Tuesday, March 9, 2010
I've been using this blog for the better part of the last year, as a forum to say what I wanted to but through the eyes of created characters. Yes, it's evident that there's a continued running theme of loss, despair, desperation, and feelings of the sort... I won't begin to deny that, and on the whole it's been somewhat therapeutic, but rarely do I address things directly, maybe all of three separate occasions, and in my own right I've rationalized, that I haven't needed too, that everything I need to address can be done so through the eyes of whichever character I create, or whichever non-fiction persona I decide to dawn on every given day.
I felt it prudent to finally address things directly, if nothing but in this single message alone, and maybe then I may begin to see some improvement. I'm not alright, I'm not okay; and though I want to be, and though I fight to be, there's a constant dissent into deeper and deeper pits of my own internal torment. I was once told by someone who was close to me, that I don't need to be upset or depressed to make art, in which I quickly recanted (after some optimistic bullshitting,) that I do—this is my way, this is my right. I have an unfortunate connection in creating from the burning ruble that is/was my optimistic hopeful spirit. I speak on hope as if I have any. I don’t know if I do, I want to feel like I do so as not to seem completely despondent to the world that often wished to accept as one of its own; but I don’t want to be a part of the world outside of my own. If I did, why would I go through the trouble of creating my own?
Am I emotionally unstable? Or am I normal? This is the constant conflict I come across. In one moment I can be perfectly fine with who I am, where I’m at, and this isn’t even in the midst of being with the one I want to be with, this has happen devoid of her. I know I can stand on my own two, and be relatively stable, it has happened before. But I wake up, often enthusiastic with the prospects of the day, with the people I may see, formulating a plan of interaction, and it soon leads to a somber state because I know what I’m missing out on. As much as it pains me, I’ll remedy this with drinking away the parts of the day I cannot sleep away. I would rather stay in bed, with the covers over my head, and I now know that’s not an awful thing to say, but I do recognize the cowardice in such an action, and as such I do my best so as not to perpetuate these possibilities. I do my best to try and take-on the challenges that befall me, and prove to myself, (because I could give a fuck about others perception) that I am strong enough to battle all my inner demons on a daily basis.
I’ve realized and understood for some time now that I have this story that follows me, as we all do, but mine is one which seems to arrive far sooner than I do, and with that there’s this notion that people know who I am, they feel like they know what I’m about, and this couldn’t be further from the truth. How could they know when I’m still trying to figure that out? And I will be conceited and arrogant to the point in saying, I can tell you what you can’t figure out about yourself, but I know with almost absolute certainty that you won’t be able to come close in doing the same for myself. How can I be so certain about a statement like this? Well it’s simple, I understand the illusions of the world, and that with the amount of self-reflective thinking I consistently do, I’ve never met anyone else of my few years to have done the same; in doing this I’ve been able to find the answers to the common problems, but as I’m not common these problems often do not suit me, as they would suit you. In this sense I’ll admit that I’m vain and narcissistic, but I do this only by evidence through a multitude of situations that have done nothing but reinforce this thought. I’m not claiming to be that genius generations will study years from now, nor am I claiming to be better than any other person; however what I am claiming is that I’ve arrived at certain inalienable truths that take decades and decades of discovery to understand, and I’ve only endure the two.
If given the ability to let you live through my own eyes for even a several hours you would be able to understand that there is much validity in my claims. I suppose it’s time to cease my self-empowering rant… then again no one has really put much weight into my thoughts, so I assume this will be one of the many messages that goes unnoticed, except to myself.
I know I haven’t seen you in years, and I know the last time I had it wasn’t on the best terms… all I can say now is that I hope your happy in your own personal hell.
I had nothing but the utmost faith in you, nothing but kindness and consideration in the deepest pits of my heart, but constantly you would threw these feelings back at me—calling me naive, foolish, and too hopeful. If there’s anything I ever been its hopeful, and it’s understandable that this isn’t always the most attractive quality in a person. Often times it leads to unrealistic delusions of grandeur, but there needs to be someone that holds steadily to those feelings, otherwise we’re both sinking ships passing in the night.
I know that you have it in you to be something so much more, something stronger; but I also know the amount of effort and painstaking work that is involved in order to ensure this self-reality. It doesn’t mean that it’s a thought that should be dismissed with a casual scoff. You’ve said that I never knew you and that even more so I wouldn’t know you now, but that’s a claim only you can hold on to. You’re not as deep a person as you would hope. Your feelings are worn clearly on your sleeves, and your emotions are strewn about the memories we once held dearly onto, everything was clear and everything was easy to read.
I know you live deep within a state of sorrow; I can recognize this much as I have constantly been fighting to get out of mine. Birds of feather, not only flock together, but we can also see the worlds of one another. I’ve never been difficult to understand, my intentions were always things you could read, if not been told—this hasn’t made life easier, but at the very least I’ve hoped its been made at least a little more understandable.