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Computers hate me. Technology hates me. I'm sure I will struggle with it a lot on this site. I'm sure that it will hide posts from me, reformat my text, and submit things that are not done yet without my permission.
Technology is like a younger sibling - it runs up to me, kicks my knee, laughs, and then takes off running. Furious, I chase after it, but by the time I catch up, we're laughing and having too much fun. I completely forget why I'm angry.
Oh, metaphors. I swim in them.
At times, I lack the proper words to describe an understanding, a feeling, or an idea. On the tip of my tongue dances the exact phrase I've been attempting to form yet every single time, I swallow it whole. Most of the time, I side with silence purely because I fear coming across as ignorant. I know, I know - we should never care what others think of us. Folly that is, though. We should, to some small degree care what others think of us. It is a game of checks and balances played within the halls of societiy's social circle.
I have never been afraid of solitude. The quiet of a life, the finishing of tasks on your own - it is daunting to some yet oddly refreshing to me. It is like waking up from a nap and finding that the sun has fought it's way through the blinds. Its rays rest over you in a warm blanket. Like a cat, you yawn and stretch, completely content. Completely comfortable. Of course, liking solitude does not mean I am incapable of feeling loneliness. I am human, after all, even if I enjoy observing the world. We all have our own tastes.
I could write forever. Sometimes I wish I could be the witness of the world. From afar I could watch, haunt shadows and wander with people, recording the events. Recording those little moments that keep people awake at night. Both the good and the bad. If I could carry a book and pen with me and write all of these little details, I would. I would be a guest to the lives of millions; write the stories of all. My hand would never stop its scribbling, always moving. To write is to remember; to create. To fill something that's empty.
I am so tired. Horribly, horribly tired. I had bad dreams and weird thoughts thar kept me tossing and turning. Now, I'm left feeling like the sketch of a person - not quite complete and covered in eraser rubbings. There is so much to do and an increasing panic that there is not even time to do it all. I wish there were three of me to use the hours in the day; to read, exercise, and be social. It will all get done eventually. Maybe I'll make a list. I do like lists. I'll start there and it'll be fine.
I'm exhausted and grumpy. The first is explainable - a lack of sleep caused by tossing and turning beneath heavy blankets, weaving in and out of dreams both good and bad, and a perpetual loop of thoughts that intermingled with each of these things. As for the second, I have no idea. Most likely caused from my crazed hormones that attack me. Mixed with those thoughts from the night before, it creates one whirlwind of grumpiness. I feel like that cat that's circulating the internet right now. How about I get up and be cheery? Maybe even smile? How about no.
If I start to think about it, time moves very slowly. The hands on the clock are pulled back like an imaginary game of tug of war - past vs. present. If I don't think about it, occasionally I'll look at my datebook and realize a week has gone by. What am I counting down? Waiting for? A hope. The buildings of a plan, of an idea. The anticipation creeps along my skin and makes me giddy - girly even. I grin and no one understands why. It's funny what missing someone can do to you. I can't wait to see him.
My tooth hurts. Or my gum above one tooth - I'm really not sure which it is. Either way, when I chew and pressure is put on
, it hurts. Makes me dizzy to look at, too. For as long as I can remember, the tiny details of the body have made me queasy. Bloody nose? No problem. Cuts and scrapes? I got that. But give me eyes, nails, or teeth and I clap a hand over my mouth. So, I'm not happy that my mouth is freaking out. Plus, it's just annoying. I swear, it's plotting against me.
It's always been stunning to me to think about what other people see and feel. When I sit across the table from someone, I know what I see, hear - I feel myself as a whole. I'm acutely aware though, that the other person has this same ability. They are preceiving me. They think internally just as I do. It's hard to grasp this concept since we see things from a first-person point of view; we're rather self-centered that way. But they see the world that way too. We are all whole parts interacting with one another. It's fascinating.
I wish that I could stick with. How many times have I come up with some amazing plot, drawn out sketches of characters, gathered all the information I need, only to drop the idea like it was nothing and move onto something else. People tell me that perhaps I do so because the idea just wasn't good enough and I internally knew that. I, personally, think that I lack the drive and passion that some people have when it comes to creativity. I never stick with anything. Sometimes, I worry that this will start to affect my relationships with people.
My poor dog got eye surgery yesterday. Her lids were turned in and causing a lot of pain. The procedure was quick and easy but she looks horrible. They shaved the top of her head and her stitches are visible. She's also been subjected to wearing the "Cone of Shame". That's probably the worst part - she HATES it. She can't sleep, eat, drink, or walk right because it weighs her head down. She's constantly running into things, though, so at random times, I'll just hear a "BAM". It's not funny, but I can't help but giggle. I'm a horrible person.
It's 3 AM. I'm not a bit tired but I know that I should sleep or tomorrow will be awful. I've thought about so much tonight. Example: how emotionally stunted my past has made me - those wounds are coming forth with an intensity I wasn't prepared for. I was thinking about a couple things that make me a tad unhappy and before I could stop myself, I thought: "Yeah, but it doesn't matter if I'm unhappy on my side." Rationally, I know that's not correct but it's what I learned. Funny how stuff like that rises. The past is powerful.
Something inside me feels more grounded. I'm sticking to things and my level of dedication is surprisingly high. It's nice, but for the life of me, I cannot explain this sick feeling welling up in the core of my gut. It's as if I'm anticipating something or waiting for it but I have no idea what
is. Sometimes I tense up, a flurry of thoughts ambushing my mind before flying away the next moment, much like birds on the limbs of a tree suddenly taking flight. I can't explain this tension hidden behind the happiness. I hope it fades.
Half the reasoning as to why I think I can be antisocial, is because if I have nothing of interest to say, then I simply won't say anything at all. I cannot stand:
"Hi, what's up?"
"Nothing much, yourself?"
"Oh, the same."
End scene. Conversations like that die out so quickly. I enjoy randomness and silliness but even those have their purpose and an intent; substance. I'm one of those people who will stay quiet until they have something to say - be it serious, comical, big, or small. Perhaps, in some ways, I am to blame for my own loneliness.
I feel like there's more I could be doing now but in all honesty, there isn't. I'm trying to take this as a chance to relax and think - keep on the bright side of things. I got a call from him today which was awesome, though I think the idea struck him only because he felt guilty. Ah well, it was nice and I enjoyed it. Missing people is a funny thing. Some people become filled with distrust and suspicion. Some become excessively clingy and needy - they need reassurance. Me? I spend my time reliving memories. It makes me smile.
There is something so wonderfully fantastic about waking up yet still being caught inside a dream. Warm beneath the blankets, you nestle in closer to your pillow, mumbling something unintelligible. Your body begins the slow process of waking up but your mind lingers in the midst of happy memories. Body heavy, you are completely safe between those sheets and memories. Suddenly, the minutes become so very important as you struggle to linger in that dream for just a little longer but your body breaks free. Waking, the day washes over you like syrup though you still can't help but smile.
"It's not that I don't feel like I can't handle this - I can, I can.
There's just not a lot to feel when everything is exactly the same.
That doesn't mean I can't feel. I still get sad. Happy. Lonely. It's just that in my life, nothing really provokes emotion anymore.
It's boring. Sometimes I miss exhaustion, passion, laughter, stress, worry-
Oh damn, the laundry!"
The dog lying on the floor watches the retreating figure with sleepy eyes, sighing softly. The tall, standing dog, she's decided, is absolutely insane.
Coffee is both a curse and a blessing. It tastes fantastic - I mix mine with a little bit of hot chocolate and milk to knock out any bitterness. The house is freezing today so I made myself a cup; instant liquid blanket. My body, though, can't handle caffeine like it did when I was drinking four cups a day. Now it makes me a little dizzy twenty minutes after I finish just one cup. A little spazzy feeling, like energy is rippling just underneath my skin. It's a bit annoying. However, it does wake me up which is always nice.
I wish I could draw people into the world I create when I close my eyes. We could all live there together and I'm quite sure we'd be happy. No more trivial, pestersome worries from reality constantly harassing already exhausted minds. No more lingering hesitations or fears; timidity is a thing of the past. We would laugh all the time, take walks in groups, chatter by squeaky swings, eat as much as we wanted, and at night I would curl up with him like I grew accustomed to doing. Caught in youth, good days. I get lost in that world.
Typically, I don't write this early - in fact, I'm still in bed yawning away. I'm not sure when I'll be home tonight, though, so I figured that the morning was a good time to complete this. I'm off to visit my younger brother at his school today. Take him shopping, drop things off, that sort of thing. The drive is only four hours total which could be worse. The next time I'll see him is in March so this is a needed visit. He's a neat little brother - nice if not somewhat spoiled. Today should be interesting - but very exhausting.
I have the fierce desire to be productive today. Even if it's simply to paint, write, read, cook, or clean - anything works as long as I'm doing something. Days like this can happen; when life feels as though it has sluggishly slowed to a stop. The breaks squeal and screech until - ah, there it is, finally - it comes to a halt. Slightly unsettling and bothersome, I try and make up for it by doing more than what is normal. Movement, constant and stirring, to jolt a living breeze back into life. These days, I tend to get a lot done.
A Day in the Life...
Wake, groggily and sluggishly. Proceed to morning hygiene routine.
First, clean the kitchen completely then tidy up the house. Eat some form of breakfast. Wash dishes.
Vacuum all rooms of the house. Dust furniture afterwards. Take a twenty minute break. Begin daily hour long workout. Complete and shower.
Start first of two loads of laundry. Open a book and read during this task. Answer random texts/calls if received. Finish laundry - finish book in however many hours.
Make dinner. Slow down and begin to relax. Complete evening rituals before bed. Fall slowly asleep.
Are people so ignorant to believe it is possible for something to be entirely definite? That there never is a gray area? Rushing to decisions, letting your heart take control - all very good cinematic ideas but not meant for reality.
When you make a choice to leave someone, passionately and heedlessly, without thinking through all possible solutions and variables, you step on many lives made of glass in the process. They shatter in spider web-like splinters.
You cannot take back your choice - now you must deal with the sharp edges that have been created.
I'm one of those horribly bothersome yet entirely efficient people who refuses to do anything without having proper knowledge and information gathered on whatever outing is being planned.
I refuse to leave any variable unchecked and I figure that the more you know, then the better prepared you can be. The better prepared you are combined with the information you've gathered make the chances that something will go wrong less likely.
Panic and anxiety - both of which are dear friends of mine - will and can be avoided with a comfortable ease.
So, I shall research away!
Health has been important to me. I love eating foods I know delight my body and I love the feeling that comes after a hard work out. Pride, satisfaction, a sense of accomplishment. I want to be better than my best. Be capable of anything. So it pains me to sit and watch my father gorge himself on sweets, fats, etc, while his health steadily declines.
"Keep this up," the doctors say, "-and you'll have that heart attack soon," Yet, he persists, despite years of pleas. All I can do now is wait.
I've been digging in my closet lately. Old memories are like old blankets; sometimes dusty and worn, even filled with holes, yet somehow can bring warmth all the same. There are so many trinkets hidden in boxes - things I had long since forgotten about. Buried beneath a pile of papers were two small books. Diaries from when I was 11-15. The hand writing? Almost indecipherable. The subject matters? Folly, but amusing. Style? Abrupt and narrative. Yet it was the tone that struck me. A decade has passed and there was still "me" in the written words. Somehow it's...refreshing.
Nowadays, I tend to follow the same routine without much thought; I feel lazy. Years ago, I used to do more. I cheered on my friends at soccer games, was in a charity club, organized fundraisers for dog shelters, fed the homeless on the weekends, was in theatre club and their play, and advertised for charities. My professor even told me to audition for all his plays. I was so active - involved. When did I lose my passion? My drive? I stopped doing more, stopped taking part in things. This is something I want to change. It was so rewarding.
In the midst of pleasantly dreaming, I was sharply awoken by the sounds of large trucks and exhaust pipes. A steady beeping fell in through my window - the sound of a truck that was backing up but surely by now it was done. Back up any farther and I'd be sleeping right next to it.
Everywhere I have lived, new houses have sprouted up around me as if I were fertilizer. It never fails that some random day, I will hear the noises of construction.
I don't mind it, but it does make me sleepy.
I want to focus on painting tomorrow so honestly, I'm getting my 100 words done early. The project is a helpful distraction.
I have moments where I feel completely disconnected and disassociated from both the people in my life and the path I used to follow; the one I hope to rejoin soon. It's unsettling - horribly isolating feeling but there isn't much I can do about it. I chose this so I have to take the bad with all the good. Sometimes, I worry it'll make me guarded.
There are things I miss, though. Places. People.
Yes. Definitely the people.
There are, despite loneliness and boredom, some nice things about solitude. For starters, I can wake up and take my time doing so, ridding myself of any case of the morning grumps.
I can turn the TV volume up as loud as I like. The radio, too. I can even sing along - and badly. I can sprawl out on the entire couch, move pots and pans noisily while cooking, keep everything clean without ruin, and exercise without fear of interruption. I can also walk around the house without clothes on.
Let's face it - that's pretty much the best part.
Perhaps I'll just let the word speak for itself.
January sits like an old man in an armchair that's much too big for his frail size. Cold and shivering beneath his skin, he wears a robe of thick materials, bundled at the neck. A bushy brow leaves him looking grumpy and with sullen eyes, he stares into the fireplace. He looks old - worn and heavy with troubles. He looks aged.
"January," he suddenly says quietly to the silence - a small smile on his lips, a motion that suddenly reveals the heart of things.
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