Stranger than Fiction
Warning: extreme nostalgia and sentiment ahead; proceed with caution
certainly rings a bell with my life the past little while I just watched the movie with the same name, and I really did like it, it had one of those hidden emotional attachments to it, almost like it wants you to become inspired to do something about your own life, something dramatic, change who you used to be to become something you already are but cant see yourself.
As of late I have realized my whole life I have been consumed with appropriating attention from people; boys, girlfriends, work... etc. My pride and ego is ultimately my tragic downfall… and I am fully aware of that factor. My whole high school career I was fixated on being free, treating others as pawns in my grand scheme, and even though they may or may not have deserved the final result, I took no care in anyone but myself.
I have friends don’t get me wrong, whom I adore, but just realizing the past does quip my views a tad, and now I'm utterly entangled in the worldly cats cradle that encompasses my life goals.
Some times I have a huge desire to say things I shouldn’t, not say things I should, act a certain way that is expected of me even though it is in essence not really me. I feel my life is not really mine but a collaboration of experiences dreamed up by a younger self, and incorporated into my life as if a piece of a puzzle to which I will never solve; or hardly have the pieces yet to complete.
I get spurts of writing desire much like these spurts to blurt out phrases which I shouldn’t, and have been in a type of writers block myself, with freedom coming and going, and the feeling of slipping away from my talents like sand running through my fingers. If I wait to long it might be gone, yet if I force myself to write it will only rube Goldberg a chain of events that aren’t even worth my time, just to try to write something that isn’t even worth while, just to say I had written.
Forgive me father but it has been years since my last written word, I left my life behind once I started my ego, only slightly escaping once in a blue moon to continue to let myself out, and then zipping myself away again once I am done facading.
Only rarely do these occurrences of a written rant come, my guess is because I have stifled it to make room for my inflated life and who knows maybe something would come out of it.
And in these rare occurrences in which I take the time to sit down, and all in one breath calculate on my emotional levels, and nostalgic dreams of yesterday, do I realize the gifts I have today, in which utilization has not begun, and cant until I can realize that more so then once in one of these occurrences.
I have too many ideas, not enough time yet to compensate for lying to myself I pretend it wouldn’t matter but it does. It matters to me. Maybe not to anyone else, maybe not to people that says that it does, but who does it really matter to? Whose life will revolve everyday on it, thinking about it, and dwelling upon it to the point of sleepless dreams and an unconscious movement through life?
Me. It matters to me.
Maybe it won’t matter to anyone else, this is the basis I work my life around, the plot I have to tiptoe around in my mind to let me finally rest assured even if tried, I would not succeed.
Amateur. It is a seven letter word of loathing which I cannot stand to hear. I like to be good at everything, I like to know without being taught, do without trying before, and effortlessly stream by in assurance that my life will turn out the same way it started; with freedom.
Freedom is what I always wanted, its what I dream about, eat about, and live my live around so that one day after all the effort I have or have not poured into the grand scheme of things, I can finally be free.
A high school ignorance is really what it stemmed from; I looked past what I received only to be disgusted at how much effort was needed to sustain anything of any importance to me. If it took effort it wasn’t freedom, it was stifling me, making it hard to breath, closing around my neck so that I would have to-panic stricken-claw at it so that I could once again be free.
Now I feel that familiar constriction on me once again, only this time it was of my own doing, knowingly typing myself around my neck, and even though it is choking me inside, it’s what I want, this is what I wanted. The tightening will in time loosen, and my instinctive panic will lessen, but it all will take time, time in which I am scared to loose, time in which I am terrified to utilize for my own purposes.
Even after realizing it I am still me, I am still the same, only using an antecedent voice in contemporary diction which are both presently with me, but not always shown.
And thus my rant is complete because only a certain time will actually be used in writing something, and thus the time limit has run out and I am stuck with myself once more. The muse who visits me is once again gone, leaving me alone until the next time it inspires me in written word.
Once more I snap back into reality, and once more I try to step into the shoes I pretend to fill.
certainly rings a bell with my life the past little while I just watched the movie with the same name, and I really did like it, it had one of those hidden emotional attachments to it, almost like it wants you to become inspired to do something about your own life, something dramatic, change who you used to be to become something you already are but cant see yourself.
As of late I have realized my whole life I have been consumed with appropriating attention from people; boys, girlfriends, work... etc. My pride and ego is ultimately my tragic downfall… and I am fully aware of that factor. My whole high school career I was fixated on being free, treating others as pawns in my grand scheme, and even though they may or may not have deserved the final result, I took no care in anyone but myself.
I have friends don’t get me wrong, whom I adore, but just realizing the past does quip my views a tad, and now I'm utterly entangled in the worldly cats cradle that encompasses my life goals.
Some times I have a huge desire to say things I shouldn’t, not say things I should, act a certain way that is expected of me even though it is in essence not really me. I feel my life is not really mine but a collaboration of experiences dreamed up by a younger self, and incorporated into my life as if a piece of a puzzle to which I will never solve; or hardly have the pieces yet to complete.
I get spurts of writing desire much like these spurts to blurt out phrases which I shouldn’t, and have been in a type of writers block myself, with freedom coming and going, and the feeling of slipping away from my talents like sand running through my fingers. If I wait to long it might be gone, yet if I force myself to write it will only rube Goldberg a chain of events that aren’t even worth my time, just to try to write something that isn’t even worth while, just to say I had written.
Forgive me father but it has been years since my last written word, I left my life behind once I started my ego, only slightly escaping once in a blue moon to continue to let myself out, and then zipping myself away again once I am done facading.
Only rarely do these occurrences of a written rant come, my guess is because I have stifled it to make room for my inflated life and who knows maybe something would come out of it.
And in these rare occurrences in which I take the time to sit down, and all in one breath calculate on my emotional levels, and nostalgic dreams of yesterday, do I realize the gifts I have today, in which utilization has not begun, and cant until I can realize that more so then once in one of these occurrences.
I have too many ideas, not enough time yet to compensate for lying to myself I pretend it wouldn’t matter but it does. It matters to me. Maybe not to anyone else, maybe not to people that says that it does, but who does it really matter to? Whose life will revolve everyday on it, thinking about it, and dwelling upon it to the point of sleepless dreams and an unconscious movement through life?
Me. It matters to me.
Maybe it won’t matter to anyone else, this is the basis I work my life around, the plot I have to tiptoe around in my mind to let me finally rest assured even if tried, I would not succeed.
Amateur. It is a seven letter word of loathing which I cannot stand to hear. I like to be good at everything, I like to know without being taught, do without trying before, and effortlessly stream by in assurance that my life will turn out the same way it started; with freedom.
Freedom is what I always wanted, its what I dream about, eat about, and live my live around so that one day after all the effort I have or have not poured into the grand scheme of things, I can finally be free.
A high school ignorance is really what it stemmed from; I looked past what I received only to be disgusted at how much effort was needed to sustain anything of any importance to me. If it took effort it wasn’t freedom, it was stifling me, making it hard to breath, closing around my neck so that I would have to-panic stricken-claw at it so that I could once again be free.
Now I feel that familiar constriction on me once again, only this time it was of my own doing, knowingly typing myself around my neck, and even though it is choking me inside, it’s what I want, this is what I wanted. The tightening will in time loosen, and my instinctive panic will lessen, but it all will take time, time in which I am scared to loose, time in which I am terrified to utilize for my own purposes.
Even after realizing it I am still me, I am still the same, only using an antecedent voice in contemporary diction which are both presently with me, but not always shown.
And thus my rant is complete because only a certain time will actually be used in writing something, and thus the time limit has run out and I am stuck with myself once more. The muse who visits me is once again gone, leaving me alone until the next time it inspires me in written word.
Once more I snap back into reality, and once more I try to step into the shoes I pretend to fill.