This is me, this is you, this is all of us, and I can never do justice this way.
Often wondering if I end up in one way or another, I try to measure all that I almost am - from the words I omit to the thoughts I damn from evolving into action, into consequence. And I hope I'm recording things right, and being right, but I can never be so sure. I know that if I force myself into knowing my limits and boxes and talkative expectations that I will soon lose my restraint and self-control, my sanity - opposing what, I do not know - but this is somewhat untrue, because I am not a girl in a book, a boy in a movie, a stereotype alone, and I only sometimes want to "break free." (Note: You don't have to relate.) I am my own being, no matter what tests and certificates declare, and I am like you. No matter who you are. I am fiction, I am real, I am a person. I can contradict, I can submit. And I hope I am more than a list of characteristics offered on paper.
I am not different, but I believe even the most shallow-sounding people are complex and deep in ways we can't see.
If my perception is wrong, I would want to know why. Is my perception invalid? Erroneous in opinion... or fact? But what is perception?
I can touch worlds in me, and others too, but I know where I am within.
I am not a hedonist and I trust my thinking more than my feeling. I know the world suffers and that it screams although I may not hear it in my sleep. I know you suffer and that curves of teeth and gums don't always translate into happiness. I know how to keep quiet, and how to twist silence (borrow into them, squeeze them out of their bones), but I will never know why someone looks at me unless I pry into their space and ask. "Why are you looking at me?" bears a strong difference from "Why do we suffer?" and "Why do we want to please?", but I can't gracefully bend my questions into the vastness of a blank document, into the aligned structure of a paragraph. I can't eloquently caress my feelings, the knitting together of my brows, into a breath of self-expression. I am stuck, yet off-kilter, and I may as well be living with life like this.
But I don't want to live with life. I want to live life. I want to live in it, make it mine, trust these compounds, break them maybe, and defy death thinking I can. Knowing I can. Trusting myself to jump when I feel like I am ready.
I fear jumping, but I do not fear heights.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Sunday, May 5, 2013
My 3 AMs
It's 3 in the morning. I usually know it's time for me to sleep when I start to get annoyed by myself, with all the little things I see and think of. I thought that it would be nice to write about how I feel at 3 in the morning, or how I think around this time.
Or I can try.
I'm supposed to be asleep - to be swept away by the wings of rest. I think I really need sleep, and I know I do need to shut down, but I can't when all the quiet I have always wanted to consume and bathe myself in is flickering across the walls, beating against my heart, running back and forth. The quiet has always been what I wanted. Peace and rumination, an introspective look at things. But as much as I want to entirely hide myself in 2 AMs and lava lamps and sleeping faces, I am in need of noise. Noise so pure and hoarse and disturbing. Noise a rage, a fire, a trumpet. And I wouldn't want to torture myself, but I already am. You may call me a perfectionist because I want to perfect my commas and my periods, but I lack in all the points where I should excel. And there comes the feeling that I am old and dusty, useless and never valued, where I am nothing but a nondescript building in a street of color and promise, future and innovation. But no, I am not meant to be used, but I think I should let feelings use me. How can I free myself and learn the heart's ways while I am chained to logical thinking? And am I even a logical thinker? And am I pushing myself too much? I want to be the emotions I wish to describe, but all I can be is a weak emulation, a copy, of other people's fears and ambitions. No, no, I have my own fears and ambitions, but they burn down into nothing but wanting to be someone else, someone different, someone who trusts their heart more than their mind.
At 3 AM I feel sad because I can't embrace diversity well enough, and because I don't know what to think of anymore. I perplex myself to the point of numbness and self-pity. And by the time I wake up a few hours later I will regret using my time imprudently, regret feeling wrong when I could have felt so right, regret feeling insipid when I could have worked on being creative, regret letting the dark yank me off the track of my head. I do not want people to know I burn at 3.30 in the morning, but I do, and I wish for change although I hate it. I need fluency, but I want it too much more.
Don't think so much. Don't edit too much, don't rephrase too often, or else you'll end up rewriting all your sentences to their thoughts, and words won't feel natural. You won't feel natural. You will feel stained and besmirched. Blemished and complicated, not complex. You will feel worse, and you will worsen. You will feel unoriginal, and you will feel like nothing. And nobody would want that, even your favorite enemies. The night can breed demons, and it will, but nothing is as flammable as 3 AM.
Or I can try.
I'm supposed to be asleep - to be swept away by the wings of rest. I think I really need sleep, and I know I do need to shut down, but I can't when all the quiet I have always wanted to consume and bathe myself in is flickering across the walls, beating against my heart, running back and forth. The quiet has always been what I wanted. Peace and rumination, an introspective look at things. But as much as I want to entirely hide myself in 2 AMs and lava lamps and sleeping faces, I am in need of noise. Noise so pure and hoarse and disturbing. Noise a rage, a fire, a trumpet. And I wouldn't want to torture myself, but I already am. You may call me a perfectionist because I want to perfect my commas and my periods, but I lack in all the points where I should excel. And there comes the feeling that I am old and dusty, useless and never valued, where I am nothing but a nondescript building in a street of color and promise, future and innovation. But no, I am not meant to be used, but I think I should let feelings use me. How can I free myself and learn the heart's ways while I am chained to logical thinking? And am I even a logical thinker? And am I pushing myself too much? I want to be the emotions I wish to describe, but all I can be is a weak emulation, a copy, of other people's fears and ambitions. No, no, I have my own fears and ambitions, but they burn down into nothing but wanting to be someone else, someone different, someone who trusts their heart more than their mind.
At 3 AM I feel sad because I can't embrace diversity well enough, and because I don't know what to think of anymore. I perplex myself to the point of numbness and self-pity. And by the time I wake up a few hours later I will regret using my time imprudently, regret feeling wrong when I could have felt so right, regret feeling insipid when I could have worked on being creative, regret letting the dark yank me off the track of my head. I do not want people to know I burn at 3.30 in the morning, but I do, and I wish for change although I hate it. I need fluency, but I want it too much more.
Don't think so much. Don't edit too much, don't rephrase too often, or else you'll end up rewriting all your sentences to their thoughts, and words won't feel natural. You won't feel natural. You will feel stained and besmirched. Blemished and complicated, not complex. You will feel worse, and you will worsen. You will feel unoriginal, and you will feel like nothing. And nobody would want that, even your favorite enemies. The night can breed demons, and it will, but nothing is as flammable as 3 AM.
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