(no subject)
It's the loneliness that gets to me the most. The silence. The meaningless repetition. I'm starting to wonder if I even remember what it's like to live with someone else - like this room in my parents' house, where I spent 14 years of my life, was the only room I'd ever inhabited. I had wanted to paint my walls black. They are a powder blue. I had my photography, art, and the works of others on them, but I tore them all down. Some kind of vehemence for my youth. Now the walls are bare, empty. I feel as though they reflect my life. Barren. My little dog is sometimes a comfort to me. He can tell when I'm sad, or angry. He curls up against my back, and in one pathetic moment, I pretend that it is a human being. I hate myself for needing the love of others. I recognize that I should not want it as badly as I do, and yet that recognition does nothing. I miss the laughter that once reverberated in this house. My brother, Nick, had such a unique laugh - one that was both ridiculous and infectious at once. I rarely hear him laugh now, although he did let out a small chuckle on Christmas. His sadness is infectious as well, and I feel guilty for dreading his imminent eviction from his house to this one. I'm depressed enough as it is without having to ward off the anguish of others. Self-preservation feels so cold. Heartless. I was not like this before. More than anything now, I want to be on my own. I want to force myself into isolation, so that, eventually, I will need no one and nothing to comfort me. But to accomplish that, I require employment. Selling myself to some fake pretender with a false smile is disgusting to me. I shouldn't have to pretend to be an extroverted valley girl with an affinity for gabbing with the public - but not TOO much, just the right amount of believable amiability to get the job done. Day in and day out. I don't know about others, but I was not meant to live like that. Or like this. I often fantasize that I was meant to be born in another time, another place, where I would be loved and appreciated for who I am. Where my life would have meaning and purpose. Delusional.
I tell myself that I don't yet know what will become of me, but I do know. A future of misunderstanding, selfishness, being used and taken for granted, and doing the same to others. Maybe I don't deserve to be appreciated. Maybe I forsook any real love or compassion when I chose to willfully hurt others simply because I wanted to experience something that was forbidden. Eve and the apple. I always hated that story, at first because I perceived it as sexist, a stigmatization of women in general, throughout all history. Now, I revile it because I see myself in her place. What is so wrong with wanting knowledge? I suppose the faceless men who wrote it must have been warning against the corruption and sorrow that knowledge brings... all my intelligence and insight has served no other purpose than to make me more aware of the true nature of things. Hatred, hypocrisy, injustice, immorality, selfishness. Why did all those men and women write about everlasting love and human companionship and all these beautiful ideas that may have never been real? Those ideals haunt me with their nonexistence, and provoke me with their intangibility. I am ashamed that I once believed in them so fervently, and that some part of me still does - that innocent child that won't leave me be, that little girl that keeps whispering words of hope that are no longer of any comfort to me.
The only thing that disturbs me more than this empty loneliness and desire for love and acceptance is the act of giving up. It is both tantalizing and terrifying. I cannot do it, can't even face it. I am not sure yet if this is a hindrance or a help to me, a reflection of the endurance of the human spirit or a pitiful cowardice. Why do I think about these things? It only frightens me. Better to live inside stories and dreams - at least in those fantastical, horrible, spell-bound places, I can search for some form of peace.
I tell myself that I don't yet know what will become of me, but I do know. A future of misunderstanding, selfishness, being used and taken for granted, and doing the same to others. Maybe I don't deserve to be appreciated. Maybe I forsook any real love or compassion when I chose to willfully hurt others simply because I wanted to experience something that was forbidden. Eve and the apple. I always hated that story, at first because I perceived it as sexist, a stigmatization of women in general, throughout all history. Now, I revile it because I see myself in her place. What is so wrong with wanting knowledge? I suppose the faceless men who wrote it must have been warning against the corruption and sorrow that knowledge brings... all my intelligence and insight has served no other purpose than to make me more aware of the true nature of things. Hatred, hypocrisy, injustice, immorality, selfishness. Why did all those men and women write about everlasting love and human companionship and all these beautiful ideas that may have never been real? Those ideals haunt me with their nonexistence, and provoke me with their intangibility. I am ashamed that I once believed in them so fervently, and that some part of me still does - that innocent child that won't leave me be, that little girl that keeps whispering words of hope that are no longer of any comfort to me.
The only thing that disturbs me more than this empty loneliness and desire for love and acceptance is the act of giving up. It is both tantalizing and terrifying. I cannot do it, can't even face it. I am not sure yet if this is a hindrance or a help to me, a reflection of the endurance of the human spirit or a pitiful cowardice. Why do I think about these things? It only frightens me. Better to live inside stories and dreams - at least in those fantastical, horrible, spell-bound places, I can search for some form of peace.