WoNdErLaNd is the gray area
starting another livejournal. what is this, like 4? i'm not very consistent with journals.
i always ask for them for christmas and then fill the first 10 pages and get a new one the next year.
there's just nothing like a fresh new journal.
it's so full of...prospects.
you wonder, 'what do these blank pages hold for me? what wonderful adventures will i have over the next weeksmonthsyears to fill them with?'
but it always ends up the same.
you write in it just enough to make it...tAiNtEd. marred with smeared graphite and dying, faded ink...it loses it's magic.
because then every time you open it to further the story, the MANUSCRIPT of your life, you come face to face with all those nasty old memories
that you tried so hard NOT to remember.
and you think, somewhere down in your subconcious, 'if i didn't want to remember them, why the fuck did i write them in the first place?'
it's all that psychobabble bullshit they shove down our throats throughout the course of our lives.
"you need an outlet for your emotions"
"you should start journaling more"
"you can't keep it all inside"
the HELL i can't. i've been holding things in my entire godforsaken life.
because it's figurative, our "insides".
the "soul", the "heart", the "spirit", the "mind"....
it's not like eating too much and your stomach tears and you die..
our spiritual organs know no bounds.
you can stretch them and stretch them and they won't rip.
thing is, if you do that long enough (like me), eventually all those traumatic memories start mixing with each other and bubbling up like a chemical reaction to the top of the tank.
once they start leaking out, they mix with your "safe thoughts"
all the puppies and flowers and hearts and x's and oh's and fairies and cookies and good dreams, all that pink and white bullshit.
and then you reach a certain age, and it's like crossing an invisible threshold you didn't even know existed.
even as it's happening you don't realize what's going on.
but it's your memories.
the caustic chemical reaction starts to singe holes in your happy thoughts, and before you know it you have no idea (NO IDEA) if the things in your head are real memories, made up stories, nightmares you've had, fairytales, exagerrations, near-death experiences you forgot you had, psychic premonitions, intuition, your subconcious, former-life paraphenilia (if you believe in that stuff), or suppression from a bad acid trip.
so you end up, essentially, wandering through each 24-hour period (i think they call that a 'day'?), not knowing up from down, good from bad, reality from dreams, god from the devil, fiction from nonfiction, and your entire life turns into a twisted, sadistic sort of wonderland, comparable not so much to alice as to coraline, with parts taken from each story.
am i really typing right now, or is this the looking-glass girl that i'm watching without knowing i am?
so you see, in my world, nothing makes sense, and i dangle off the edge of sanity with every waking OR sleeping moment.
there is no rest for the weary.
and now you begin to understand.
or, if not, then i won't be hearing from you again.
namaste.
Ray
i always ask for them for christmas and then fill the first 10 pages and get a new one the next year.
there's just nothing like a fresh new journal.
it's so full of...prospects.
you wonder, 'what do these blank pages hold for me? what wonderful adventures will i have over the next weeksmonthsyears to fill them with?'
but it always ends up the same.
you write in it just enough to make it...tAiNtEd. marred with smeared graphite and dying, faded ink...it loses it's magic.
because then every time you open it to further the story, the MANUSCRIPT of your life, you come face to face with all those nasty old memories
that you tried so hard NOT to remember.
and you think, somewhere down in your subconcious, 'if i didn't want to remember them, why the fuck did i write them in the first place?'
it's all that psychobabble bullshit they shove down our throats throughout the course of our lives.
"you need an outlet for your emotions"
"you should start journaling more"
"you can't keep it all inside"
the HELL i can't. i've been holding things in my entire godforsaken life.
because it's figurative, our "insides".
the "soul", the "heart", the "spirit", the "mind"....
it's not like eating too much and your stomach tears and you die..
our spiritual organs know no bounds.
you can stretch them and stretch them and they won't rip.
thing is, if you do that long enough (like me), eventually all those traumatic memories start mixing with each other and bubbling up like a chemical reaction to the top of the tank.
once they start leaking out, they mix with your "safe thoughts"
all the puppies and flowers and hearts and x's and oh's and fairies and cookies and good dreams, all that pink and white bullshit.
and then you reach a certain age, and it's like crossing an invisible threshold you didn't even know existed.
even as it's happening you don't realize what's going on.
but it's your memories.
the caustic chemical reaction starts to singe holes in your happy thoughts, and before you know it you have no idea (NO IDEA) if the things in your head are real memories, made up stories, nightmares you've had, fairytales, exagerrations, near-death experiences you forgot you had, psychic premonitions, intuition, your subconcious, former-life paraphenilia (if you believe in that stuff), or suppression from a bad acid trip.
so you end up, essentially, wandering through each 24-hour period (i think they call that a 'day'?), not knowing up from down, good from bad, reality from dreams, god from the devil, fiction from nonfiction, and your entire life turns into a twisted, sadistic sort of wonderland, comparable not so much to alice as to coraline, with parts taken from each story.
am i really typing right now, or is this the looking-glass girl that i'm watching without knowing i am?
so you see, in my world, nothing makes sense, and i dangle off the edge of sanity with every waking OR sleeping moment.
there is no rest for the weary.
and now you begin to understand.
or, if not, then i won't be hearing from you again.
namaste.
Ray