academics fantasize too
It's always a child's voice, a little lost, a little scared, with a pinch of petulance as only the young can so naturally evoke; this is not only a question, but a command with a demand for an answer. Who am I? it asks. Where do I belong? It can only hope to be so eloquent. Am I happy?
Am I happy? At this moment, I am not. But I was, and I will be. I think it's creeping up on me, even now, just to see that I am saying words, I am utilizing some sort of tool to input the things inside my head into a venue created just for them, whether or not the house is sold out. (It's not. Never will be. That kind of pressure is suffocating, and deadly.) I'm not happy. I am unhappy. I am unhappy because I am jealous, and I am jealous because I am lacking. I am lacking because... that's another question, isn't it? And you'd expect the voice to have matured a little, rounded out a little, just to match the tone of its concept, just to believe that youth is pure and white and never tainted by the ugly stain of worldly hurt. To everyone's distress and nobody's surprise, the voice is just as confused and lonely and carries an edge of pain, the sharp undertone of someone who's taken that first step into spindly reality. What's wrong with me? Nothing's wrong with you except everything, sweetie. You're just the same and that's the problem. It's the human condition.
I am unhappy. The catalysts for this current state of mind are many, and, like laze of the afternoon sun that greets my awakening, I face the overwhelming and drop my arms. I give up. It's a temporary surrender, yes, but a surrender nontheless, and whenever I catch my shoulders slacking I feel a little shame. I am the same. Human condition-- but isn't that just an easy way out? I am lazy and so are a lot of other people, so that makes it okay. It's never okay. The big picture will see it as perfectly alright, perfectly understandable, but understanding something does not absolve it. Quantity is not fact. It only ever matters what I think, and I can't lie to myself. Why can't I lie to myself? Or have I been doing it all along? I need to become the person I see myself becoming. I need to stand up straight and walk tall. There'll be time to laze around when I'm dead.
I need... more. I had a taste of it and now I've learnt what to crave. Just posting blindly on the internet has never been enough. Telling secrets here in my personal corner is not enough, and broadcasting them to easy-peasy thumbs upping and comments I will hate but deign to respond to is also not enough. Just enough has been something of my own creation, something to trick myself into taking that next step forward. (Oh, I see, now. I've been a liar all along, and I've been getting pretty damn good at it.) I need to stop waiting for imaginary appointments with way too much flexibility. I need to keep on reaching out. I'm on the right track, I'm just not far enough ahead on it, yet.
It was a.. I'd like to say it was a bad day, but it wasn't bad, not really. Good, actually. Better, I'm sure, than a lot of days out there. On my personal scale for days, it ranks lower than average. Not bad, but Good is average, here. It was new, at least. I will never begrudge things their births.
I don't even know what I wanted to say here, anymore... probably something like I hope someone will read this. It's a tired child's voice, the child who humors the adults who think they're humoring him. I suppose I'll play along. I hope someone pays attention. I'd really, really like if someone talked to me about it, too, but you know what? I'll probably be annoyed and disgusted by whatever comment falls in my lap as I, standing atop my fabricated pedestal, will deem it unworthy. That's nice, run along. I'm shallow like that... horrible, isn't it? I'll try to change. I think I've got an alright foundation to build up on, so it should turn out okay. Just read. Open your heart and bleed, friend.
Loving exclusively is for the greedy. Love freely and fleetingly and make yourself a memory.
Am I happy? At this moment, I am not. But I was, and I will be. I think it's creeping up on me, even now, just to see that I am saying words, I am utilizing some sort of tool to input the things inside my head into a venue created just for them, whether or not the house is sold out. (It's not. Never will be. That kind of pressure is suffocating, and deadly.) I'm not happy. I am unhappy. I am unhappy because I am jealous, and I am jealous because I am lacking. I am lacking because... that's another question, isn't it? And you'd expect the voice to have matured a little, rounded out a little, just to match the tone of its concept, just to believe that youth is pure and white and never tainted by the ugly stain of worldly hurt. To everyone's distress and nobody's surprise, the voice is just as confused and lonely and carries an edge of pain, the sharp undertone of someone who's taken that first step into spindly reality. What's wrong with me? Nothing's wrong with you except everything, sweetie. You're just the same and that's the problem. It's the human condition.
I am unhappy. The catalysts for this current state of mind are many, and, like laze of the afternoon sun that greets my awakening, I face the overwhelming and drop my arms. I give up. It's a temporary surrender, yes, but a surrender nontheless, and whenever I catch my shoulders slacking I feel a little shame. I am the same. Human condition-- but isn't that just an easy way out? I am lazy and so are a lot of other people, so that makes it okay. It's never okay. The big picture will see it as perfectly alright, perfectly understandable, but understanding something does not absolve it. Quantity is not fact. It only ever matters what I think, and I can't lie to myself. Why can't I lie to myself? Or have I been doing it all along? I need to become the person I see myself becoming. I need to stand up straight and walk tall. There'll be time to laze around when I'm dead.
I need... more. I had a taste of it and now I've learnt what to crave. Just posting blindly on the internet has never been enough. Telling secrets here in my personal corner is not enough, and broadcasting them to easy-peasy thumbs upping and comments I will hate but deign to respond to is also not enough. Just enough has been something of my own creation, something to trick myself into taking that next step forward. (Oh, I see, now. I've been a liar all along, and I've been getting pretty damn good at it.) I need to stop waiting for imaginary appointments with way too much flexibility. I need to keep on reaching out. I'm on the right track, I'm just not far enough ahead on it, yet.
It was a.. I'd like to say it was a bad day, but it wasn't bad, not really. Good, actually. Better, I'm sure, than a lot of days out there. On my personal scale for days, it ranks lower than average. Not bad, but Good is average, here. It was new, at least. I will never begrudge things their births.
I don't even know what I wanted to say here, anymore... probably something like I hope someone will read this. It's a tired child's voice, the child who humors the adults who think they're humoring him. I suppose I'll play along. I hope someone pays attention. I'd really, really like if someone talked to me about it, too, but you know what? I'll probably be annoyed and disgusted by whatever comment falls in my lap as I, standing atop my fabricated pedestal, will deem it unworthy. That's nice, run along. I'm shallow like that... horrible, isn't it? I'll try to change. I think I've got an alright foundation to build up on, so it should turn out okay. Just read. Open your heart and bleed, friend.
Loving exclusively is for the greedy. Love freely and fleetingly and make yourself a memory.