Before venturing further into this post, please READ ME.
I am impatient with the future and I have no tolerance for the past. I am the epitome of spontaneity. Yet, in contradiction, I waste many hours daydreaming. While I should be focusing on a task at hand, I am mentally wandering, dreaming of someone or somewhere I can’t be near or see at that particular time. I resent myself for it and end up with a level of self annoyance that borders on disgust. Why waste time in that way and be so vacant from a current place and time when there is so much to be done?
This world is simply too big for a mind that analyzes the smallest things. Planning becomes enemy #1. There are simply too many futures. I prefer to focus on manipulating potential futures by my actions in the present, primarily focusing on the effect my actions may have at that given moment and shutting off the “what if” switch of destructive hypotheticals. I subtly manipulate what future may be possible for me as I weave my own stories within every passing moment. My appreciation is for the little things and the opportunities that present themselves in an instant. Time spent planning and anticipating… well, that’s time that fleeting opportunities can slip through the cracks while I was preoccupied.
I crave adventure but because of who I am, my ability to gain that sense is severely impaired. I need someone strong enough to hold my hand and yank me out my world and lead me to a secret destination in a far off land. I love to be shown new experience. This quality may make me appear weak and lacking in motivation but in reality, I can only be so much as one person.
There are three major types of change. First is the type of change that most of us despise- the type that happens without our knowledge, foresight, or affect. We don’t experience such change but often find ourselves caught underneath the debris of a life turned upside down. This is self destruction. The second type of change would be the one that we directly choose for ourselves. We know there is something that needs to differ or else we will find ourselves simply walking in circles or pacing within the doldrums of a stagnant existence. That is the type where we have accepted our ability to hold our future in our hands and embrace opportunity of free will. We use such change as footholds to reach our hands above ground and pull out of the trenches. This is self empowerment. The third major type is the one where we may not have fallen victim to it but at the same time we did not directly institute it on our own. When there is an external influence that makes a difference for better or worse and we have taken the time to think about it and let them take a piece of our fate in their hands, this is the cross between the prior two types. This type is the only kind to really bring self awareness. The ability to hold the power of change in our hands and either embrace or shun it based on calculation. Every individual is different in this respect. Those lacking in self consciousness may be led down wrong paths and find their lives in a similar cataclysmic state to the results of change #1. Those people often see this as ultimately being the cause of change #1 even though they had options, they just weren’t strong enough to see or embrace them. Instead they opt to be so easily influenced that there is no self awareness and no conscious free will. Such impressionable people will often find themselves constantly choosing paths of their own detriment and in ignorance of advantageous options.
The reason I detail such a theory is because I am currently seeking that external influence to help me see different life altering perspectives and aid me in avoidance of dormant existence while still maintaining mindful assent. This is no easy feat but accounting for my distaste for contrivance regarding the future, that is my best option for self improvement. I am not a weak person who needs the will of others to sway me and make decisions for me. People are tools to be used in my best interest (not at their expense, mind you), and this is where I find myself at this point in my life. After analyzing my potential for as long as I have been capable of such ways of thinking, this is my conclusion
On planning November 28, 2007
Before venturing further into this post, please READ ME.
/digression November 26, 2007
Today it’s back to work. I’ve been out for 2 weeks now so I’m hoping I haven’t completely forgotten what the hell I’m supposed to be doing. The good thing is that I’m at the desk so the risk of my killing an innocent patient is minimal.
Things have been going well for me lately. I know that may seem contradictory when you read some of the entries I’ve posted as of late but there is a reason. Sometime last week I ran across a journal entry by my dA friend Jon in which he proposed the idea of why bright times can sometimes encourage dark writing. This comment conversation explains things perfectly. At my all time lows, I rarely write… when I do, yes it’s dark but it seriously lacks in the affluence I am typically blessed with.
It seems that there is a curse in writing for those who are prone to reside on the darker side of existence. Yesterday as I was making the long drive to drop Brooke off at her father’s, I found myself actually appreciating the day. It’s been dreary and either snowing or raining every day but yesterday was one of those random days where the sky was clear but for those random wisps of white that can’t quite call themselves clouds yet. It was that time of day where the sun is at just the right place to create perfect symmetry of shadow and light… each car on the road appearing to be chasing it’s darker counterpart down the highway. At one point, I was behind a rather large truck (actually driving at an acceptable speed which was refreshing in itself) and as I drove into the small rural town that was my destination, this truck started to kick up the leaves along the side of the road, making them dance and swirl against the light, catching the sun in such a way that I wished I could just follow that truck around the streets until it finally stopped. I often see these things and appreciate them… but I find it difficult to focus on them when I take the time to open my mind and let it flow onto paper or scatter my thoughts across this keyboard. Those things somehow get lost but it doesn’t mean that they aren’t there impacting me, bringing something simple and charming into my life. We all need those things.
The ultimate truth? I write the way I do simply because I possess the ability to do so. I am of free mind and free will and have a driving need to learn in retrospect. Things happen for a reason and we can be beaten down or we can move forward. Because I choose to write or create a desolate piece of artwork doesn’t translate into a woman depressed. It’s entirely too easy to succumb to the call of the various opiates available to us today. Be it a drug of choice, alcohol, or simply staring vacantly into the television screen. I opt to release instead of become consumed. Do not fault me for my methods.
the elocution of breaking [a timeline]
The ambiance of solitude
radiate idle absence.
so much emotion so little space.
frayed wires and broken synapses
careful semblance to…
dissolved, diffused, dissipated
(see, I even waste away in eloquence)
The half life of analysis-
flourishing at awareness
then expired upon impact.
a suffocating refusal to relinquish-
such as dust fallen on unused bodies
turning flesh an unsightly shade of gray.
An invisible toxin of purest form
(hold your breath and wait)
Eyes that only see inside
an ignorant bodily prison.
Timeless sacrament sewn seamlessly,
a cloak fashioned to shroud
an exterior constructed of consequences
a price paid for comfort
and ease to live in pieces.
Banality stripped to reveal disenchantment
(I’ve forgotten your face, cliché)
Borrowed time like orchids unattended,
crisp and frozen in space.
Flourish not for fragile petals
open for one so careless…
spread delicate fronds and
face buried in fragrance stolen
coercing nectar from stoic depths
the sweetest illusion of fated synthesis
(you are my favorite agony)
A child named Existedonce
born to parents- surname Wanderlust.
Nascent life riven from autonomy,
and what remains immortalized-
chapters torn from a novel obsolete
bless the amenity of choice.
Shallow stories left like a surfacing blush,
then hot-flashing burn to cheeks…
and skin peeling from overexposure
(you would have loved me regardless)
So it was written-
doled out in meter.
a trigger gently pulled
punctuated bullets pierce.
Civilized wounds cultivate sequence,
rewind, reset, rephrase
(I will make it pretty for you)
Gehenna aeternus November 21, 2007
It has been said that a happy disposition does not correlate to longevity; optimism promotes risk taking and heartbreak. What a miserable sentiment. I feel more and more like I am simply giving in; succumbing to sleep as I lay fighting the waves of loneliness that my cold sheets provide. I thrash around to get comfortable generating my own warmth. I lay staring through the television, hand on my abnormally empty stomach. I hear the noises of the night and Moose snoring like a bulldozer as he dreams in his bed next to me. My empty glass is on the night stand, drained after my nightly snack. My belly should not feel as it does.
There are decisions we are faced with in life that come with the absolute certainty of regret. You know that the second you make them, follow through, move forward ignoring the need to scream into the night, that you will spend the rest of your days getting to know guilt on a dramatically intimate level. You will mate with said guilt every night and produce a million theoretic children with it. It becomes painfully apparent that want is not enough. Want is weak. Unless of course, it is the want of another.
We abandon our own wants in attempt to satisfy the bigger picture. Instinct often resembles such larger views. We follow our gut in an effort to avoid making the “wrong” decisions when simply wanting seems to not be a good enough answer. When in doubt, you’re told to always listen to intuition, right? There is no comfort in that though, and typically we use such things as precognitive ideas as an excuse to make decisions based on what we think “the world” would believe to be best. Worse yet, one specific Other who’s opinions and feelings have grown to a level of importance so high that they surpass your own.
Instinct has become less of a genuine compass for leading the way on the best path and instead has devolved into a scapegoat. My awareness of this fact and my inability to steer away from abusing it only makes this god forsaken emptiness more devastating. I have made my bed and I will lay in it. Of course, I can no longer count how many times I’ve said that… it would seem I am destined to spend my existence staring at the four walls in this grave of despondency I seem to find so comfortable. I buy furniture and decorate the walls and try to adjust the general aesthetic appeal, but my dwelling is what it is- 6 feet under and awaiting collapse. It has become apparent that any who feel it necessary to attach themselves to me will be finding themselves buried under the weight of what I myself am doomed to become crushed by.
Stay away from my damage! Get away now while you still can! I will lie to myself and I will lie to you. I will lie to cover up my shame. I will lie to keep my exterior shiny and new. I will lie to keep you. I will lie to push you away. I am despicable and I am broken.
So here I sit, another day and a different person. The same can be said tomorrow… and the day after. I accuse others of being lacking in self, but I am still nothing more than a sketch of a person. My portrait may never be finished. It has also been said that the day we stop learning about ourselves is the day that we die. I feel as if I am simply waiting for that day. There seems to always be things I discover within my own destructed psyche that nauseate me, tear at the fabric of my being and cause me to live in a purgatory of pointless, hopeless wanting. There was a time when I sought self discovery, but now I fear waking up every morning to see the person I might possibly be. As I succumb to the lie of instinct and continue to reconstruct my moral fiber, I feel almost as if I know less than I started with. I have been evicted from purgatory and stepped straight into hell.
“It is true that many young people who love falsely, i.e. simply surrendering themselves and giving up their solitude (the average person will of course go on doing that-), feel oppressed by their failure and want to make the situation they have landed in livable and fruitful in their own, personal way. For their nature tells them that the questions of love, even more than everything else that is important, cannot be resolved publicly and according to this or that agreement; that they are questions, intimate questions from one human being to another, which in any case require a new, special, wholly personal answer. But how can they, who have already flung themselves together and can no longer tell whose outlines are whose, who thus no longer possess anything of their own, how can they find a way out of themselves, out of the depths of their already buried solitude?” –Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet
gaps in time and space November 20, 2007
At my ripe old age of unmentionable, I can’t help but feel ancient. Rolling out of bed is an ordeal in the morning all cracks and snaps and heavy eyes, I stumble down the stairs to get a quick breakfast for my son and drag my laptop and a pack of cigarettes outside to reflect on my day which has yet to start. Every morning, this is my routine.
On occasion, this cycle gets broken. It’s been said that what causes artistic and literary ruts is succumbing to the same routines year after painful year, day after day in the doldrums. While I can certainly see the truths that hold this statement together, I do believe there is a line. What happens when you get nothing more than a mere taste of life outside of the prisons we create for ourselves? What happens when you never get to taste at all but simply wish to a painful degree that there were more doors to walk through when the choice has been made to stand up and walk out of confinement?
Samples are heavenly. There is no doubt about that. When the moments have passed and the whirlwind of activity dies down to the breeze of memory, routines change. Not so much in the activities done from day to day under regular circumstances, but more in the fact that the mind is held in a perpetual state of ‘elsewhere’. Whether dreaming of other places or waking in the morning to feel a phantom arm draped across your belly, memory is a very, very powerful thing and while it can often bring the agony of loss, it also carries with it those brief and shining moments of a life that you held (however briefly) in a firm grasp.
What can be said for the daydreamer? The person who breaks their cycles only with fantasy of what coulda, shoulda been? An existence completely forged of imaginary experience and an equivocal state of perpetual wanting is not satisfying. There is something to be said for these people though. There will come a time for them when they will act out the years of careful planning and considerations for what is most important for their happiness. Many of them will not simply live and die in a state of wistful dreaming. It’s the promise of being able to close your eyes when you’ve returned to familiar settings and relive in glory all that you have seen. It’s the hope that one day, time spent pining over one so far from your grasp will reach an abrupt halt as they stand face to face with you and reaching out to them is no longer mere fantasy… as sleep beckons at the end of the chaos, the memory of touch becomes tangible.
This world is full of potential and beauty. Technology offers us the ability to see all of the potential that lies in our own hands. We can see beyond our routines if the cards are played correctly. In these times, there is a great big window allowing us to see the world that we can step out into and the people that exist to share it with. This window, though, well… eventually a time will come where you have to simply open it up, stand on the sill, gather every bit of inertia capable within, and hurtle yourself through. Jump. Jump into oblivion. Pray to the gods that this leap of faith is not a glorified suicide ending in face meeting pavement.
These things I speak of apply to so much within our day to day experience. The big and the small. They could be applied to the activities we attempt to fill the gaping holes in our lives with, or most dramatically, tearing through the barriers of our own sheltered existence and opting to let another person climb through to hold your hand and lead you.
While we let people in through said windows, there is something to be said for using people AS the window. We spend a great portion of our lives forging connections throughout life. The times when we are able to accomplish such a sacred meeting of minds are the experiences that literally fill the chasms in life. Experiences are like water that can be dammed up within the gorge, but people… well, assembling these connections is like sediment building upon itself to strengthen the walls in efforts to counteract the effects of erosion. There are so many people in this world but so few that are not simply placed on the planet to chip away at each other. So few connections we make in the world are deeply effectual of a positive nature and the ones that are, well… it’s easy to shy away from the people that show such potential. Those are the ones we should let IN our window. The lesser meetings and ones of diminished affect, they are the ones you look through. They don’t carry enough potential to guide but they do harbor enough to be able to tolerate as a gateway. We find these people along our course and there are little to no repercussions to using them in the grand scheme but without them, our paths would be greatly hindered. They are our stepping stones. Without them, we cannot get from Point A to Point B.
I find that over these past could of months, this “sampling” of life’s potential is what is creatively stunting me. I spend so much time flashing back through memories once they pass, I can’t find familiar comforts in the routines I’ve always clung so tightly to. I am changing on a large scale as I let new experiences alter my outlook and allow new people shine their potential through doors that I am just beginning to open. I am done with this gradual evolution, thrown the window wide open and have taken the stance on the sill. I am going to launch myself out of this god forsaken hell of a prison and leap to save my life. To hell with the consequences. Consequence breeds excitement. Damn the torpedoes as a good friend once said to me. I am going to jump. Maybe I’ll even quit smoking with the right motivation…
The great letdown November 15, 2007
You know when you spend days upon days in the greatest mood imaginable, nothing can seem to bother you, and you seem to be floating on an unnatural cloud of euphoria? Well, that has been what the past few days have been like for me. When this happens though, my inner pessimist comes out to play in the assumption that for every great rise, there must come a great crash.
It’s difficult to look past this state of mind at all of the potential for disaster. When everything is bright and shining, I am blind to the shadows that lurk behind in wait. At the least suspected moment, my world comes falling down on top of me at the moment I shield my eyes and look over my shoulder at what could possibly be following me. In a split second, without warning, the great letdown.
I’m not prone to wild mood-swings or bouts of crippling depression but things have been strange for me. There’s almost a sense of otherworldliness to the series of events that has been occurring in recent months. What is killing me is that my sixth sense for disaster seems to have taken a siesta and with it’s hiatus is a sense of vulnerability that I am far from accustomed to.
I have not lost all of it though, mind you. I do get the feeling often that something big is laying on the horizon. I have no sense of what the nature of this ‘big thing’ is, but the fact that I can indeed sense it ahead of me and not stalking me in the dark could either be a sign of potential luck or that I’ve managed to leave myself open to be hurt. This lack of suspicion is what is killing me. The anxiety and nervousness of some malicious happening is not around to keep me firmly grounded in the realities of the evils that lie quietly within us all. Such things are not dormant. They are merely crouched to pounce like stealth predators in the fields. I seem aware at this moment, but don’t be fooled. I am not prepared to welcome that level of paranoia into my state of mind. More accurately, I am simply not prepared.
Lessons on reading November 12, 2007
There seems to be a great need within society for people to have the ability to interpret bestowed upon them. There was a time when I felt blessed by the ability to write in a way that used metaphor and analogy to it’s highest power. In the extremes, a powerful message can be delivered through obscurity. I write in a way that allows for multiple interpretations and for poignant sentiment to be applied to nearly any emotion held at a given time. In this way, people can relate to me and I to them in a way that is precious. Because of this changing of times, it seems that even the most simple thing that I have to say can be warped into nothing more then a pseudo-gothic expression of my inner pain. While there is a time and place for me to express such feelings (yes, we all have them), it does not mean that I have become a victim to my own inability to feel beyond that.
Take a step back everyone. You really need to adopt this realization that there is more to even the most damaged amongst your fellow man. I am not going to write what I have to say in sugar-coated, happy-go-lucky phrases no matter how happy I am. I am also not going to gently spoon feed you my words, thoughts, philosophies and verses. You can take them as they are served, choke it down even if you hate it, or you can go to bed hungry. Open your eyes and for just one second take the time to see beyond the words. Behind this screen is not a person counting down the seconds until death offers sweet release from all of the treachery that has been suffered. Behind this screen is a person who is spending every day learning from every single experience and trudging through the judgment cast by your narrow-mindedness.
What is written here is what I am generously offering you in an attempt to bring new perspective to dwindling insight. It is not those who are wracked with painful emotion that they can’t break free from that are irreparably damaged… it is you who can’t find your way out of your spiteful little box to realize that you will never see the light of day from the bleak corner of misanthropy. You blame the torrents of angst-ridden teenagers and the resulting 10 million subcultures birthed from their individual agonies for the fact that it has become nearly impossible to read beyond graphic imagery. I blame your happy, suburban home built from the illusions of jaded parents hell-bent on raising their children “right”. If you have never struggled, who are you to be the critic. Does this sound familiar? Do you hate being put in a category from which you can’t claw your way out? Do you indeed have wisdom beyond your years due to the trials of your exhausting tribulations? Quite possibly you have… and you may want to draw on that as a lifeline from such fatal hypocrisy.