my lack of inspiration is slightly inspiring me.
I often wonder if a large chunk of my life was spent in a dream, only, nobody knew they were dreaming. Or that they woke up. When the true love of your life is gone, and the purest love of your life is dead, it's remarkable how desperately you will cling on to any thing pretending to be love. At least this time I wasn't the only desperate one in the equation. The man whom I had slept next to innumerable amount of times these last five hundred or so days is not really the man I'm meant to be with. I have finally accepted this. No matter how much we wish it, no stars or 11:11's or fucking wishbones is going to resolve the eternal conflict of: we just weren't meant to be.
I often blame him for this, because of the nasty snarling words that he so eagerly would spit out during one of our many arguments. Why I let a man verbally abuse me for so long goes against everything I was ever taught my my father, grandmother, or feminist heroes. The sickest part is, I knew what I was doing the entire time. I knew that I was allowing this individual to manipulate me into staying around. So was it a true manipulation or was it me just being so goddamn complacent in my sadness that I did not bother shielding my already diminished heart? And, truthfully, if I'm honest with myself, my heart has been nothing but beaten these past few years. I'm sick to death of being so obsessed with love. I want to embrace this coldness, embrace this winter. I want to harden but when I harden it is so hard to see the beauty surrounding me. I think about the boy every time I go to sleep and every morning I awake, and I know he does not reciprocate this obsessiveness.
The city is a wonderful change of anonymity that I am so not used to in my hometown. Our last name is known by most; catholics love to multiply. But here I am a speck. I probably still look like a tourist. I feel like when I meet people here, I hardly ever see them anyways and I feel I don't leave much of an impression. I wish so badly I could get over this looming pressure. Why did I set my standards so high for myself in the long-term, but can't motivate myself to do shit in the short-term? I have all these ridiculous ideas about being a respected poet, as if that even exists anymore in the dawn of Twitter. I read all these poets and I love all these fucking verses and I want to do that. I want to bleed on the page until the day this hardening heart stops pumping. But the more I look around,, the more I discover, I feel an extraordinary inadequacy that I have never felt since I began taking writing seriously. Is it because I'm out of practice? Or am I finally waking up to the realization that I'm not good enough? That there's a probability that I let what all those teachers and all those peers say to me bloat up my head into thinking I would actually be a recognized writer? I'm not nearly as intelligent as I should be, I don't exactly have a strong enough drive considering I never fucking write anymore, and I feel like my life is such a chaotic, often fun-filled, often soul-ripping, whirlwind right now that it's hard to even know my point of view. I used to be so self-assured.
Maybe it's me growing up. Seeing things through more angles than ever. Experiencing drugs and sex and bruises and love and hate and blacking out and acquiring a temper and acquiring a patience and all the personalities that I have met that have meshed into me and pulled at me.
Or maybe I've lost my spark.
But I highly fucking doubt the latter.
(Oh Livejournal, how I've missed thee so.)
I often blame him for this, because of the nasty snarling words that he so eagerly would spit out during one of our many arguments. Why I let a man verbally abuse me for so long goes against everything I was ever taught my my father, grandmother, or feminist heroes. The sickest part is, I knew what I was doing the entire time. I knew that I was allowing this individual to manipulate me into staying around. So was it a true manipulation or was it me just being so goddamn complacent in my sadness that I did not bother shielding my already diminished heart? And, truthfully, if I'm honest with myself, my heart has been nothing but beaten these past few years. I'm sick to death of being so obsessed with love. I want to embrace this coldness, embrace this winter. I want to harden but when I harden it is so hard to see the beauty surrounding me. I think about the boy every time I go to sleep and every morning I awake, and I know he does not reciprocate this obsessiveness.
The city is a wonderful change of anonymity that I am so not used to in my hometown. Our last name is known by most; catholics love to multiply. But here I am a speck. I probably still look like a tourist. I feel like when I meet people here, I hardly ever see them anyways and I feel I don't leave much of an impression. I wish so badly I could get over this looming pressure. Why did I set my standards so high for myself in the long-term, but can't motivate myself to do shit in the short-term? I have all these ridiculous ideas about being a respected poet, as if that even exists anymore in the dawn of Twitter. I read all these poets and I love all these fucking verses and I want to do that. I want to bleed on the page until the day this hardening heart stops pumping. But the more I look around,, the more I discover, I feel an extraordinary inadequacy that I have never felt since I began taking writing seriously. Is it because I'm out of practice? Or am I finally waking up to the realization that I'm not good enough? That there's a probability that I let what all those teachers and all those peers say to me bloat up my head into thinking I would actually be a recognized writer? I'm not nearly as intelligent as I should be, I don't exactly have a strong enough drive considering I never fucking write anymore, and I feel like my life is such a chaotic, often fun-filled, often soul-ripping, whirlwind right now that it's hard to even know my point of view. I used to be so self-assured.
Maybe it's me growing up. Seeing things through more angles than ever. Experiencing drugs and sex and bruises and love and hate and blacking out and acquiring a temper and acquiring a patience and all the personalities that I have met that have meshed into me and pulled at me.
Or maybe I've lost my spark.
But I highly fucking doubt the latter.
(Oh Livejournal, how I've missed thee so.)