaluating their admiration of me makes me nervous.
Maybe I'll teach lessons on love letter writing, after all. All that's missing from a scenario described to me in such a letter is its author. And that's just life, and so I'm not sad about it. We describe what we want as best as we can, and then we change, and what we wanted happens to someone else. And they sit on their four poster bed under a big, white comforter and wonder where their scenario is.
We're all too lonely not to be connected.
***
"You want to fight for this love
But honey you cannot wrestle a dove
So baby it's clear
You want to jump and dance
But you sat on your hands
And lost your only chance
Go back to your hometown
Get your feet on the ground
And stop floating around"
Oh hello there. How have you been? Yeah? That's really good to hear. Me too :)
Basic updates: moved out, switched job location, still not going to school, still happy about it... reading more, keeping my turtle alive, staying in touch with friends... keeping my room clean, writing on a desk calendar,
and other stuff, I guess. Other stuff that doesn't encapsulate the discrepancies between who I am now and who I used to be. I guess you really can grow up all at once. Well, no you can't. But big portions present themselves when allowed. I guess collective shock at my actual age doesn't determine that I'm as old as I should be.
One thing I've noticed is that the part of me that would challenge anybody and their mother to a Who Can Love Somebody the Best fight is fighting to get out. I miss being in love with the same ferocity that I use to keep people at a distance. If that isn't shooting yourself in the foot, I don't know what is.
I still get panic attacks. I still feel like I'm preemptively grieving something. I still don't talk to anybody face-to-face as much as I process on this screen. It's like I don't even care if you know; I just don't want to tell you. That must be the gap between considering myself transparent and being told I'm not.
I'm still not writing. I still talk to God. I'm still having a hard time answering the question "what do you want to do?" I'm still learning how to enjoy alone time.
Maybe I'm an X-men. X-man? X-woman if you're into that sort of anti-sexist crap. I don't know what my power is, but I feel internally conflicted on emotional and physical levels. Like something's fusing within me and will manifest as something that people talk about in either hushed tones or shameless exclamations.
I'm mad at myself for having every single part of a Happiness Equation and not being at peace. I'm mad at myself for "living in the moment" and recalling each moment as one devoted to wondering how to live in such a moment. I'm mad at myself for thinking myself into holes. I'm mad at myself for wondering if this blog is a detriment. Either it's the most honest portal I have, or I associate its posts with depression and angst and cannot post outside of either.
Hmmm
Who knows.
Don't worry, Murray. Each minute passes until there aren't any anymore, and that's a good thing.
***
I wrote that an hour ago. These are further thoughts:
-sure, sleep solves everything, but you can't sleep all day
-I try to care less about a lot of stuff. I really do. People who care less seem happier.
-It's quite possible that I refuse to let people love me. That's a really therapist-y thing to say, and maybe by my 21st birthday I won't come to therapist-y conclusions anymore, but the more likely fact is that I will.
-I need many, many more tattoos. I can't take them to heaven, and time is running out.
