a journey to a new beginning
So I woke up today, feeling sick; you know how that goes. Your head wants to hurt, and your throat feels dry and prickly, like sand has been stuffed down your throat. 'Tis not the great feeling to wake up to on a cloudy Sunday morning. With the mere fact that now I have midterms approaching next week, I wanted to use today to study for history and mathematics. However, this week was awful and I completely felt an unwilling je ne seis quoi overcome me: I maneuvered from class to class- which by the way are back to back; hour after hour, with that ghastly ten minute break in between. Half listening in my classes, all except for French and math. My other three classes, I hardly paid any attention in them.
For weeks, I haven't drawn any new fashion sketches, nor did any photography. Just attended school, blank like, and just ventured my way back home, 'tis an endless cycle. Everyday goes pass me, like a sensible wind along the Mediterranean coast in Southern Europe. Just growing up and remembering all the silly tales and quest I rambled about when I was, -let's see how old this journal is,- seventeen. And it has even happened prior to this journal, in my old journal as well.
The point is, I turned 20 a month ago: so where has my childhood and that same boy gone? I opened this journal after months of abandonment and I started from the beginning, the beginning being exactly three years ago this September. Back then I spoke about a new beginning, and a few entries later, a new televison show, a boy and college applications. Not only was I then searching for the life of granduer and prosperity, but I couldn't wait to be this age. Now 3 years older, I look back at all those frivilous ideas about fashion, my life and relationships and it saddens me how innonocent and unbecoming I was.
What has changed that boy into myself now, was Cazenovia. Caz was the real-world and the a shocking revelation for me. After a year, I then moved back to the city, because I assumed things would go back to the way they were a year prior. At the time, it was all for the wrong reasons. I still wanted to be the fabulous primadonna, and have that fantasy life every ridiculous "fashionista" wants, the boys, the parties and designers clothes. However, throughout the throngs of people I've manuevered throughout this past year alone, that boy from one year ago had no idea what this world was about, nor was he ready. Instead, he should have taken it for how easily it-being life- came. The boys with no strings, the gallant laughter and according freedom- though it was still restricting- came with no promises of hurt. These days, I have that freedom I so longed for. From the nonverbal treaty of my war of homosexuality, and my desire to be different as well as artistic as I want to be. My parents don't accept it fully, but their tongues aren't so sharp anymore. These days, I wear what I want, whenever I want. I am who I am, whenever I want to be. All the battles I sufficed three years ago and felt was of complete lost and no purpose, eventually led to a victorious war. A war in which my soliders had no preperation for, but alas they still won. I was blind back then Im presuming now, I gave up too easily. I was completely passive, but not so much anymore. I do not cower in a stairwell anymore because of random ridicle, even then, I denied it amongst my entries. Back then, the abuse, both mentally and physically I encountered, had fell upon willing ears. However, my own tongue and hands crying to release an even younger boy who was lost locked fell captive to lies. Seventeen, I was dumb and foolish, however, sadly nothing has changed from then, except now I would be my own worst enemy.
Friends were my support, can the same be said now? With the amount of people I felt betrayed and disappointment by from suddenly became endless. Even occuring not so much but a few weeks and days ago, so alas, like that same seventeen year old boy, it's just me againist the world- only this time, I'm colder, immensely wiser, and sharp. My demons trust no one- not even my own eyes, for eyes have are always blind. Eyes accept and recieve information, all information are inaccurate. Everything is a lie. I shan't lie anymore, nor do I wish to. But that same seventeen year old boy, accepted it all. His ears, though physically deaf, strained to hear any and every thing. These days, there isn't no recovery of my disabilty, but yet everything is deaf. My parents. My siblings, my family, my "friends", and the world that engulfs me. Sadly, that boy inside me is disappointed by the complete 360 that became him. Not fashionably tolerant, with not a care in the world of his apperance, nor, the fact that he's become such a realist, and not a dreamer. I will not be called cynical, for I haven't given up on anything. The arts is my love- my life, it will always be. But I shall not give in to that seventeen year old who cries in me everyday at was he thought he would have become these days.
I went to fashion week, and I learned so much. Je suis a ecole, for all the right reasons. I defriended mentally all those who claimed to have "supported" and "loved" that same seventeen year old boy. Now he's three years older, by himself and physically lonesome, with a few selected individuals that remain in his life. Truthfully, some pf these "indiviuals" he thought would be long gone, just a blank memory of the past that he made up to escape the world's ridicule. "They're" still here, but yet, "they" won't do no harm like the rest of the realistic "friends" he made and will make a year or two later.Twenty year old me would go back and tell that same boy, he would be alright. That no matter what, he will make it one for one, and one over all.
Ryan
For weeks, I haven't drawn any new fashion sketches, nor did any photography. Just attended school, blank like, and just ventured my way back home, 'tis an endless cycle. Everyday goes pass me, like a sensible wind along the Mediterranean coast in Southern Europe. Just growing up and remembering all the silly tales and quest I rambled about when I was, -let's see how old this journal is,- seventeen. And it has even happened prior to this journal, in my old journal as well.
The point is, I turned 20 a month ago: so where has my childhood and that same boy gone? I opened this journal after months of abandonment and I started from the beginning, the beginning being exactly three years ago this September. Back then I spoke about a new beginning, and a few entries later, a new televison show, a boy and college applications. Not only was I then searching for the life of granduer and prosperity, but I couldn't wait to be this age. Now 3 years older, I look back at all those frivilous ideas about fashion, my life and relationships and it saddens me how innonocent and unbecoming I was.
What has changed that boy into myself now, was Cazenovia. Caz was the real-world and the a shocking revelation for me. After a year, I then moved back to the city, because I assumed things would go back to the way they were a year prior. At the time, it was all for the wrong reasons. I still wanted to be the fabulous primadonna, and have that fantasy life every ridiculous "fashionista" wants, the boys, the parties and designers clothes. However, throughout the throngs of people I've manuevered throughout this past year alone, that boy from one year ago had no idea what this world was about, nor was he ready. Instead, he should have taken it for how easily it-being life- came. The boys with no strings, the gallant laughter and according freedom- though it was still restricting- came with no promises of hurt. These days, I have that freedom I so longed for. From the nonverbal treaty of my war of homosexuality, and my desire to be different as well as artistic as I want to be. My parents don't accept it fully, but their tongues aren't so sharp anymore. These days, I wear what I want, whenever I want. I am who I am, whenever I want to be. All the battles I sufficed three years ago and felt was of complete lost and no purpose, eventually led to a victorious war. A war in which my soliders had no preperation for, but alas they still won. I was blind back then Im presuming now, I gave up too easily. I was completely passive, but not so much anymore. I do not cower in a stairwell anymore because of random ridicle, even then, I denied it amongst my entries. Back then, the abuse, both mentally and physically I encountered, had fell upon willing ears. However, my own tongue and hands crying to release an even younger boy who was lost locked fell captive to lies. Seventeen, I was dumb and foolish, however, sadly nothing has changed from then, except now I would be my own worst enemy.
Friends were my support, can the same be said now? With the amount of people I felt betrayed and disappointment by from suddenly became endless. Even occuring not so much but a few weeks and days ago, so alas, like that same seventeen year old boy, it's just me againist the world- only this time, I'm colder, immensely wiser, and sharp. My demons trust no one- not even my own eyes, for eyes have are always blind. Eyes accept and recieve information, all information are inaccurate. Everything is a lie. I shan't lie anymore, nor do I wish to. But that same seventeen year old boy, accepted it all. His ears, though physically deaf, strained to hear any and every thing. These days, there isn't no recovery of my disabilty, but yet everything is deaf. My parents. My siblings, my family, my "friends", and the world that engulfs me. Sadly, that boy inside me is disappointed by the complete 360 that became him. Not fashionably tolerant, with not a care in the world of his apperance, nor, the fact that he's become such a realist, and not a dreamer. I will not be called cynical, for I haven't given up on anything. The arts is my love- my life, it will always be. But I shall not give in to that seventeen year old who cries in me everyday at was he thought he would have become these days.
I went to fashion week, and I learned so much. Je suis a ecole, for all the right reasons. I defriended mentally all those who claimed to have "supported" and "loved" that same seventeen year old boy. Now he's three years older, by himself and physically lonesome, with a few selected individuals that remain in his life. Truthfully, some pf these "indiviuals" he thought would be long gone, just a blank memory of the past that he made up to escape the world's ridicule. "They're" still here, but yet, "they" won't do no harm like the rest of the realistic "friends" he made and will make a year or two later.Twenty year old me would go back and tell that same boy, he would be alright. That no matter what, he will make it one for one, and one over all.
Ryan