A lily in winter, in want of resolution.
I have a sort of privacy at the moment.
It's the sort of privacy that is neighbor to the flickering of candles, each waxy base propped in some part of the room, encircling me so that each time I am to look up I meet with one of their glares. Each flame has a different tempo, a different setting in which it has taken up residence so comfortably, and I daresay that if I had enough courage without possibility of embarassment I would venture to compare each one to a particular emotion of mine.
It is the sort of privacy akin to purposefully set darkness and a classical song--sad yet hopeful of its own accord--on repeat. With enough effort, by forgetting as quickly I can the whir of the CD player repeating the tune, I can envision that it is a natural background for my state in this cluttered chamber, and not at all a staged action of my own.
And, to accompany that, if my own ability were skillful enough, perhaps I could fancy that this moment would bring more to write of than the mental cutoff of a torturous two year relationship, one that I am constantly looking for an opportunity to slip away from and settle. However, I've been tied down with it again and again, not always unwillingly, much like water escaping from a sink and then plugged up again at the last possible second. (It leaves what was recently washed to gather the film, the stagnation of waiting and becoming dirty once more.)
I wish very much that I did not have to stage emotion. For here, in this room, I've put up all the necessities of encouraging a thoughtful experience without honestly feeling the undeniable tug to rawly have one. It is afternoon, I suppose, but with shades drawn shut and lace curtains pulled, one would hardly know the time. This time, though, has unconsciously been carved for the purpose of reflection. I allow myself little of it these days, always bound by some misery or duty, and have resorted to an ever strengthening isolation of its signals.
There is a certain feeling that springs when I want to write. I am usually in the incorrect place, however, somehow on my way to something else or expecting another such anything relatively soon. It has a distinct presence, and I am mostly sorry to see it go when it does. Sometimes, even, I elect to lose its momentary significance because I am frightened by the impending frustration or eventual disappointment of not being able to record those thoughts of the present. It's a light feeling, similar to calling on a fond, unexpected, or doleful memory, in which whatever matter that was just before you goes up in odorless smoke and you are suddenly floating for an instant in a sort of blurred reality, thinking of little else. To me, such a feeling has both its perfections of reverie yet its sharper melancholies, for it lasts for but a few seconds enough to frown at its swift evaporation. I have ignored this feeling for more than I have been able to be proud of for more than two years.
I used to depend upon inspiration, I think, in moments when I simply had nothing else to do. Then in my awkward high school mind, I would draw from these facts to the point of greatly expanding their relevance. I suppose it was because I had, and do have, a great admiration of anything epic, anything beautifully otherworldly, and it's simply for want of that timeless power, of such a distinct emotional symptom that could only translate into something everlasting or painful beyond what music or words can tell, that led me to do it. I once recorded my life in this way, taking the effect of my days, which I would still not recall without at least moderate pain and tribulation, and pour it into a pool volumized with tragedy.
A defect of constantly reading of things greater than yourself, I suppose.
But here we come to it. A relationship that, in less than a week and a half, will meet its end. I feel as though I've been suspended in an uncomfortable chair lately, simply waiting my turn, kicking my feet with impatience. I go back and forth between wanting those two individuals who are most dear to me in my life at the moment, through circumstance and the reasonable truth of admiration, to love and forget me. And I, in turn, cannot choose between loving and forgetting them. I can think of them with something very close to adoration before that emotion is spoiled.
I can wake early and see her sleeping. I can sit up straight as I can muster, throwing my gaze over pages and pages of Mansfield Park, looking up to her dozing features again until I realize that I am crying. But why am I crying? I think it the stir of comfort, the warmth of years in each others' presence, the realization that I am very soon to go away. And so, I am looking to her with a true enough love, a genuine love, and one that could flourish with her willingness. However, there has been a nail driven in me somewhere, and it's rusted with the decay of loyalty, the overall lack of equal consideration, and a reason for myself to believe that I have glorified its importance while we both have changed exceedingly. Sometimes I find such hope, though, when I know we have understood an instance without the necessity of talking about it, or I catch a glimpse of something in her words that seems to say that I am still perhaps what she looks to for some sort of goodness. But for the most part, I can see no exhibition of friendly affection on her end that could lead me to think I am more dear than any other she asks over, or any social gathering she's led herself into, whether for desperation or honest delight of it. I despise closing my eyes on occasional evenings, thinking her too concerned with herself, for that's all that ever lines conversations unless I speak up, or closing in on a label of frivolity. (The second in line comes with soon parting to a place where I trust myself to be cared for in more than company or agreement, but in perhaps genuine admiration of my character, faults and all.)
I wish nothing but loyalty and openness in a friendship, and very seldom do I ever require more than one confidant, but to have been denied the ability to freely spill my thoughts to anyone at all has caused such a clutter in my mind that I've given up all hope of sorting through the wreckage. I do not wish to be a nuisance to anyone, and as my recent romantic relationship has proven that no one can clear up my history or my errors other than me, I am basically a slave to mental solitude. I do not blame myself for doting on the past, but I do wholeheartedly wish someone would help me on occasion. Some portions are impassable.
I have little to leave him with. I think some of his predictions must unfortunately be true: he says I will lose fondness of him quickly, that I will escape thought of him within a few weeks, that he shall remember and I shall walk faster from it. I will remember, no doubt, but in a college setting that requires more from me than I am able to give at times, it is inevitable that I will find my obligations frequent, though it is no shining reflection on the depth of my affection. Besides, I shall have more than one friend that I adore to attend to, and I hope to strengthen those bonds rather than skipping off to tackle a new romantic one. In that arena, there could only be one that could distress me, due to the impossible meaning I gave one evening, but if I shall reduce to ash, then I can admit to already having done so long ago unless provoked. But as for the one I am parting from, I must sit in bewilderment over his outstanding loyalty, though I always doubted him; his gentle healing, in all pleasures and comforts of the body; and his remarkable simplicity. He is not for me, nor am I for him, and we have struggled too long over that frustration. He sees evil, as I do, but I look to see beauty more frequently, and as I am seen as quite the critical, negative little monster in others' company, that is a significant oddity indeed. We have upset one another for more time than either of us should have allowed. I part for freedom, and for consolation in the distance.
I doubt that any future romance will flare up anytime soon. From my last concentration, I have become doubly fearful of my own flaws, and I am far too reluctant to throw those on anyone else who passes by. I am shy, anyhow, and have yet to have a person be interested in me without the protection of the internet, writing and all, to back the attention.
I need an evolution, a time period, and I have sillily thought far too often of walking in that nature I am soon to travel to, early morning, sunrise and self-focus, and reforming my own mind.
fuckyouJaneAustenfordominatingmydiction
It's the sort of privacy that is neighbor to the flickering of candles, each waxy base propped in some part of the room, encircling me so that each time I am to look up I meet with one of their glares. Each flame has a different tempo, a different setting in which it has taken up residence so comfortably, and I daresay that if I had enough courage without possibility of embarassment I would venture to compare each one to a particular emotion of mine.
It is the sort of privacy akin to purposefully set darkness and a classical song--sad yet hopeful of its own accord--on repeat. With enough effort, by forgetting as quickly I can the whir of the CD player repeating the tune, I can envision that it is a natural background for my state in this cluttered chamber, and not at all a staged action of my own.
And, to accompany that, if my own ability were skillful enough, perhaps I could fancy that this moment would bring more to write of than the mental cutoff of a torturous two year relationship, one that I am constantly looking for an opportunity to slip away from and settle. However, I've been tied down with it again and again, not always unwillingly, much like water escaping from a sink and then plugged up again at the last possible second. (It leaves what was recently washed to gather the film, the stagnation of waiting and becoming dirty once more.)
I wish very much that I did not have to stage emotion. For here, in this room, I've put up all the necessities of encouraging a thoughtful experience without honestly feeling the undeniable tug to rawly have one. It is afternoon, I suppose, but with shades drawn shut and lace curtains pulled, one would hardly know the time. This time, though, has unconsciously been carved for the purpose of reflection. I allow myself little of it these days, always bound by some misery or duty, and have resorted to an ever strengthening isolation of its signals.
There is a certain feeling that springs when I want to write. I am usually in the incorrect place, however, somehow on my way to something else or expecting another such anything relatively soon. It has a distinct presence, and I am mostly sorry to see it go when it does. Sometimes, even, I elect to lose its momentary significance because I am frightened by the impending frustration or eventual disappointment of not being able to record those thoughts of the present. It's a light feeling, similar to calling on a fond, unexpected, or doleful memory, in which whatever matter that was just before you goes up in odorless smoke and you are suddenly floating for an instant in a sort of blurred reality, thinking of little else. To me, such a feeling has both its perfections of reverie yet its sharper melancholies, for it lasts for but a few seconds enough to frown at its swift evaporation. I have ignored this feeling for more than I have been able to be proud of for more than two years.
I used to depend upon inspiration, I think, in moments when I simply had nothing else to do. Then in my awkward high school mind, I would draw from these facts to the point of greatly expanding their relevance. I suppose it was because I had, and do have, a great admiration of anything epic, anything beautifully otherworldly, and it's simply for want of that timeless power, of such a distinct emotional symptom that could only translate into something everlasting or painful beyond what music or words can tell, that led me to do it. I once recorded my life in this way, taking the effect of my days, which I would still not recall without at least moderate pain and tribulation, and pour it into a pool volumized with tragedy.
A defect of constantly reading of things greater than yourself, I suppose.
But here we come to it. A relationship that, in less than a week and a half, will meet its end. I feel as though I've been suspended in an uncomfortable chair lately, simply waiting my turn, kicking my feet with impatience. I go back and forth between wanting those two individuals who are most dear to me in my life at the moment, through circumstance and the reasonable truth of admiration, to love and forget me. And I, in turn, cannot choose between loving and forgetting them. I can think of them with something very close to adoration before that emotion is spoiled.
I can wake early and see her sleeping. I can sit up straight as I can muster, throwing my gaze over pages and pages of Mansfield Park, looking up to her dozing features again until I realize that I am crying. But why am I crying? I think it the stir of comfort, the warmth of years in each others' presence, the realization that I am very soon to go away. And so, I am looking to her with a true enough love, a genuine love, and one that could flourish with her willingness. However, there has been a nail driven in me somewhere, and it's rusted with the decay of loyalty, the overall lack of equal consideration, and a reason for myself to believe that I have glorified its importance while we both have changed exceedingly. Sometimes I find such hope, though, when I know we have understood an instance without the necessity of talking about it, or I catch a glimpse of something in her words that seems to say that I am still perhaps what she looks to for some sort of goodness. But for the most part, I can see no exhibition of friendly affection on her end that could lead me to think I am more dear than any other she asks over, or any social gathering she's led herself into, whether for desperation or honest delight of it. I despise closing my eyes on occasional evenings, thinking her too concerned with herself, for that's all that ever lines conversations unless I speak up, or closing in on a label of frivolity. (The second in line comes with soon parting to a place where I trust myself to be cared for in more than company or agreement, but in perhaps genuine admiration of my character, faults and all.)
I wish nothing but loyalty and openness in a friendship, and very seldom do I ever require more than one confidant, but to have been denied the ability to freely spill my thoughts to anyone at all has caused such a clutter in my mind that I've given up all hope of sorting through the wreckage. I do not wish to be a nuisance to anyone, and as my recent romantic relationship has proven that no one can clear up my history or my errors other than me, I am basically a slave to mental solitude. I do not blame myself for doting on the past, but I do wholeheartedly wish someone would help me on occasion. Some portions are impassable.
I have little to leave him with. I think some of his predictions must unfortunately be true: he says I will lose fondness of him quickly, that I will escape thought of him within a few weeks, that he shall remember and I shall walk faster from it. I will remember, no doubt, but in a college setting that requires more from me than I am able to give at times, it is inevitable that I will find my obligations frequent, though it is no shining reflection on the depth of my affection. Besides, I shall have more than one friend that I adore to attend to, and I hope to strengthen those bonds rather than skipping off to tackle a new romantic one. In that arena, there could only be one that could distress me, due to the impossible meaning I gave one evening, but if I shall reduce to ash, then I can admit to already having done so long ago unless provoked. But as for the one I am parting from, I must sit in bewilderment over his outstanding loyalty, though I always doubted him; his gentle healing, in all pleasures and comforts of the body; and his remarkable simplicity. He is not for me, nor am I for him, and we have struggled too long over that frustration. He sees evil, as I do, but I look to see beauty more frequently, and as I am seen as quite the critical, negative little monster in others' company, that is a significant oddity indeed. We have upset one another for more time than either of us should have allowed. I part for freedom, and for consolation in the distance.
I doubt that any future romance will flare up anytime soon. From my last concentration, I have become doubly fearful of my own flaws, and I am far too reluctant to throw those on anyone else who passes by. I am shy, anyhow, and have yet to have a person be interested in me without the protection of the internet, writing and all, to back the attention.
I need an evolution, a time period, and I have sillily thought far too often of walking in that nature I am soon to travel to, early morning, sunrise and self-focus, and reforming my own mind.
fuckyouJaneAustenfordominatingmydiction