 |
Current mood:  indescribable Category: Life
My thoughts are carefully sought out and with enough serious
contemplation that I feel comfortable with them and I can reflect on
them even afterward and still not have specific answers for many of my
own questions.
I am self-reliant in many ways, some being that I depend on myself over
depending on other people, but I would only be lying if I were to say
that was the case one hundred percent, because it's not. I have the
desire for company, though not frequently, and not always in person.
Why? Maybe because I articulate myself better mute than I do when I
speak. Speaking is dangerous and dodgy, always on edge in the situation
where you may say the wrong thing, where as written speech is easily
apprehended and restored with the simple press of a delete button or
the gesture of scrubbing an eraser or pen tip against words on paper.
Either way, I am, like everyone else, always thinking, though I would
like to believe that I think about different things. It just seems
nonsensical for anyone else to carry the thoughts that I have in my
head. Sure, occasionally I will have a mundane and repetitive thought
process in order to keep myself in check, but its times like this, at
four oh five in the morning, with the wind billowing against my window
violently and the scent of snow and rain still fresh in my nostrils
from my journey home from work, that I seem to be able to express
myself with a clear mind.
Sometimes before I see someone I think over a lot of the things I would
like to say in the introduction to our conversation. Given that these
never actually will ever go the way I plan them do to my faulty means
of prediction, I usually never get across a lot of the things I meant
to present despite the importance it held to me before hand. Not just
with any one person do I do this with, but I do it with everyone.
Usually, though, only the people I hold higher than others. I act on
whims, I jump to conclusions, but I always question them thoroughly
when I do, despite the fact that a lot of the things I do seem not well
thought out and somewhat irrational.
I don't laugh in the face of danger, nor do I enjoy the taste of
bittersweet revenge. That taste makes me ill, stirs the acid in my
stomach with feelings far surpassing guilt, as good as it feels to make
someone miserable when they are shredding me from the inside out on a
daily basis. It's just a matter of looking at or hearing a name that
can trigger emotions in people, much in the way you would have a
discussion with someone about someone they don't like, and you
immediately can search in your history of the one person you knew with
that same name, and come to the conclusion that all people with that
name are terrible people. It's not much but an automatic bias; it's
human nature. But all the same, I hate myself in the dirty deed of
vengeance, even when it feels so good.
It's rare that I defend myself in these aspects, considering I tend to
be easy going and not offended by the majority of the world around me.
I stand up for myself, or try to, in times where I am at stake and my
dignity is slathered on a bloody pedestal with the knife buried deep
within the stone. I can shake my face into my palms over and over but
it will never come off, and I will never be able to peel any kind of
imagery I have from behind my eyelids and discard it. My imagination
runs a million miles a minute, perhaps even infinite. As I type this
now, the imagery that I do use I can visualize in dangerous realism.
When I read books I am within them, not as a reader, but as a
character. I could taste the musky dew in the air in the third Harry
Potter book, when Gryffindor finally won the House Quidditch cup; I
felt as though I had been screaming and cheering for hours as the game
was in play, and my heart pounded as if I had been a rider of a broom,
gliding through the mud and grime of the dirt perhaps in a crash. I
could feel the humming warmth of the snitch in my own hand as it had
been in Harry's; my soul resided within the victory. I had never felt
such pride as I did in that chapter. With the book, I had won; I was at
peace.
And to think... to believe that I could become so close with simple
text, really works both ways, for as I write things, I pour my soul and
life into the text. As I write stories and short contexts that I
usually end up deleting or with no inspiration to finish or publicize,
my heart rides with the words, and gives me the apathy and satisfaction
I need to continue. I can feel the ache of withdrawal in an addict's
veins, and I can melt within the sheer ecstasy of love as it washes
over an individual for the first time.
As it is, in real life, outside of my inner world, I identify people
strangely. I don't see faces specifically, but I see people as they
are. I could not draw a face from memory, because in my mind, they are
all the same; it's particular moments or feelings that give me the
identification of a person, and not their expression or their features.
In my head I can map out an image of my friends' faces, but it's
difficult and takes time, and even then the images are some what blurry
and vague, perhaps because my vision is going as it is. But as I see
these people, I can still identify them from afar, not by the freckles
on their faces or the shape or colour of their hair, but because I
relate to people through alternate senses, as thought, emotion and
scent as opposed to visually. I know Rachel's smell well, as I know
Josh's, and Taka's, and Toby's, and PJ's and TJ's and Vallie's and
Dawson's and my mother's and anyone elses. I wouldn't quite call it
marking them but I do connect with them in a way that I can walk to a
place and taste their scent almost, and be able to identify them right
away.
Sometimes, I still can smell one of my exes, even. And as time has ticked from
the last time I was in a close enough proximity of my ex to get a good
wiff, I know I will never forget that scent. I loved that smell;
I could have swam in it, bathed in it, never got bored of it, and I
tried to sometimes, with the ache to get close to my ex just to bury my
face into the crook of their neck and take them in, let my ex sooth me
without doing so much as laying in bed with me or giving me their hand class. All of that is gone now, that connection, but
occasionally the scent will come back to me, and in those memories my
eyes flutter and I miss that time where things felt so right, where I
could still taste the flavour of love in the air when I was around that ex.
I have never had someone have that effect on me since then, save for,
perhaps, one person. Their crisp smell, and maybe the lingering burn
of cigarettes, but there is still that space around that individual that makes me
melt, that steals me away to another world. And I guess it's by
subconscious fear that I neglect the person and bring up my walls at a harsh
collective, pushing them away but drawing them in closer at the same
time. Though the pain that resides in my memory, the ache of this person's
absence and the hurt that has stolen tears from me so many times gives
me doubts and reasons to believe that I could never find that flavour
again, my ex's, in another person, despite the fact that I desire
nothing but to steal that person away and keep him for myself for ever.
Maybe to carve out the eyes of the individual's ex girlfriends in a gruesome impulse
just so they wouldn't have the gift of seeing the person's face anymore, to mark the person's glow as something they once had.
But I know I am probably not good enough. I am too far ahead, too...
mature for those types of antics. Boys do not want the knowledgable
female with a silence that completes her, and I suppose neither to
girls. Girls don't crave the mystery of the world, they prefer to
observe it and nod, intrigued, but they never approach it or ask
questions, they never guide themselves on a dreamscape of several
directions and several opportunities that could be the outcome of one
simple action that they could take. This gives me room to believe that
perhaps I am genderless, though I still will always probably identify
as male, not because it's easier and not because I think it is the
overpowering sex, but because it gives me comfort. It exempts me from
this gender, this assortment of mindless drones that are, essentially,
all the same. Each individual in this world has a personality but I
have yet to believe that any of them are truely different. As I have
said time and time again: if EVERYONE is different, doesn't that make
us all the same? Are there other people in this world that think as I
do, that could relate to me so thoroughly that I would no longer feel
to be the individual that I believe I am now?
Because as I look to me left and right, there are people with the same
goals and aspirations, the same outlooks on things and the same morals
and rights. But I believe killing other humans is a desperate and final
attempt in an act of loneliness. I believe that people do bad things
only because they were raised with bad things undone to them; because
they were reaped of the privileges of freedom despite this horrific
shade of 'freedom' we are supposed to have, enforced by the government
as a right and not a law. We are not free; if we were free, would we be
so mundane as to make our purchases? Work for our own satisfaction? If
we were free would we be punished for the things we think are right
thanks to petty laws that grasp the majority's vote as wrong? No. This
is not freedom, because freedom isn't free, and as such, freedom isn't existent at all. It's to my understanding that the free spirit is the
bored spirit; without the obstacles and challenges around our
ambitions, we could grow bored of them quicker because of the lack of
pride it took to achieve getting to it.
It's a simple flaw in nature I suppose that carries us onward. Between
the need to survive, the need to defend ourselves, the need to prosper
and the need to give ourselves a reason to be alive and be here, we are
just slaves to ourselves in the end of this world. A slave to death, as
it is for us all.
And as unsatisfactory as that sounds, it is only true. Because when it
comes down to it, no matter what position we are in, we are as any
animal; born to breed, raise, multiply, and die.
There are just sidestories and dramas to humans that we create to make it feel like we have a higher purpose.
We are just deer in a metallic forest, gassed by poisons as we run
blindly through the skyscraper trees and climbing buildings and iron
playground.
We will never be free.
9:39 AM
Powered by  | | English | | Albanian | | Arabic | | Bulgarian | | Catalan | | Chinese | | Croatian | | Czech | | Danish | | Dutch | | Estonian | | Filipino | | Finnish | | French | | Galician | | German | | Greek | | Hebrew | | Hindi | | Hungarian | | Indonesian | | Italian | | Japanese | | Korean | | Latvian | | Lithuanian | | Maltese | | Norwegian | | Polish | | Portuguese | | Romanian | | Russian | | Serbian | | Slovak | | Slovenian | | Spanish | | Swedish | | Thai | | Turkish | | Ukrainian | | Vietnamese |
|