(no subject)
Reading this, made me think:
"The only two important things in life are real love and being at peace with yourself.
...Loving someone brings you peace.
Nope. It makes life interesting and alive, but it doesn't bring much peace."
This bit of dialouge, acutally about a paragraph in the book "Sleeping in Flames" by Jonathan Carroll, but I summarized, made me think. This really does give reason to a lot of things. In the paragraph it said that in order to have one, the other dwindles, bringing about a twisted balance. To me it's saying that happiness isn't in others or just in your self. It's about finding a balance in peace within yourself and the one you choose to love. I think I'm sad now. Mostly because my memories haunt me. Much more so than I'd like to realize. I've tried to dump so many lies into my blood stream. Trying to give myself a lot of reasons that I'm ok. But I'm not. Not really. Some weight lurks. Something I'm holding onto. It's so frightfully honest. Because I know that I can be happy. Having that balance. I have had it before. Sometime a year ago, I think I was a different vessel of emotion. I was happy. With myself and with what was going on. And now, everyday it seems, those memories swell up that despair in me. The things I've been keeping tucked away, carrying as a burden of my own. Like some worshipped Idol of the past. Everyday, my brain drifts off in my neverending daydreaming; it clouds me in what was, trying to tie it into what is and what will be. And my heart, it wishes it could happen. Then there's me, despairing over it all. Caught in some haze of wanting and wishing and tearing over the fact that I can get past it. That it won't be. So I'm bled either way. I can't shut if off like I have. I've dealt with it. I thought I moved on. But it lingers. Surging in tides. Months go by that it's fine. Then it resurfaces, like a cycle; lik e the months turn over spring, summer, fall, winter. On and on.
I function. Half-heartedly, but I get through. Though, all in all, my self lacks the energy of living. Just as if my mitochondria in each cell decide to stop giving energy and let the cell and itself dye. Drying up. Being absorbed into the flow of things. And sadly, most sadly, Horribly Forgotten. I've gone on too much. I didn't intend on these to spill. Forgive me. And please remember and this is especially for certain people, THIS IS NO FAULT OF YOURS. And thinking so only adds to my mental mutilation. So don't think something that's not true. It's my fault, ultimately, it's mine alone.
"The only two important things in life are real love and being at peace with yourself.
...Loving someone brings you peace.
Nope. It makes life interesting and alive, but it doesn't bring much peace."
This bit of dialouge, acutally about a paragraph in the book "Sleeping in Flames" by Jonathan Carroll, but I summarized, made me think. This really does give reason to a lot of things. In the paragraph it said that in order to have one, the other dwindles, bringing about a twisted balance. To me it's saying that happiness isn't in others or just in your self. It's about finding a balance in peace within yourself and the one you choose to love. I think I'm sad now. Mostly because my memories haunt me. Much more so than I'd like to realize. I've tried to dump so many lies into my blood stream. Trying to give myself a lot of reasons that I'm ok. But I'm not. Not really. Some weight lurks. Something I'm holding onto. It's so frightfully honest. Because I know that I can be happy. Having that balance. I have had it before. Sometime a year ago, I think I was a different vessel of emotion. I was happy. With myself and with what was going on. And now, everyday it seems, those memories swell up that despair in me. The things I've been keeping tucked away, carrying as a burden of my own. Like some worshipped Idol of the past. Everyday, my brain drifts off in my neverending daydreaming; it clouds me in what was, trying to tie it into what is and what will be. And my heart, it wishes it could happen. Then there's me, despairing over it all. Caught in some haze of wanting and wishing and tearing over the fact that I can get past it. That it won't be. So I'm bled either way. I can't shut if off like I have. I've dealt with it. I thought I moved on. But it lingers. Surging in tides. Months go by that it's fine. Then it resurfaces, like a cycle; lik e the months turn over spring, summer, fall, winter. On and on.
I function. Half-heartedly, but I get through. Though, all in all, my self lacks the energy of living. Just as if my mitochondria in each cell decide to stop giving energy and let the cell and itself dye. Drying up. Being absorbed into the flow of things. And sadly, most sadly, Horribly Forgotten. I've gone on too much. I didn't intend on these to spill. Forgive me. And please remember and this is especially for certain people, THIS IS NO FAULT OF YOURS. And thinking so only adds to my mental mutilation. So don't think something that's not true. It's my fault, ultimately, it's mine alone.