(no subject)
Let's be honest... we don't always read. We sometimes skim... we sometime read two sentences and feign some sort of interest from that much. Even that, sometimes, isn't even done.
So why do we write? Do we write for ourselves, or are we all utterly convinced that our own stories are interesting and time-worthy, despite the fact that our many teenage counterparts' are not?
Or perhaps I'm being overly critical - we read only as much as we need to; we read only as much as we're expected; we read only until we are convinced that the person truly IS only writing for him or herself.
None the less, when I was lying on my couch is this weird phunk of exhaustion and frustration, I felt drawn to write. I believe and know that on some level I truly do write just for myself, but sometimes I think there is a certain level of desire for cognition going on. There is some remote agenda going on in my mind that says "I need you to realize that I have realized... *insert journal entry topic*" sometimes.
Today... that realization is that sometimes we lose.
"You're very strong... to go back there, and face the fact that we no longer have those feelings."
-Meryl Streep, The Hours
In love, and life, things end, even when we don't want them to sometimes. It isn't always our faults, but as I believe it takes two to tango, you certainly don't sleep as easily at night as you might have before.
This really isn't about anything specefic, it is more about everything.
I had this annoying realization the other day (and by that I mean late last night) that I've never had a real relationship. Sure, I've dated guys... I've dated some of them for several months.
But they weren't relationships - not the kind of "through thick and thin, I love you for you, we'll work through things together" kind of relationship. I don't want to sit here and tear apart every relationship that I have ever had, but they have all had their problems - and big problems, at that.
The closest I've had to a happy, problem-free relationship?
The times that it wasn't really a relationship.
Like - Chris; I loved him and the time we spent together. We each had our own boyfriends, and yet we would go out on dates, have sex, have Valentine's Day, do cute things... but at the end of the day he wasn't really mine. Oh boy - analyze THAT.
Or Joey - again... dates, sleep-overs, cute things, him kissing me goodbye on Forbes Avenue - but again, at the end of the day, we weren't boyfriends. At least in this situation we both weren't having other boyfriends, as was the case with Chris, but still it wasn't really a relationship.
Which lead me to the question... "What the FUCK?"
Then I was lead to a second question; where is he?
You know, that perfect guy that is supposed to sweep me off my feet, make me feel amazing - and want to call me his. It's that last modifier that has seemed ever-so problematic in the past.
I'm not sure if it is better to wonder when the hell he is going to come along, or to sigh over having lost him. I'll admit, I've spent time pining after past men, however at this point I've realized that they simply weren't and aren't worth the time. None of them were Prince Charming - and if they were, they weren't adept at showing it at the time.
However, there is something sort of depressing to realizing that you haven't found him, and you can't strive for "him", because you don't know who he is. You can't work to win over this man, because were he so perfect for you - he wouldn't need to be "won over", he would already be with you.
Perhaps I am just having a slight case of the summertime blues.
Perhaps this is just some sort of fallback because I have yet to meet Mr. Josh, and so I'm losing hope.
Perhaps this is just sleep deprivation.
Who really gives a shit... the point is just that it's kind of gross. How should I end this lamentation?
What the FUCK?
So why do we write? Do we write for ourselves, or are we all utterly convinced that our own stories are interesting and time-worthy, despite the fact that our many teenage counterparts' are not?
Or perhaps I'm being overly critical - we read only as much as we need to; we read only as much as we're expected; we read only until we are convinced that the person truly IS only writing for him or herself.
None the less, when I was lying on my couch is this weird phunk of exhaustion and frustration, I felt drawn to write. I believe and know that on some level I truly do write just for myself, but sometimes I think there is a certain level of desire for cognition going on. There is some remote agenda going on in my mind that says "I need you to realize that I have realized... *insert journal entry topic*" sometimes.
Today... that realization is that sometimes we lose.
"You're very strong... to go back there, and face the fact that we no longer have those feelings."
-Meryl Streep, The Hours
In love, and life, things end, even when we don't want them to sometimes. It isn't always our faults, but as I believe it takes two to tango, you certainly don't sleep as easily at night as you might have before.
This really isn't about anything specefic, it is more about everything.
I had this annoying realization the other day (and by that I mean late last night) that I've never had a real relationship. Sure, I've dated guys... I've dated some of them for several months.
But they weren't relationships - not the kind of "through thick and thin, I love you for you, we'll work through things together" kind of relationship. I don't want to sit here and tear apart every relationship that I have ever had, but they have all had their problems - and big problems, at that.
The closest I've had to a happy, problem-free relationship?
The times that it wasn't really a relationship.
Like - Chris; I loved him and the time we spent together. We each had our own boyfriends, and yet we would go out on dates, have sex, have Valentine's Day, do cute things... but at the end of the day he wasn't really mine. Oh boy - analyze THAT.
Or Joey - again... dates, sleep-overs, cute things, him kissing me goodbye on Forbes Avenue - but again, at the end of the day, we weren't boyfriends. At least in this situation we both weren't having other boyfriends, as was the case with Chris, but still it wasn't really a relationship.
Which lead me to the question... "What the FUCK?"
Then I was lead to a second question; where is he?
You know, that perfect guy that is supposed to sweep me off my feet, make me feel amazing - and want to call me his. It's that last modifier that has seemed ever-so problematic in the past.
I'm not sure if it is better to wonder when the hell he is going to come along, or to sigh over having lost him. I'll admit, I've spent time pining after past men, however at this point I've realized that they simply weren't and aren't worth the time. None of them were Prince Charming - and if they were, they weren't adept at showing it at the time.
However, there is something sort of depressing to realizing that you haven't found him, and you can't strive for "him", because you don't know who he is. You can't work to win over this man, because were he so perfect for you - he wouldn't need to be "won over", he would already be with you.
Perhaps I am just having a slight case of the summertime blues.
Perhaps this is just some sort of fallback because I have yet to meet Mr. Josh, and so I'm losing hope.
Perhaps this is just sleep deprivation.
Who really gives a shit... the point is just that it's kind of gross. How should I end this lamentation?
What the FUCK?