Reminiscence...
"...There is much to be said about missing those independent days. I miss mine, though I love my husband more than I could dare to think. I miss being able to go out of town for shows and to see old friends. I miss hanging out all night with people I truly had much in common with. We would stage impromptu musicals and plays on the grassy hillside in front of the main building at three in the morning. We would go for walks and just talk and talk
and talk... about anything and everything. We would crash at each other's homes and stay up by the lamppost all night long. I miss being more of an enigma. I knew the true friends because they saw through me... saw through the melodramatic angsty-ness of it all. I don't know... I just miss being able to do what I wanted when I wanted,
and with whom I wanted. As I said before, I love my husband more than life, and would change nothing in that regard. I do, however, feel like such an alien in this world..."
I started this on someone else's page, as a response to a blog written several months ago. I felt a long, drawn
out, memory laden stream of consciousness working its way out the tips of my fingers and thought it better to place here...
As I left off, I do feel like an alien in this world. Perhaps it's that I am an alien, a stranger in a strange land, but even more so that I am indeed alien even to the people closest to me. I am gothic. I am a Christian. I am imperfect. I
am a disappointment to many, and a blessing to many others. I am a mixture of talent and apathy, of passion and ambivalence. Life and death and everything in between...
"Not Half Empty, Nor Half Full, but Poison Filled..."
This is how I have described myself to others... or rather the way I see the world. People often ask, when sizing up someone new, whether they would describe the glass as half empty or half full. This is my answer. That I neither the pessimist nor the optimist, but rather the realist, or the cynic. The misanthrope. The untrusting one who has had to alter her words, her thoughts, her very being, to "fit in" while still being true to her nature, to her personality. Is there a job out there that is suited for one such as I? Is there a place where I can be myself, be completely honest in my life? To be true to myself? They mock me for wanting to have a life where I can meld a job with my artistic personality. They mock me for being who I am... not understanding that I do not consider their jokes funny. I can laugh at myself, yes, but the very things I take so seriously are the source of much laughter from those who don't really understand, or who have had more mainstream ideals thrust upon them so much that they refuse to regard that which they used to truly believe and live as something important, something to be trusted and lived. When did it become so popular to crap upon another's ideals and beliefs? When did it ever become acceptable to regard as so much rubbish and sewage that which one you would call Friend has poured out from their soul? Why is it that I have people who understand me, but that they are not near me? Those who truly know and are soul-locked with me are not those with whom I have the real world relationships? It's always been modus operandi for people to think that they are misunderstood and misrepresented, but when did it become truth? When did cliche and stereotype become real? When did the absolute dismissal and mockery of ideals become so very ingrained within the people that used to live by them? When did the search for beauty, the passion for the pure aesthetic, the integrity of life, the honesty of the dark romantic... when did that search become banal and mundane? When did it join the ranks of the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus? When did it die? For me, it hibernated for a bit... only because I had been encompassed on all sides by those who did not understand... who did not wish to understand... or who wanted to pretend that they had never understood... that there is a desperate need for that passion and that deep-seated intensity to be not only acknowledged, but released in a positive way. In a productive way. I need to be creating... I need to be writing, and singing! I miss so very incredibly the release and the contentment that came from sharing my voice, my words, my actions... I miss the performance, and the honesty that came through the performance and made it real. I miss the catharsis, the epiphony, that is the act of sharing intimately and with brutal honesty my inmost thoughts, fears, desires, and beliefs. I desire, above all else but my Lord and my husband, to live the passion and the pain and the joy and the sorrow that is this world, or this life, rather. I desire freedom to be the woman I was created to be. I desire more than an ordinary life. I believe I have a purpose, and that that purpose entails more than living day to day, in that quiet desperation that so many know intimately. I know that I am here for more than the ordinary world... I belong to the King and Creator of the universe. I am His, and He is mine. Because of this, and because of the knowledge that He is the One Who has given me these yearnings, these desires, I know that I must pray, and I must work towards growing those talents He has granted me. Love is the ultimate goal of my life, and my King is the author of that love... is the only way I even have an inkling of that love. I desire, above all else, to be the handmaiden of my Lord, to give myself completely and unashamedly to Him. I desire to be the bride of Christ, and more than that, the gothic bride of Christ...
I will remain in these shadows of the coming dawn... in the pale lily-filled meadows of the dead and dying world... in the tears that flow like rain from the eyes of those who await His return.
I will remain in Him, and He in me... and I will rejoice all the more when He comes back to take my hand and lead me from the shadows of this existence into the light of life, where there will be no more tears, no more sorrow, and no more pain.
I am His daughter, I am His bride, and He will return soon. Here, therefore, is the cause of my passion, of my darkened temperament, of my sure and present hope for the future, and my reason for living.
We are His poemia. We must live accordingly...
and talk... about anything and everything. We would crash at each other's homes and stay up by the lamppost all night long. I miss being more of an enigma. I knew the true friends because they saw through me... saw through the melodramatic angsty-ness of it all. I don't know... I just miss being able to do what I wanted when I wanted,
and with whom I wanted. As I said before, I love my husband more than life, and would change nothing in that regard. I do, however, feel like such an alien in this world..."
I started this on someone else's page, as a response to a blog written several months ago. I felt a long, drawn
out, memory laden stream of consciousness working its way out the tips of my fingers and thought it better to place here...
As I left off, I do feel like an alien in this world. Perhaps it's that I am an alien, a stranger in a strange land, but even more so that I am indeed alien even to the people closest to me. I am gothic. I am a Christian. I am imperfect. I
am a disappointment to many, and a blessing to many others. I am a mixture of talent and apathy, of passion and ambivalence. Life and death and everything in between...
"Not Half Empty, Nor Half Full, but Poison Filled..."
This is how I have described myself to others... or rather the way I see the world. People often ask, when sizing up someone new, whether they would describe the glass as half empty or half full. This is my answer. That I neither the pessimist nor the optimist, but rather the realist, or the cynic. The misanthrope. The untrusting one who has had to alter her words, her thoughts, her very being, to "fit in" while still being true to her nature, to her personality. Is there a job out there that is suited for one such as I? Is there a place where I can be myself, be completely honest in my life? To be true to myself? They mock me for wanting to have a life where I can meld a job with my artistic personality. They mock me for being who I am... not understanding that I do not consider their jokes funny. I can laugh at myself, yes, but the very things I take so seriously are the source of much laughter from those who don't really understand, or who have had more mainstream ideals thrust upon them so much that they refuse to regard that which they used to truly believe and live as something important, something to be trusted and lived. When did it become so popular to crap upon another's ideals and beliefs? When did it ever become acceptable to regard as so much rubbish and sewage that which one you would call Friend has poured out from their soul? Why is it that I have people who understand me, but that they are not near me? Those who truly know and are soul-locked with me are not those with whom I have the real world relationships? It's always been modus operandi for people to think that they are misunderstood and misrepresented, but when did it become truth? When did cliche and stereotype become real? When did the absolute dismissal and mockery of ideals become so very ingrained within the people that used to live by them? When did the search for beauty, the passion for the pure aesthetic, the integrity of life, the honesty of the dark romantic... when did that search become banal and mundane? When did it join the ranks of the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus? When did it die? For me, it hibernated for a bit... only because I had been encompassed on all sides by those who did not understand... who did not wish to understand... or who wanted to pretend that they had never understood... that there is a desperate need for that passion and that deep-seated intensity to be not only acknowledged, but released in a positive way. In a productive way. I need to be creating... I need to be writing, and singing! I miss so very incredibly the release and the contentment that came from sharing my voice, my words, my actions... I miss the performance, and the honesty that came through the performance and made it real. I miss the catharsis, the epiphony, that is the act of sharing intimately and with brutal honesty my inmost thoughts, fears, desires, and beliefs. I desire, above all else but my Lord and my husband, to live the passion and the pain and the joy and the sorrow that is this world, or this life, rather. I desire freedom to be the woman I was created to be. I desire more than an ordinary life. I believe I have a purpose, and that that purpose entails more than living day to day, in that quiet desperation that so many know intimately. I know that I am here for more than the ordinary world... I belong to the King and Creator of the universe. I am His, and He is mine. Because of this, and because of the knowledge that He is the One Who has given me these yearnings, these desires, I know that I must pray, and I must work towards growing those talents He has granted me. Love is the ultimate goal of my life, and my King is the author of that love... is the only way I even have an inkling of that love. I desire, above all else, to be the handmaiden of my Lord, to give myself completely and unashamedly to Him. I desire to be the bride of Christ, and more than that, the gothic bride of Christ...
I will remain in these shadows of the coming dawn... in the pale lily-filled meadows of the dead and dying world... in the tears that flow like rain from the eyes of those who await His return.
I will remain in Him, and He in me... and I will rejoice all the more when He comes back to take my hand and lead me from the shadows of this existence into the light of life, where there will be no more tears, no more sorrow, and no more pain.
I am His daughter, I am His bride, and He will return soon. Here, therefore, is the cause of my passion, of my darkened temperament, of my sure and present hope for the future, and my reason for living.
We are His poemia. We must live accordingly...