I haven't updated in a long time because I have come to think of myself as "too good" for such uses of my time. Or I just thought my mind was clear enough that I didn't need to ramble. Oh shame that I find myself hiding and procrastinating again. Avoiding, actually. Hmmm.
Let's remember that very annoying level toward the end of Chrono Trigger where you have to climb Mt. Woe (to resurrect Crono). The wind is blowing, and you have to hid behind a tree so the force doesn't knock you off the mountain. If you don't have tree hiding behind down really well, this task can get quite INFURIATING. For some reason, I got really pissed at it while playing the DS version...I don't recall having that much of a struggle on my first two psone play-throughs. But regardless, I'm trying to turn that rather geeky reference into a metaphor pertaining to my emotional status.
I'm trying to run up a mountain. Mostly likely not Mt. Woe though. But I'm so freakin' afraid. Terrified. At times, I can beat a deer in the headlights for expressions of shock. Just ask anyone who has interrupted one of my deep thought processes. I look either upset or mad. I don't know; I can't see my own face without a mirror. Duh. I refuse to let the wind touch me. It might disturb my hair or sting my eyes; it might leave me vulnerable. A wind tunnel is a constant barrage. A cold, real barrage. I can't live with that. So I hide behind trees as I climb. I'm still making the climb, experiencing the various peaks, but in most circumstances, I'm not about the expose myself to the world.
I don't know if the wind is cold; I don't know if I should be crying know. I'm feeling numb. Not sure what to do. If I'm happy or just RUNNING AWAY. BEING LAZY. DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.
I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT.
WHATEVER IT IS.
I NEED TO TALK ABOUT IT.
lmao.
I don't get it.
Yes, you do.
See, I am afraid of being knocked off the mountain, afraid I don't deserve to being climbing that mountain. I'm used to seeing myself as a loser who doesn't get anywhere. But now, I kinda have a new persona. I'm not a loser. I have a lot to offer the world. I'm afriad to let the world see me because I'm afraid the world will reject me...again. I can make it higher hiding behind the trees...
But do you know I am here world?
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Dear Alex,
I have no witty opening for my feelings, no way to put nearly a year and a half of confusion, regret and anger other than the following paragraphs. I’ve tried to resolve my feelings other ways, but I’m hoping my words will finally grant me the closure I seek for desperately. I wish I could weave my emotions into a nicely embroidered scarf, tie it around my neck and move on with my life. But alas, the long threads that I could knit into a beautiful piece of clothing either got knotted together or have worn down from over-fingering. Because as most people would agree, I over think my life. I ponder, analyze and obsess- whichever word you want to use works fine.
Let’s say my –very contradictory- feelings are a scarf. Instead of blowing poetically in the wind behind me as I strut down a crowded street, the zeal of my appearance turning the heads of everyone I pass, the scarf gets caught on a fence, and I choke and fall to my knees. The crowds actually look away so, you know, they don’t have to help. The fabric frayed on the sharp metal ends of the fence, and I’m stuck here, caught on the fence. I’d rather unravel this whole mess of –emotion- fabric before I’d cast away the old scarf. Yes, perhaps I’m wasting time because the scarf is ruined anyway, but I’d like to learn something from the tragedy, understand a lesson about the dynamics of relationships and change, see firsthand how little things come together to form patterns and ultimately, take control over my self-destructive insecurities so I can finally look my scarf-less self in the eyes, smile and walk away.
Now, of course, I don’t know how to knit, and I don’t wear anything but necklaces around my neck so the entire introduction is something of a lie. But what do I know of truth? Truth for me is an –extended- metaphor (extended is in “-‘s” because that statement is funnier without the word extended, but my scarf analogy certainly creates an extended metaphor. You know you’re in trouble when “metaphor” isn’t a strong enough word. While I admit to not having a clue about knitting or choosing the right threads for the project, part of me at least hopes I can entwine wit and reality; times come up when I doubt my writing skills as well. But in relevance to you, I should glare in your general direction whenever I describe myself as a writer in the first place. Without you who is to say my beloved outlet wouldn’t have forever remained my unspoken dream. Or maybe I give you too much credit; maybe I always have. But I remember clearly thinking as I was walking through the halls of Stagg over four years ago “writing is just for fun. I could never write for real. I’m too silly.” Yeah, that’s a useless anecdote, but I have a lot of them hovering in the air above my rational thought processed so I like to sprinkle them around every once and awhile so I don’t get attacked by a swarm one day. Qualm the masses, so to speak. Actually writing has become a way to give my more rebellious, unfocused or dreamy thoughts a place to roam free. When you subtract some of the building charge, you get less lightening.
Not only do I digress, but I fear I’m telling you more than I intended. I wanted only to liberate rotting chunks of –whatever- I feel for you. Honestly though, I think my words reveal everything. Writing comes from a part of me beyond my rational brain. Truth comes spur of the moment—except in this case where I’ve deconstructed over and over my –once- relationship with you. The whole process has haunted me. Really, it has; I’ve longed to forget about you so many times. But, obviously, I haven’t. I can recall most events quite well. I just avoid any trips down memory lane. In metaphorical terms, in order to leave this state I’m at now, I need to hit the issue squarely on the head, dig up the roots so they stop sprouting more weeds. Only a bull’s eye will score. I’ve been capable of hitting the nail on the head, articulating the truth to you for a long while, but even before I added silence and dishonesty to the mix, the reality stung. For as much of a sadist as I tend to be, I avoid pain. I’ll scour every place, examine all possible reason while glossing over the gaping wound. Perhaps this talent once saved my life, allowed me to slowly break down my issues until I reached the heart, but the adaptation has left me vulnerable to my own insecurities as well. I’m sure you can find a few metaphors for adaptations that save but also weaken their host in the biological world. None present the needed answers I’ve found—only digging and scrapping for truth can. So I’ll embrace the unspoken thoughts that float around me nagging as they un-surface now and then.
Even in writing, I’m great at explaining things and presenting ideas but not so good at presenting conflict. I can write entire stories where nothing really goes awry. You can blame that quirk a bit on my idealistic nature; I’d rather capture beauty than stack piles of junk that need sorting and removal before the –almost- crushed flowers growing beneath can be revealed again. Okay, so I like figurative language. Let me start again…
As I mentioned before, I wonder if I’ve given you more credit than you deserve, if I have thought about you so much that you have come to take a much bigger role in my mind than you ever did in my actual life. I can’t deny those studies that show excess discussion (even internal discussions such as over analyzing) polarizes your position on an issue. But to be blunt (which as big as an advocate of truth as I am, I am not always), I did; I still, and might always, consider you as having a key role in my identity formation. I mean you gave me the opportunity to express myself enough that I started to get to know who I –am- was. I’ve held a lot within me over the years, and I assume that plays a large part in my relatively recent habit of talking, explaining or just plain old rambling too much. Now, I’ve always misconceived myself—never picturing myself able to do or become half of what I am. Looking back, you gave me a friendship and an opportunity that represented everything I wanted than. It’s a strange concept to grasp, but you helped me to unleash some of my pent up wishes. For example, I was always quiet in classes without you and together we got yelled at for being uh, goofy. I never told anyone what was on my mind before; hell, I never let anyone see the depths of my creativity. Free associations, insights and inventions reveal a lot about their creator, which is why –even know- I often didn’t speak my mind. I refuse to show vulnerability to the world, even if it leaves me appearing cold. That truth makes up a good portion of my internal conflicts, but once again, I digress (this time into a more painful place.
Can’t you see I can’t write as well when I’m trying to face the past? I can’t write as snazzy as when I’m just rambling, which surprises me since I want to think conveying emotion should drive written works for the most part. I feel weak when I force myself to remember; I look down in shame—my eyes a dark, dark shade. The four years we were friends (and for that matter, the fifteen years that came before those years) carry intense emotion for me. Toward the end of last semester, I wondered if I could write myself a new past—an uneventful one where I was as happy as I was unassuming, a past that might seem to make sense with who I am now. Sometimes I think my attitudes took a complete turn, and other times, I know that I probably am incapable of real change. I know I think differently. I’m uncertain how to quantify “differently” though. If I was writing a story, I would never try to explain this change. I’d show it with “before and after” scenes (you know, show not tell). You know the “before” without me having to use such words as distant, disconnected, depressed or paranoid. I’d say you were the only person who really knew my darker side first hand then. It’s somewhat irrelevant now anyway since I pretty much have seamlessly combined those periods in my life into my identity. It’s not healthy to think of yourself as different people at different stages. I always have, but if you think about a skyscraper: it may be composed of many metal beams (and what not) and floors, but the builders weld them together to form one solid structure. I’m building on my past; maybe I did start in a hole, but I will reach the epic heights of the skyscraper in my metaphor. Or better yet. Do you remember that game from Challenge where the objective was to move a tiny ball from one side of the gym to the other with tubes cut in half without dropping the ball? If each tube was its own unit, the ball would never have reached its goal. Of course, using that metaphor adds the complication that we all have to run to the end of the line after our turn, but maybe that just suggests that our traits come in waves—we should never thrown a part of past into the closet thinking we will never need it again because it played its role. Now I think I am just writing for my own sake; actually; this entire letter is for my sake. Because you never cared as much as I did; you had no trouble forgetting. Actually, I shouldn’t make that claim. I don’t know how you feel, and I’m not sure I even care anymore. I must confess though I would like for you to recognize that I’ve changed, to be impressed by what I have become. Perhaps that validation is what I am waiting for before I can finally let go. I know in the past, I needed your words before I could act on my thoughts. I didn’t trust myself then—not my desires, my skills or my ability to convey my thoughts to the world. I acted so much bolder when I was with you because then it wasn’t just me facing everything by my –weird- self.
I could scrutinize over every interaction we ever had; I really could, if I had to the mental power to focus on writing long enough to transcribe that long a time. But I’m not going to. You know about the past. Sometimes I think my past is just a black hole waiting to suck me in, or I’m an eager swimmer waiting to dive into my past so I don’t have to face the future. Earlier today, I reasoned that I’m clinging to the past because I have been terrified of where I might be going in life. But it’s equally awful to hang in between, having grown but forsaken opportunities and convictions because doing so is easier than embracing them. The metaphor I devised to parallel this realization went like this: I started out stranded in a thick forest on an island. During high school or so I trekked out of the forest. I saw the shore as I entered college—even some days recently, I saw a glimpse of what lies beyond my island. I built a boat and made small voyages in the bay, exploring the shallow water. But if the weather became too scary, I could always paddle back to my hut on the beach where I would be safe. Running back threw a stick in my progress, but provided me with security. I’ve come to a place in my life now where I know the time to finally sail away from my beloved shore approaches. I’m sitting on the shoreline, the cold waves lapping against my feet as I contemplate. If it seems like I am idle, looks deceive because in my mind, I am steeling myself, gathering the necessary supplies for my journey in my heart and pruning my mind of useless, obsolete or negative thoughts. As I glance over the glistening water, I see my many dreams in my mind’s eyes. I really don’t have any idea where I’m going once I leave this island, but I’m going. Because if anything has grown stronger in my heart, my desire to express myself, to live to the most of my potential has.
This letter isn’t exactly like the one I saw myself writing. I’ll try addressing more concrete things now (no, I probably won’t since stopping myself from going into metaphors is wasting the potential of that thought process, and I hate wasting any potential so…). What would you like me to say? I know; I know. I should mention that certain incident last year. I have so many contradictory thoughts, explanations for my motives and regrets, but I think this one won: I don’t feel bad about anything I did because I wouldn’t have wanted to be friends with someone who made me not only lie but betray her trust and my principles anyway. Subconsciously, I would have stopped myself from acting so immature and cruel if I really cared about our relationship that much. Maybe. When I said I was trying to get you to see how much you were hurting me, I wasn’t lying. At that time, part of me really did want to see you again, wanted things to be like I imagined or wished they were. Actually, I don’t have an explanation. My lie is a blemish on my record of (at least trying) to be a good person and help people. If for no other reason, I wish it never happened so I didn’t have to think about it so much. I hate that I stained my hands with –metaphorical- blood. Had that not occurred, I could have walked away a lot more innocent. I could have blamed our failure on your lack on insincerity, you not valuing me as much as I valued you or your lies. Though in a healthier evaluation of the situation, I would admit my insecurities and misconceptions caused a lot of problems. You know that ever present fear of abandonment. And now my mind muddles. Here’s another theory: maybe I did want to hurt you, but since I’ve always considered myself such a wonderful person, I couldn’t bear the prospect that I would want to hurt anyone—let alone someone who once meant so much to me. I believe though that for the most part, you can only hate someone you once loved, someone who took something you cherished away from you. I don’t subscribe to that theory, and not just because I hate viewing myself in a negative light, but mainly because I trusted you so much that I would have had no trouble hurting you to your face if I really wanted. I’ve said a lot of mean, mistrusting things to you over the years—mostly thanks to my own defense mechanism—so I don’t think I would have suddenly decided I couldn’t tell you the truth. For me the best explanation is simply that I formulate a lot of ideas in my brain. Some might work, but other schemes need shooting down because they either hurt someone, have massive craters in their logic or don’t take into account reality. Convincing someone I was suicidal is exactly something I would do; in retrospect, I smirk at how much truth that last statement holds. I’m really good with words, I can act emotionless when I need to, those thoughts were sadly something I knew rather well and part of me likes to mess with people’s mind so I possessed all the ingredients so that distasteful disaster. I can never be sorry enough though; in my heart, I never intended to hurt you. I just didn’t want to lose you—even if losing you was what was meant to happen.
I didn’t stop talking to you because of that incident though. Hurting you actually gave me more reason to want to stick around. I might mess things up, but I will not lose my desire to make things right again. I just didn’t want to hear anymore lies, to care so deeply for someone who didn’t even want to see me. You made me feel pretty bad some of those nights. I was sitting in my room in tears talking to you, genuinely wishing I could help you. But you said you changed; I never got to check that one out for myself. Perhaps that’s a good thing for my sake, but I didn’t care about myself—not then at least. I would have done anything for you. I loved you, but it got to the point where I had to remove myself from the situation—for both our sakes. Don’t ever think it wasn’t painful though. I hurt every time something reminded me of you, with every sign that pointed out that you were so easily able to move on. Or maybe you just don’t have the tendency to bleed all over the place like I do…Or maybe I never really understood your feelings.
Let me say a few more things, what bothered me about your actions so to speak.
If I gave you the wrong message, I’m sorry. I’ve only recently come to understand that I do have very high expectations for myself and others. All the same, I care about people for who they are—not their successes, ambitions or anything else. I wouldn’t have stopped talking to you because you changed. If I say I care, I’ll care no matter what form you take. I would rather have that person around in any state of mind than lose them. There’s a certain beauty in a friendship that endures whatever either person has done or become that a relationship without any rocky ground can’t grasp.
Do I come off as selfish? I fear I have become more cold and selfish because I’m reluctant to let another person hurt me the way you did. Plus, I don’t want to waste any emotion on someone who is not worth my time.
I have learned a few things: I can’t change people or make them feel something they don’t. Friends are perfectly welcome to make their own choices. I guess now, I’m fine with that as long as I’m included in their plans, and those people who don’t aren’t worthy of me. But really, if I anything I need to accept people for who they are now. I’m writing this sentence a few weeks after the rest of this letter because irresolution on the part of this letter still haunted me. I understand this afternoon while in tears that I only trust people or for that matter, really love people I know will understand me. Examine all the people I’ve told you I like. Actually, just imagine Shion. I loved her because I could relate to her; I loved you because you came along and gave me something to believe in—someone like me who understood my pain. I don’t know what more needs saying; I’ve really seemed to have moved on for the most part but don’t ever think I’ll forget. I won’t; our past is a part of me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
For a second, picture our sixteen year old selves talking—sitting on the swings maybe or typing at the crack of dawn. I wonder if “the universe” ordained we go our separate ways because no closeness, nothing could top our unity then. Remember us holding hands in the twilight, both sensing some magical feeling “that all wasn’t alright.” Those same feelings brought us together. Just remember every conversation we shared—all those ridiculously wonderful things we invented. And don’t say it doesn’t matter; every time we create, our thoughts shape the world, leave a vivid mark in our hearts, in the hearts of those who witness the beauty.
Since not us, our past selves can be together, roaming forever in some fantasy. There’s a magic I cannot recreate in my memories. I think about all I did, all I wrote and know so many of my accomplishments and creations came from my desire to have something to share with you. Now I work hard knowing that I have a gift I can share with the world—a certain way with words that makes me strangely powerful. You remember how I used to say I wanted to save the world? Well, I longer do. I’m no less idealistic or empathetic. On the contrary, since I stopped talking to you I’ve become so much more aware of the reality behind my idealism that it has honestly become the new norm for me. But I recognize now that I truly want to be a member of a humanity that works to save itself. I want to do my part to create a world where everyone loves and dreams the way I do; I want to see the human spirit unleashed. I don’t know why I’ll telling you these dreams of mine. Maybe I still trust our memories…
Regardless, know that despite any of my weaknesses, my jealousies, my pain, you meant so very much to me. I will never forget what we had, and I don’t want to forget either. I’d rather have the painful, unresolved wounds exposed then forsake so big a part of my life. Forget crossing oceans, without you, I never would have made it out of the forest, out of the tree I was hiding in. I don’t care if I sound sappy or even creepy. You were my best friend. I’m sorry I turned out to be the person I did, but I’m not going to regret anymore. I’m sorry I had to wreak so much havoc and give so many people the wrong idea. I’m sorry I hurt you because goodness knows, I’m sure you have –or at least had- as many things to say to me as I did to you. Now, trust me, those last lines weren’t an apology for who I am. I would never or should never do that. I’m just saying that I did change a lot, and you might not have seen that coming. And I know I have caused havoc; it’s just part of who I am.
On that night I lied to you, what I really wanted to say to you was that “no matter if we are together in real life or not, I will reach you. I’ll reach you because as long as I embrace that part of myself that you made shine, you will always be a part of me.” And trust me, it’s my creative, random, crazy and passionate side I cherish the most. Actually, it’s my idealistic side I cherish most too. But you saw that side of me as well so this realization matters. I won’t lose my way because I believe strongly in humanity, in you, in my own heart. I am a dreamer. Dreaming once saved my life; dreaming will save all our lives.
Think of the world you want to make real—the relationships, the solutions, the freedoms and anything else that matters to you as a person. It can be reality. You must set your eye on that dream and start walking toward. This letter is approximately the same length as a short story. Although, it tells my whole story, it’s a summary, and scenes compose good stories.
Let’s say my –very contradictory- feelings are a scarf. Instead of blowing poetically in the wind behind me as I strut down a crowded street, the zeal of my appearance turning the heads of everyone I pass, the scarf gets caught on a fence, and I choke and fall to my knees. The crowds actually look away so, you know, they don’t have to help. The fabric frayed on the sharp metal ends of the fence, and I’m stuck here, caught on the fence. I’d rather unravel this whole mess of –emotion- fabric before I’d cast away the old scarf. Yes, perhaps I’m wasting time because the scarf is ruined anyway, but I’d like to learn something from the tragedy, understand a lesson about the dynamics of relationships and change, see firsthand how little things come together to form patterns and ultimately, take control over my self-destructive insecurities so I can finally look my scarf-less self in the eyes, smile and walk away.
Now, of course, I don’t know how to knit, and I don’t wear anything but necklaces around my neck so the entire introduction is something of a lie. But what do I know of truth? Truth for me is an –extended- metaphor (extended is in “-‘s” because that statement is funnier without the word extended, but my scarf analogy certainly creates an extended metaphor. You know you’re in trouble when “metaphor” isn’t a strong enough word. While I admit to not having a clue about knitting or choosing the right threads for the project, part of me at least hopes I can entwine wit and reality; times come up when I doubt my writing skills as well. But in relevance to you, I should glare in your general direction whenever I describe myself as a writer in the first place. Without you who is to say my beloved outlet wouldn’t have forever remained my unspoken dream. Or maybe I give you too much credit; maybe I always have. But I remember clearly thinking as I was walking through the halls of Stagg over four years ago “writing is just for fun. I could never write for real. I’m too silly.” Yeah, that’s a useless anecdote, but I have a lot of them hovering in the air above my rational thought processed so I like to sprinkle them around every once and awhile so I don’t get attacked by a swarm one day. Qualm the masses, so to speak. Actually writing has become a way to give my more rebellious, unfocused or dreamy thoughts a place to roam free. When you subtract some of the building charge, you get less lightening.
Not only do I digress, but I fear I’m telling you more than I intended. I wanted only to liberate rotting chunks of –whatever- I feel for you. Honestly though, I think my words reveal everything. Writing comes from a part of me beyond my rational brain. Truth comes spur of the moment—except in this case where I’ve deconstructed over and over my –once- relationship with you. The whole process has haunted me. Really, it has; I’ve longed to forget about you so many times. But, obviously, I haven’t. I can recall most events quite well. I just avoid any trips down memory lane. In metaphorical terms, in order to leave this state I’m at now, I need to hit the issue squarely on the head, dig up the roots so they stop sprouting more weeds. Only a bull’s eye will score. I’ve been capable of hitting the nail on the head, articulating the truth to you for a long while, but even before I added silence and dishonesty to the mix, the reality stung. For as much of a sadist as I tend to be, I avoid pain. I’ll scour every place, examine all possible reason while glossing over the gaping wound. Perhaps this talent once saved my life, allowed me to slowly break down my issues until I reached the heart, but the adaptation has left me vulnerable to my own insecurities as well. I’m sure you can find a few metaphors for adaptations that save but also weaken their host in the biological world. None present the needed answers I’ve found—only digging and scrapping for truth can. So I’ll embrace the unspoken thoughts that float around me nagging as they un-surface now and then.
Even in writing, I’m great at explaining things and presenting ideas but not so good at presenting conflict. I can write entire stories where nothing really goes awry. You can blame that quirk a bit on my idealistic nature; I’d rather capture beauty than stack piles of junk that need sorting and removal before the –almost- crushed flowers growing beneath can be revealed again. Okay, so I like figurative language. Let me start again…
As I mentioned before, I wonder if I’ve given you more credit than you deserve, if I have thought about you so much that you have come to take a much bigger role in my mind than you ever did in my actual life. I can’t deny those studies that show excess discussion (even internal discussions such as over analyzing) polarizes your position on an issue. But to be blunt (which as big as an advocate of truth as I am, I am not always), I did; I still, and might always, consider you as having a key role in my identity formation. I mean you gave me the opportunity to express myself enough that I started to get to know who I –am- was. I’ve held a lot within me over the years, and I assume that plays a large part in my relatively recent habit of talking, explaining or just plain old rambling too much. Now, I’ve always misconceived myself—never picturing myself able to do or become half of what I am. Looking back, you gave me a friendship and an opportunity that represented everything I wanted than. It’s a strange concept to grasp, but you helped me to unleash some of my pent up wishes. For example, I was always quiet in classes without you and together we got yelled at for being uh, goofy. I never told anyone what was on my mind before; hell, I never let anyone see the depths of my creativity. Free associations, insights and inventions reveal a lot about their creator, which is why –even know- I often didn’t speak my mind. I refuse to show vulnerability to the world, even if it leaves me appearing cold. That truth makes up a good portion of my internal conflicts, but once again, I digress (this time into a more painful place.
Can’t you see I can’t write as well when I’m trying to face the past? I can’t write as snazzy as when I’m just rambling, which surprises me since I want to think conveying emotion should drive written works for the most part. I feel weak when I force myself to remember; I look down in shame—my eyes a dark, dark shade. The four years we were friends (and for that matter, the fifteen years that came before those years) carry intense emotion for me. Toward the end of last semester, I wondered if I could write myself a new past—an uneventful one where I was as happy as I was unassuming, a past that might seem to make sense with who I am now. Sometimes I think my attitudes took a complete turn, and other times, I know that I probably am incapable of real change. I know I think differently. I’m uncertain how to quantify “differently” though. If I was writing a story, I would never try to explain this change. I’d show it with “before and after” scenes (you know, show not tell). You know the “before” without me having to use such words as distant, disconnected, depressed or paranoid. I’d say you were the only person who really knew my darker side first hand then. It’s somewhat irrelevant now anyway since I pretty much have seamlessly combined those periods in my life into my identity. It’s not healthy to think of yourself as different people at different stages. I always have, but if you think about a skyscraper: it may be composed of many metal beams (and what not) and floors, but the builders weld them together to form one solid structure. I’m building on my past; maybe I did start in a hole, but I will reach the epic heights of the skyscraper in my metaphor. Or better yet. Do you remember that game from Challenge where the objective was to move a tiny ball from one side of the gym to the other with tubes cut in half without dropping the ball? If each tube was its own unit, the ball would never have reached its goal. Of course, using that metaphor adds the complication that we all have to run to the end of the line after our turn, but maybe that just suggests that our traits come in waves—we should never thrown a part of past into the closet thinking we will never need it again because it played its role. Now I think I am just writing for my own sake; actually; this entire letter is for my sake. Because you never cared as much as I did; you had no trouble forgetting. Actually, I shouldn’t make that claim. I don’t know how you feel, and I’m not sure I even care anymore. I must confess though I would like for you to recognize that I’ve changed, to be impressed by what I have become. Perhaps that validation is what I am waiting for before I can finally let go. I know in the past, I needed your words before I could act on my thoughts. I didn’t trust myself then—not my desires, my skills or my ability to convey my thoughts to the world. I acted so much bolder when I was with you because then it wasn’t just me facing everything by my –weird- self.
I could scrutinize over every interaction we ever had; I really could, if I had to the mental power to focus on writing long enough to transcribe that long a time. But I’m not going to. You know about the past. Sometimes I think my past is just a black hole waiting to suck me in, or I’m an eager swimmer waiting to dive into my past so I don’t have to face the future. Earlier today, I reasoned that I’m clinging to the past because I have been terrified of where I might be going in life. But it’s equally awful to hang in between, having grown but forsaken opportunities and convictions because doing so is easier than embracing them. The metaphor I devised to parallel this realization went like this: I started out stranded in a thick forest on an island. During high school or so I trekked out of the forest. I saw the shore as I entered college—even some days recently, I saw a glimpse of what lies beyond my island. I built a boat and made small voyages in the bay, exploring the shallow water. But if the weather became too scary, I could always paddle back to my hut on the beach where I would be safe. Running back threw a stick in my progress, but provided me with security. I’ve come to a place in my life now where I know the time to finally sail away from my beloved shore approaches. I’m sitting on the shoreline, the cold waves lapping against my feet as I contemplate. If it seems like I am idle, looks deceive because in my mind, I am steeling myself, gathering the necessary supplies for my journey in my heart and pruning my mind of useless, obsolete or negative thoughts. As I glance over the glistening water, I see my many dreams in my mind’s eyes. I really don’t have any idea where I’m going once I leave this island, but I’m going. Because if anything has grown stronger in my heart, my desire to express myself, to live to the most of my potential has.
This letter isn’t exactly like the one I saw myself writing. I’ll try addressing more concrete things now (no, I probably won’t since stopping myself from going into metaphors is wasting the potential of that thought process, and I hate wasting any potential so…). What would you like me to say? I know; I know. I should mention that certain incident last year. I have so many contradictory thoughts, explanations for my motives and regrets, but I think this one won: I don’t feel bad about anything I did because I wouldn’t have wanted to be friends with someone who made me not only lie but betray her trust and my principles anyway. Subconsciously, I would have stopped myself from acting so immature and cruel if I really cared about our relationship that much. Maybe. When I said I was trying to get you to see how much you were hurting me, I wasn’t lying. At that time, part of me really did want to see you again, wanted things to be like I imagined or wished they were. Actually, I don’t have an explanation. My lie is a blemish on my record of (at least trying) to be a good person and help people. If for no other reason, I wish it never happened so I didn’t have to think about it so much. I hate that I stained my hands with –metaphorical- blood. Had that not occurred, I could have walked away a lot more innocent. I could have blamed our failure on your lack on insincerity, you not valuing me as much as I valued you or your lies. Though in a healthier evaluation of the situation, I would admit my insecurities and misconceptions caused a lot of problems. You know that ever present fear of abandonment. And now my mind muddles. Here’s another theory: maybe I did want to hurt you, but since I’ve always considered myself such a wonderful person, I couldn’t bear the prospect that I would want to hurt anyone—let alone someone who once meant so much to me. I believe though that for the most part, you can only hate someone you once loved, someone who took something you cherished away from you. I don’t subscribe to that theory, and not just because I hate viewing myself in a negative light, but mainly because I trusted you so much that I would have had no trouble hurting you to your face if I really wanted. I’ve said a lot of mean, mistrusting things to you over the years—mostly thanks to my own defense mechanism—so I don’t think I would have suddenly decided I couldn’t tell you the truth. For me the best explanation is simply that I formulate a lot of ideas in my brain. Some might work, but other schemes need shooting down because they either hurt someone, have massive craters in their logic or don’t take into account reality. Convincing someone I was suicidal is exactly something I would do; in retrospect, I smirk at how much truth that last statement holds. I’m really good with words, I can act emotionless when I need to, those thoughts were sadly something I knew rather well and part of me likes to mess with people’s mind so I possessed all the ingredients so that distasteful disaster. I can never be sorry enough though; in my heart, I never intended to hurt you. I just didn’t want to lose you—even if losing you was what was meant to happen.
I didn’t stop talking to you because of that incident though. Hurting you actually gave me more reason to want to stick around. I might mess things up, but I will not lose my desire to make things right again. I just didn’t want to hear anymore lies, to care so deeply for someone who didn’t even want to see me. You made me feel pretty bad some of those nights. I was sitting in my room in tears talking to you, genuinely wishing I could help you. But you said you changed; I never got to check that one out for myself. Perhaps that’s a good thing for my sake, but I didn’t care about myself—not then at least. I would have done anything for you. I loved you, but it got to the point where I had to remove myself from the situation—for both our sakes. Don’t ever think it wasn’t painful though. I hurt every time something reminded me of you, with every sign that pointed out that you were so easily able to move on. Or maybe you just don’t have the tendency to bleed all over the place like I do…Or maybe I never really understood your feelings.
Let me say a few more things, what bothered me about your actions so to speak.
If I gave you the wrong message, I’m sorry. I’ve only recently come to understand that I do have very high expectations for myself and others. All the same, I care about people for who they are—not their successes, ambitions or anything else. I wouldn’t have stopped talking to you because you changed. If I say I care, I’ll care no matter what form you take. I would rather have that person around in any state of mind than lose them. There’s a certain beauty in a friendship that endures whatever either person has done or become that a relationship without any rocky ground can’t grasp.
Do I come off as selfish? I fear I have become more cold and selfish because I’m reluctant to let another person hurt me the way you did. Plus, I don’t want to waste any emotion on someone who is not worth my time.
I have learned a few things: I can’t change people or make them feel something they don’t. Friends are perfectly welcome to make their own choices. I guess now, I’m fine with that as long as I’m included in their plans, and those people who don’t aren’t worthy of me. But really, if I anything I need to accept people for who they are now. I’m writing this sentence a few weeks after the rest of this letter because irresolution on the part of this letter still haunted me. I understand this afternoon while in tears that I only trust people or for that matter, really love people I know will understand me. Examine all the people I’ve told you I like. Actually, just imagine Shion. I loved her because I could relate to her; I loved you because you came along and gave me something to believe in—someone like me who understood my pain. I don’t know what more needs saying; I’ve really seemed to have moved on for the most part but don’t ever think I’ll forget. I won’t; our past is a part of me. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
For a second, picture our sixteen year old selves talking—sitting on the swings maybe or typing at the crack of dawn. I wonder if “the universe” ordained we go our separate ways because no closeness, nothing could top our unity then. Remember us holding hands in the twilight, both sensing some magical feeling “that all wasn’t alright.” Those same feelings brought us together. Just remember every conversation we shared—all those ridiculously wonderful things we invented. And don’t say it doesn’t matter; every time we create, our thoughts shape the world, leave a vivid mark in our hearts, in the hearts of those who witness the beauty.
Since not us, our past selves can be together, roaming forever in some fantasy. There’s a magic I cannot recreate in my memories. I think about all I did, all I wrote and know so many of my accomplishments and creations came from my desire to have something to share with you. Now I work hard knowing that I have a gift I can share with the world—a certain way with words that makes me strangely powerful. You remember how I used to say I wanted to save the world? Well, I longer do. I’m no less idealistic or empathetic. On the contrary, since I stopped talking to you I’ve become so much more aware of the reality behind my idealism that it has honestly become the new norm for me. But I recognize now that I truly want to be a member of a humanity that works to save itself. I want to do my part to create a world where everyone loves and dreams the way I do; I want to see the human spirit unleashed. I don’t know why I’ll telling you these dreams of mine. Maybe I still trust our memories…
Regardless, know that despite any of my weaknesses, my jealousies, my pain, you meant so very much to me. I will never forget what we had, and I don’t want to forget either. I’d rather have the painful, unresolved wounds exposed then forsake so big a part of my life. Forget crossing oceans, without you, I never would have made it out of the forest, out of the tree I was hiding in. I don’t care if I sound sappy or even creepy. You were my best friend. I’m sorry I turned out to be the person I did, but I’m not going to regret anymore. I’m sorry I had to wreak so much havoc and give so many people the wrong idea. I’m sorry I hurt you because goodness knows, I’m sure you have –or at least had- as many things to say to me as I did to you. Now, trust me, those last lines weren’t an apology for who I am. I would never or should never do that. I’m just saying that I did change a lot, and you might not have seen that coming. And I know I have caused havoc; it’s just part of who I am.
On that night I lied to you, what I really wanted to say to you was that “no matter if we are together in real life or not, I will reach you. I’ll reach you because as long as I embrace that part of myself that you made shine, you will always be a part of me.” And trust me, it’s my creative, random, crazy and passionate side I cherish the most. Actually, it’s my idealistic side I cherish most too. But you saw that side of me as well so this realization matters. I won’t lose my way because I believe strongly in humanity, in you, in my own heart. I am a dreamer. Dreaming once saved my life; dreaming will save all our lives.
Think of the world you want to make real—the relationships, the solutions, the freedoms and anything else that matters to you as a person. It can be reality. You must set your eye on that dream and start walking toward. This letter is approximately the same length as a short story. Although, it tells my whole story, it’s a summary, and scenes compose good stories.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Message #2
I always compose my messages to you in other word processing places because I hate the scrolling problem Facebook's messaging system has...
This is another letter to a friend.
I honestly am so touched by your words, so touched that I'm not even sure I wanted to respond because, perhaps, anything I said now would sound so much less poetic. But, of course, that attitude undermines my point. Progress. Here's another glimpse into the workings of my mind: Is life a continuum or does it have distinct stages? An example with words would look this: doesthissentencerepresentlifeican'treallydecide or does this sentence work better. because it has punctation? (except that second fragment isn't a sentence....). I hate saying that distinct "chunks" compose our lives because that theory lends itself to creating disconnects. Like we can only know something is new because it is not the same as what we previously experienced. I dislike seperation like that because so much in life is mostly similar. Then where does the "sorting" end. Now our brains chunk and sort information, and I usually stick with the explanation that mirrors nature, but this time I'm not entirely sure...Oh another thing that challenges my love of analogies. A few nights I was watching this show about the beginning of the universe (at like 5am too), and some scientist dude presented an idea that universes come in cycles. After thinking about it for awhile, I freaked. You know why? Because capitalism comes in cycles too. So quantum pyshics supports capitalism?! I'm not sure I am okay with that. I'm not opposed to capitalism; I just don't like the idea that people are OKAY with the idea that people's lives will rise and fall with the economy. I want there to be a better way. I am certainly not an economist (or a quantum phsyicist for that matter. But I do seem to be a philosopher...)
I walked away half way through this message so now I don't remember my previous thought process. And now I'm tired. Praise scares me. But it sets expectations. I am terrifed of wasting potential. I'm not really that great. I aspire to be that great. Thoughts are one thing; turning our ideas into action is another.
But uh, I cut that paragraph from a letter I wrote to the girl I was best friends with in high school. I don't think she is ever going to read it, though, for two reasons. Because I don't really want her to think that I am still thinking about her, and because I don't want to waste my talent on her. I didn't start writing that letter to prove I changed. I got the idea from my other high school friend who told me that she too still had lingering feelings for Alex. She sent her a message about these unresolved issues, and that helped her so she advised me to do the same thing. I didn't exactly end up writing a letter to her. It was more to myself, which to me means two things. She is always with me, and it wasn't necesarly her I was cling to but the idea of her. You can read the whole letter. It's metaphorical in a few other places. I'm actually not completely finish. I wrote that two weeks ago, and I read the outcome to my other friend. Reading something aloud is kinda a big deal for me because I DON'T want people knowing my thoughts, seeing beyond the surface I can easily control.
Basically the point was I had to let go. I couldn't keep making myself feel bad. Let's say my past is a lemon. Okay so I could easily leave that lemon alone because no one needs lemons. But if you think about all the random recipes that call for a tad bit of lemon extract or zest for that added acid (like I was making apple pie on Sharon's birthday, and the recipe called for lemon juice. I mean I didn't add it, but the point remains...) For the sake of my metaphor, the point of the lemon will be add a little more dimension to life, to further refine the experience. Completely unnecesary though. The dilemna comes in because it's hard to ignore the lemon ( we tend to be nagged by things we can't have, right?), but touching the lemon burns our skin (acidic! and hyperbole...) The objective is to squeeze the juice from the lemon without the pain winning...that is to say, learn from the past without sucked in. In my life, I was at a point where I had squeezed all the juice but couldn't seem to send my skins to the compost pile. I'm not one to leave things unresolved.
Hah. I'm tired. Nonsensical fruit metaphors ftw! Which reminds me of the sign on the grocery store wall that read "vegetables," but featured the picture of a tomato =_= For the record, I am NOT loving on the sucky "if make hands you lemons..." cliche. I can debate the usefulness of that line if need be, but I'm not going to...
I can't really tell you if my "letter" worked. It's really easy to scheme up a new philosophy from the peace of your bedroom (or in my case, the front room with the air conditioner...expect I think I was in the bedroom, which makes this entire sentence useless!), but when you have to put that life philosophy into practice, you face the trials. I talk in second person, probably because I consider most people to have somewhat similar thoughts. I'll just show you. But first I gotta finish writing...
Oh and another reason I know I changed: I came to understand that Simone Simons (she's the singer from Epica who I was totally infatuated with...lmao.) cannot be my hero. Her materialistic tendences contradicted far too much with Epica's message. It created too much dissonance for me. I can't change that I idolize people, but my idol should represent at least a large percent of what I would like to be. To me, who I idolize is a big deal.
I know I'm strange. But I've put a lot of struggle into being this strange, and for that reason, I enjoy it.
This is another letter to a friend.
I honestly am so touched by your words, so touched that I'm not even sure I wanted to respond because, perhaps, anything I said now would sound so much less poetic. But, of course, that attitude undermines my point. Progress. Here's another glimpse into the workings of my mind: Is life a continuum or does it have distinct stages? An example with words would look this: doesthissentencerepresentlifeican'treallydecide or does this sentence work better. because it has punctation? (except that second fragment isn't a sentence....). I hate saying that distinct "chunks" compose our lives because that theory lends itself to creating disconnects. Like we can only know something is new because it is not the same as what we previously experienced. I dislike seperation like that because so much in life is mostly similar. Then where does the "sorting" end. Now our brains chunk and sort information, and I usually stick with the explanation that mirrors nature, but this time I'm not entirely sure...Oh another thing that challenges my love of analogies. A few nights I was watching this show about the beginning of the universe (at like 5am too), and some scientist dude presented an idea that universes come in cycles. After thinking about it for awhile, I freaked. You know why? Because capitalism comes in cycles too. So quantum pyshics supports capitalism?! I'm not sure I am okay with that. I'm not opposed to capitalism; I just don't like the idea that people are OKAY with the idea that people's lives will rise and fall with the economy. I want there to be a better way. I am certainly not an economist (or a quantum phsyicist for that matter. But I do seem to be a philosopher...)
I walked away half way through this message so now I don't remember my previous thought process. And now I'm tired. Praise scares me. But it sets expectations. I am terrifed of wasting potential. I'm not really that great. I aspire to be that great. Thoughts are one thing; turning our ideas into action is another.
But uh, I cut that paragraph from a letter I wrote to the girl I was best friends with in high school. I don't think she is ever going to read it, though, for two reasons. Because I don't really want her to think that I am still thinking about her, and because I don't want to waste my talent on her. I didn't start writing that letter to prove I changed. I got the idea from my other high school friend who told me that she too still had lingering feelings for Alex. She sent her a message about these unresolved issues, and that helped her so she advised me to do the same thing. I didn't exactly end up writing a letter to her. It was more to myself, which to me means two things. She is always with me, and it wasn't necesarly her I was cling to but the idea of her. You can read the whole letter. It's metaphorical in a few other places. I'm actually not completely finish. I wrote that two weeks ago, and I read the outcome to my other friend. Reading something aloud is kinda a big deal for me because I DON'T want people knowing my thoughts, seeing beyond the surface I can easily control.
Basically the point was I had to let go. I couldn't keep making myself feel bad. Let's say my past is a lemon. Okay so I could easily leave that lemon alone because no one needs lemons. But if you think about all the random recipes that call for a tad bit of lemon extract or zest for that added acid (like I was making apple pie on Sharon's birthday, and the recipe called for lemon juice. I mean I didn't add it, but the point remains...) For the sake of my metaphor, the point of the lemon will be add a little more dimension to life, to further refine the experience. Completely unnecesary though. The dilemna comes in because it's hard to ignore the lemon ( we tend to be nagged by things we can't have, right?), but touching the lemon burns our skin (acidic! and hyperbole...) The objective is to squeeze the juice from the lemon without the pain winning...that is to say, learn from the past without sucked in. In my life, I was at a point where I had squeezed all the juice but couldn't seem to send my skins to the compost pile. I'm not one to leave things unresolved.
Hah. I'm tired. Nonsensical fruit metaphors ftw! Which reminds me of the sign on the grocery store wall that read "vegetables," but featured the picture of a tomato =_= For the record, I am NOT loving on the sucky "if make hands you lemons..." cliche. I can debate the usefulness of that line if need be, but I'm not going to...
I can't really tell you if my "letter" worked. It's really easy to scheme up a new philosophy from the peace of your bedroom (or in my case, the front room with the air conditioner...expect I think I was in the bedroom, which makes this entire sentence useless!), but when you have to put that life philosophy into practice, you face the trials. I talk in second person, probably because I consider most people to have somewhat similar thoughts. I'll just show you. But first I gotta finish writing...
Oh and another reason I know I changed: I came to understand that Simone Simons (she's the singer from Epica who I was totally infatuated with...lmao.) cannot be my hero. Her materialistic tendences contradicted far too much with Epica's message. It created too much dissonance for me. I can't change that I idolize people, but my idol should represent at least a large percent of what I would like to be. To me, who I idolize is a big deal.
I know I'm strange. But I've put a lot of struggle into being this strange, and for that reason, I enjoy it.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Almost Too...
Excited for the future! Almost so excited that I"m starting to get extremely anxious and not know what to do with myself.
I mean I've been having a lot of fun lately...Things seem to be slightly looking up again. Not that ever weren't--just I was bogged down by thoughts that I was wasting my life and thoughts about Alex and Sarah....So, yeah. I guess now I'm beginning to let go.
I've always found hope in idealism. Thus the the desire to "save the world." Which is why I'm so dang excited about the opportunity to go to Cali for a weekend for FeelGood. A whole weekend in Cali with other people who think like me! So inspiring!!!
Speaking of inspiring, I have a new hero. (well, sorta Sharon will always be my unspoken favorite. For me, Sharon's the paramount of everything that I good in the world. Unrealistic? Of course, but who cares, you know!) But for awhile, earlier this year, I was totally comparing myself to Simone, thinkingI wasn't as good as person because I wasn't as accomplished. Really bad idea, btw. First of all, none of my desires even have anything to do with Simone's. I don't want to sing. So why compare?
With that said, Simone really can't be my idol since you know, what do I really have to learn from her? Okay, so we have something to learn from everyone, but as I grow, I think...Oi, I found something more interesting than my silly rants.
I mean I've been having a lot of fun lately...Things seem to be slightly looking up again. Not that ever weren't--just I was bogged down by thoughts that I was wasting my life and thoughts about Alex and Sarah....So, yeah. I guess now I'm beginning to let go.
I've always found hope in idealism. Thus the the desire to "save the world." Which is why I'm so dang excited about the opportunity to go to Cali for a weekend for FeelGood. A whole weekend in Cali with other people who think like me! So inspiring!!!
Speaking of inspiring, I have a new hero. (well, sorta Sharon will always be my unspoken favorite. For me, Sharon's the paramount of everything that I good in the world. Unrealistic? Of course, but who cares, you know!) But for awhile, earlier this year, I was totally comparing myself to Simone, thinkingI wasn't as good as person because I wasn't as accomplished. Really bad idea, btw. First of all, none of my desires even have anything to do with Simone's. I don't want to sing. So why compare?
With that said, Simone really can't be my idol since you know, what do I really have to learn from her? Okay, so we have something to learn from everyone, but as I grow, I think...Oi, I found something more interesting than my silly rants.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Insightful Much?
This post is basically a continuation of the previous one except that it really isn't directed at my friend since I'm not sure if she would understand some of what I'm going to say.
But I've been thinking a lot (okay, what else is new...*eyeroll*) about why I've become so anxious this past five or so months. The obvious answer is change. A shift in the people I talk to regurarly. Moving. Some other personal drama coming to a close. But all these things were positive for the most part, I think, so by themselves they shouldn't induce this much anxiety.
So my working explaination is the lack of anxiety makes me anxious. That is to say I have come to know 'drama' so well that when they is no drama I still get upset because I feel like something is missing. I think I'm scared of freedom, sacred that I will make the wrong choice without someone directing me at most steps.
I'm wary of my own voice. I'm afraid to hear what I have to say, afraid I might be right and afraid I might just sound stupid. I've done things in the past years that I never imagined I would, and it is so difficult for me to shift my perception of myself.
I have some very contrasting ideas about myself: Part of me thinks I am insane. The other part thinks I am great! I have these incredibly high exceptations for myself. Possibley because I dreamed up a wonderful person as an escape method when I was really,desperately in need of an escape when I was growing up. Or maybe because I know I have never really put my all into anything, and I can do so much better than I ever have.
I think I've always sagotaged myself because I have been afraid of success, because I don't want to deal with what comes with that success. It's like not opening a door because you know the wind beyond the lock will blow you off your feet.
Oi. Eyes are drying up. Time to turn AC on and try to sleep on the couch...
But I've been thinking a lot (okay, what else is new...*eyeroll*) about why I've become so anxious this past five or so months. The obvious answer is change. A shift in the people I talk to regurarly. Moving. Some other personal drama coming to a close. But all these things were positive for the most part, I think, so by themselves they shouldn't induce this much anxiety.
So my working explaination is the lack of anxiety makes me anxious. That is to say I have come to know 'drama' so well that when they is no drama I still get upset because I feel like something is missing. I think I'm scared of freedom, sacred that I will make the wrong choice without someone directing me at most steps.
I'm wary of my own voice. I'm afraid to hear what I have to say, afraid I might be right and afraid I might just sound stupid. I've done things in the past years that I never imagined I would, and it is so difficult for me to shift my perception of myself.
I have some very contrasting ideas about myself: Part of me thinks I am insane. The other part thinks I am great! I have these incredibly high exceptations for myself. Possibley because I dreamed up a wonderful person as an escape method when I was really,desperately in need of an escape when I was growing up. Or maybe because I know I have never really put my all into anything, and I can do so much better than I ever have.
I think I've always sagotaged myself because I have been afraid of success, because I don't want to deal with what comes with that success. It's like not opening a door because you know the wind beyond the lock will blow you off your feet.
Oi. Eyes are drying up. Time to turn AC on and try to sleep on the couch...
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Just something.
I'm actually not composing this message in Facebook's message box because the cursor is unbearable awful once you type a certain amount. That info is all but useless, btw.
It's been my intention to write you a full-fledged message since like the second week of summer. But, of course, this info is useless too since actions are much more important than intentions. But now, I'm acting on some of my clarity. Or something like that.
I have two constrasting theories about how people realize what they are meant to be doing (well, I'm sure I can come up with more, but these two ideas are what are on my mind most right now.)
1. The Electric Maze Theory: Basically, I just walk through life making decisions spur of the moment, and I only know I'm on the right path because I finally don't face as much resistance. If I make a wrong turn, I hit the wall, and get shocked so I know I need to try something different. If you think about the dynamics of a blind-folded person walking through a maze, you can understand how this more-or-less trial or error method of getting through life. With enough persistence, you can make it to the end of the maze to your goal. In psychological terms, this method would be called a algorithum. But doesn't that just sound so mechanical?
2. The Rock Wall Theory: Imagine climbing up a step cliff in the fog. The little holes where you can grab on to or stick your foot are the insights we gain in life. That is to say, we often do not know where we are going until we get very close to that moment, and then it justs hits us. Or well, even if there wasn't the fog, you can plan out your route, but you still have to pull yourself up and keep hanging on. Someone who influenced me in highschool once told me "not to quit on myself. All I needed to do was to stand up, and I could reach the next hold" (PE teacher on climbing rock walls). I acutally just mentioned fog because lately my mind has been muddled between regret, anxiety and fear for the furure. But let's leave this analogy like this: life is like (we'll make it a simile since a metaphor might be a tad too strong for the occasion)a climbing wall. It's a steep climb to the top, but they're are people -who you have to trust- to catch you. You can plan your path, but sometimes you'll need a detour, or you'll slip. A lot comes down to trust. Trusting yourself to reach that next stage, trusting those around you to support you and trusting the system not to up and collaspe.
And I don't remember where I was going with these analogies. But they do tie into this next idea: Remember when I told you I wanted to try writing a novel over summer? Well, I have been unable to write fiction. Yeah, I can reflect upon things just fine, but I can't focus my thoughts enough to create the scenes needed for fiction. What's bugging me is that my goals seem to have completely shifted since I left school in May. The one thing I've always known I wanted to do was to do something great, which is such a vague thing. I have no clue what I want to do. No clue.
So I'm thinking instead of making plans and trying to force myself to stick to them, I work better when I am open minded about my actions and do what I feel I should be doing at that moment in time. And I'll find the answer that way. Since I love analogies so much: It's going through life with a set mold, and you can't predict or try to force your experiences into that mold. Ugh, I can't articulate this one as well. Sorry. In my mind, I'm imagining some plastic mold that I'm trying to fill, but the pieces I keep finding don't fit.
You know, I really scare myself when I get all insightful because my whole life, I have never taken myself seriously. I have always put myself down and figured things would never work out for me. Now I know I am better than that, know I will find my way. But regardless, I think my change in attitude is also the cause of my anxiety, which is definitely a paradox. Let's call me a tug boat (or some other waterfaring vessel that clung to the shore) that know understands that I need to cross the ocean. Culture shock.
Since I plan on "going places," I've decided I need to okay with change. I wrote this last night: "I will no longer be sad about the things I've lost, the people who no longer walk beside me. I will only mourn the progress I haven't made. When I look at my life, I know this place I am now is not where I want to be. I can't take everything and everyone with me so it is natural that something will have to take their rightful place in my past. I am moving forward, becoming -slowly- the person I am meant to be. I cannot imagine what lies around the bend, but I'm going their. I'll keep moving forward, chasing that ellusive meaning I know I must."
This message might already be too long for FB. If so, I'll give you this link.
It's been my intention to write you a full-fledged message since like the second week of summer. But, of course, this info is useless too since actions are much more important than intentions. But now, I'm acting on some of my clarity. Or something like that.
I have two constrasting theories about how people realize what they are meant to be doing (well, I'm sure I can come up with more, but these two ideas are what are on my mind most right now.)
1. The Electric Maze Theory: Basically, I just walk through life making decisions spur of the moment, and I only know I'm on the right path because I finally don't face as much resistance. If I make a wrong turn, I hit the wall, and get shocked so I know I need to try something different. If you think about the dynamics of a blind-folded person walking through a maze, you can understand how this more-or-less trial or error method of getting through life. With enough persistence, you can make it to the end of the maze to your goal. In psychological terms, this method would be called a algorithum. But doesn't that just sound so mechanical?
2. The Rock Wall Theory: Imagine climbing up a step cliff in the fog. The little holes where you can grab on to or stick your foot are the insights we gain in life. That is to say, we often do not know where we are going until we get very close to that moment, and then it justs hits us. Or well, even if there wasn't the fog, you can plan out your route, but you still have to pull yourself up and keep hanging on. Someone who influenced me in highschool once told me "not to quit on myself. All I needed to do was to stand up, and I could reach the next hold" (PE teacher on climbing rock walls). I acutally just mentioned fog because lately my mind has been muddled between regret, anxiety and fear for the furure. But let's leave this analogy like this: life is like (we'll make it a simile since a metaphor might be a tad too strong for the occasion)a climbing wall. It's a steep climb to the top, but they're are people -who you have to trust- to catch you. You can plan your path, but sometimes you'll need a detour, or you'll slip. A lot comes down to trust. Trusting yourself to reach that next stage, trusting those around you to support you and trusting the system not to up and collaspe.
And I don't remember where I was going with these analogies. But they do tie into this next idea: Remember when I told you I wanted to try writing a novel over summer? Well, I have been unable to write fiction. Yeah, I can reflect upon things just fine, but I can't focus my thoughts enough to create the scenes needed for fiction. What's bugging me is that my goals seem to have completely shifted since I left school in May. The one thing I've always known I wanted to do was to do something great, which is such a vague thing. I have no clue what I want to do. No clue.
So I'm thinking instead of making plans and trying to force myself to stick to them, I work better when I am open minded about my actions and do what I feel I should be doing at that moment in time. And I'll find the answer that way. Since I love analogies so much: It's going through life with a set mold, and you can't predict or try to force your experiences into that mold. Ugh, I can't articulate this one as well. Sorry. In my mind, I'm imagining some plastic mold that I'm trying to fill, but the pieces I keep finding don't fit.
You know, I really scare myself when I get all insightful because my whole life, I have never taken myself seriously. I have always put myself down and figured things would never work out for me. Now I know I am better than that, know I will find my way. But regardless, I think my change in attitude is also the cause of my anxiety, which is definitely a paradox. Let's call me a tug boat (or some other waterfaring vessel that clung to the shore) that know understands that I need to cross the ocean. Culture shock.
Since I plan on "going places," I've decided I need to okay with change. I wrote this last night: "I will no longer be sad about the things I've lost, the people who no longer walk beside me. I will only mourn the progress I haven't made. When I look at my life, I know this place I am now is not where I want to be. I can't take everything and everyone with me so it is natural that something will have to take their rightful place in my past. I am moving forward, becoming -slowly- the person I am meant to be. I cannot imagine what lies around the bend, but I'm going their. I'll keep moving forward, chasing that ellusive meaning I know I must."
This message might already be too long for FB. If so, I'll give you this link.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Loss.
I will no longer be sad about the things I've lost, the people who no longer walk beside me. I will only mourn the progress I haven't made. When I look at my life, I know this place I am now is not where I want to be. I can't take everything and everyone with me so it is natural that something will have to take their rightful place in my past. I am moving forward, becoming -slowly- the person I am meant to be. I cannot imagine what lies around the bend, but I'm going their. I'll keep moving forward, chasing that ellusive meaning I know I must.
You and I will always be together. In our pasts, in our story- the same story that got me started as a writer.
You and I will always be together. In our pasts, in our story- the same story that got me started as a writer.
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