| I've decided to take every author's advice and just write daily. Usually I would do this in a notebook, but today I do not have a notebook, so I must do it online. . . Don't mock, I'm rusty. I'm angsty. I believe humans are the product of extremes. Thus, without one they cannot have the other. I continually find myself with a razor or knife in hand, craving the feeling of torn flesh, blood dripping down my thigh, the sigh of relief. Of course, I stop myself. When I find myself resenting my boyfriend for the contentedness of our relationship, and craving heart break or to fall in love, I bite my tongue to stop myself breaking it off with him. I don't get upset at work when we're busy because it doesn't get us anywhere, I don't over celebrate trivial happenings, I hardly ever get sick. . . My point? I NEED TO FEEL! I've been bitching about this for as long as I can remember, and perhaps it's an old topic, but I will continually obsess about it until I fix it. I need to change my mind set. I am a big picture girl through and through. I hate doing anything if the reason for doing it is not blatantly clear. This, I believe, is the cause of all my problems. I don't follow through with anything, because I can't see the reward at the beginning. In times such as now in which I find my life in an awful clump of mess, rather than focus on one problem at a time, I attempt to fix it all at once because I cannot break it down into further elements than that, I end up taking further steps backward than forward. I keep picturing a three way mirror, each with different reflections of myself. Each represents something, and I know I'm supposed to choose one. To the far right there is a me with horn rimmed glasses, a skirt suit, too small, and a pencil in a bun, she's obviously the me expected by my boyfriend's parents and all others of a class with which I don't fit. Left's hair is messy and everywhere, clothing haphazardly, though creatively, balanced. I'm holding a pen and an orange . . . my eyes are crazed. This is the me I long for. Free. Middle. . . well, middle is a blank canvas. Perhaps to mesh the two into one. How does one compromise oneself without losing one's self in the process? I've been reading a lot of books lately with the same theme- Living for now. I think the biggest flaw with people is that they are incapable of celebrating the present. Most people are either wasting away over the past or doing something that will put them in a better position to do something that will put them in a better position in the future. Freud suggested to his patients that they let all of that go, close their eyes and listen to their minds. Stop controlling their thoughts, just to let them come. I've vowed to take this process and make it a part of my daily routine. A half hour of self-hypnosis in which I listen to my thoughts rather than think them. Another author I've read recently spoke of this same process, referring to the mind as not what makes you you, more a tool for you to use in the development of yourself. Hence, you must stop suppressing it and nix the self judgement of your thought trains, just go along for the ride. Still a third referred to the same process as the thing artists have on critics. I believe the first step in being happy is knowing yourself. Then taking that knowledge and ignoring what other people believe you should do. Ever notice how Giver-like we are? I mean, we see in color and not only one person holds the memories of an entire community. From the time we're born, and before we even gain consciousness as people, others are watching us, categorizing us, and deciding where we best fit in. Before we even have a chance to say they're wrong, they've convinced us and there's no real proving them wrong. I've always been pushed toward creative, artistic tasks and I've always believed I was destined to become an artist in whichever medium I picked up. Enter stage right a beautiful woman in a flowing white gown. The gown glows under the lights, as you see, it's torn. She did that to herself, she was trying to pull herself into two, she thought she'd be better off if were multiple. You may think she's insane by the way she's dancing and the incoherent attitude of her dialect. She's not. Look closely and you'll see her strings. She's not always acting on her own behalf, see? That's not me holding the end to those strings, but, Lord! I wish it were. No, the lovely magician hidden in the planks is my father. He's really the orchestrator of everything.
My dad. . . my dad is everything. He's everywhere. He's an illusionist, you see? Magic. He loves the illusion of free will, that's why the girl up on the stage there is attached to those strings. . . wait, what strings? They're gone. Daddy's tricky. Watch for him. She's herself again. Though, as you can see, she's still babbling nothing, and she's still dancing, though now she has picked up a neon pink flag to dance with. BANG! The symbols crash together at the peak of the crescendo, and your heart is beating out of your chest, in time with the music, in time with the colors. Everything on the stage is a blur of twirling and swirling color.
Okay, enough of the freewrite, on to my nap. |
