Journal # 14 - Doctor Jeckyll and Banker Hyde, America's Sound Future
hey, livejournal. my blurty journal has a message for you: "Fuck you!"
um, well actually, sometimes i have a crisis while writing in this journal. see, i forget that i'm supposed to be completely abstract and aesthetic with this journal, and completely personal and boring and redundant with my OTHER journal. i suffer from what we may call, 'a personality identity crisis'.... 'schizophrenic tendency of alzheimer's dementia obsessive compulsive manic depressive- i mix my journals up, basically. i forget what the point is. i want to get personal with my livejournal, but i'm also plagued by lack of commitment.
this life has taken a hold of me, and it feels, just like a ball and chain.
this can't be.
i feel like i have lost, my ability to write about what i don't know. i have lost the ability to surprise myself. i no longer write with any depth. i fumble with my subject matter. i no longer feel the burning desire to don that darling attire of a writer very often. i don't stay up late, scribbling in my notebook anymore. i think i lost my passion.
i'm trying to recall what could have happened to me. i have changed so much. what altered me? was it finally starting to date? was it waking up about college, and getting serious about my grades? was it losing a lot of my old friends? was it getting a job? was it, getting called fat and ugly spurning me to lose weight and become obsessed with my appearance? was it my dad being out of my life? what the hell was it. i don't even feel like the same person. i mean, deep down, i'm still the same. but outside, i feel like a chameleon. it seems as though the only thing i continue to care about is my weight and my grades and what college i'm getting into, oh and i still care a lot about theatre. of course, there are a million other things that i have always cared about and continue to care deeply about, but, i think i just stopped expressing myself. i don't even think i know how to anymore. i feel like everything slips out of my grasp, literally, like sand at the beach or something. but was i even trying to hold onto it? i have no idea.
i wonder what it would feel like to wake up, after your life has passed you by, and realize that you've become an empty shell. no one remembers you, no one cries for you. there is nothing left for you to do, except become a nameless killer, seeking your lifelong goal of vanquishing your greatest enemy. after you succeed, bloody and bruised and emptier than ever before. after you succeed, what happens. you fade. you sail into the west. you leave this life behind. you die. once your obsession is fulfilled, what is left to live for?
i have this ugly, ugly feeling inside me. it tells me, that my faerie-tale life of taking my boyfriend and my best friend with me when i leave this slight town, off to succeed gloriously, will not happen. i feel the tears of separation already. i will become so lonely. i can't stay for him, i want to, so much, but i can't stay here. and what will i do when i'm apart from him? i'll whither and wilt. this ugly feeling tells me that everything ends very quickly, that i can't hold onto my sentiments forever. that i need to be very strong..? the best art comes from pain, after all. what sad story am i going to be telling in a few years, i wonder. please, tell me that i'll still be speaking by then...? i am panicking, as usual. i wish instincts were wrong. i wish i was stronger. i wish i could fulfill my own destiny. what happened to those days when i still believed i could do anything? they submerge in the vast ocean. i'm drowning trying to swim after them.
um, well actually, sometimes i have a crisis while writing in this journal. see, i forget that i'm supposed to be completely abstract and aesthetic with this journal, and completely personal and boring and redundant with my OTHER journal. i suffer from what we may call, 'a personality identity crisis'.... 'schizophrenic tendency of alzheimer's dementia obsessive compulsive manic depressive- i mix my journals up, basically. i forget what the point is. i want to get personal with my livejournal, but i'm also plagued by lack of commitment.
this life has taken a hold of me, and it feels, just like a ball and chain.
this can't be.
i feel like i have lost, my ability to write about what i don't know. i have lost the ability to surprise myself. i no longer write with any depth. i fumble with my subject matter. i no longer feel the burning desire to don that darling attire of a writer very often. i don't stay up late, scribbling in my notebook anymore. i think i lost my passion.
i'm trying to recall what could have happened to me. i have changed so much. what altered me? was it finally starting to date? was it waking up about college, and getting serious about my grades? was it losing a lot of my old friends? was it getting a job? was it, getting called fat and ugly spurning me to lose weight and become obsessed with my appearance? was it my dad being out of my life? what the hell was it. i don't even feel like the same person. i mean, deep down, i'm still the same. but outside, i feel like a chameleon. it seems as though the only thing i continue to care about is my weight and my grades and what college i'm getting into, oh and i still care a lot about theatre. of course, there are a million other things that i have always cared about and continue to care deeply about, but, i think i just stopped expressing myself. i don't even think i know how to anymore. i feel like everything slips out of my grasp, literally, like sand at the beach or something. but was i even trying to hold onto it? i have no idea.
i wonder what it would feel like to wake up, after your life has passed you by, and realize that you've become an empty shell. no one remembers you, no one cries for you. there is nothing left for you to do, except become a nameless killer, seeking your lifelong goal of vanquishing your greatest enemy. after you succeed, bloody and bruised and emptier than ever before. after you succeed, what happens. you fade. you sail into the west. you leave this life behind. you die. once your obsession is fulfilled, what is left to live for?
i have this ugly, ugly feeling inside me. it tells me, that my faerie-tale life of taking my boyfriend and my best friend with me when i leave this slight town, off to succeed gloriously, will not happen. i feel the tears of separation already. i will become so lonely. i can't stay for him, i want to, so much, but i can't stay here. and what will i do when i'm apart from him? i'll whither and wilt. this ugly feeling tells me that everything ends very quickly, that i can't hold onto my sentiments forever. that i need to be very strong..? the best art comes from pain, after all. what sad story am i going to be telling in a few years, i wonder. please, tell me that i'll still be speaking by then...? i am panicking, as usual. i wish instincts were wrong. i wish i was stronger. i wish i could fulfill my own destiny. what happened to those days when i still believed i could do anything? they submerge in the vast ocean. i'm drowning trying to swim after them.