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In 2007, I want to be nicer. Stop being all sarcastic and bitter.
In 2007, I want to get my grade average of 80% back. Learn hard and do all my homework.
In 2007, I want to be a better friend. Don't judge too quickly, or better, don't judge at all.
Truth is, I know I won't do all those things in 2007.
I'll be sarcastic anyway.
My average will stay stuck at 76%.
I'll still hate brainless barbies without getting to know them.
What I really want is to survive another year. And maybe some happiness now and then.
I wonder what life will be like a year from now.
This start is fresh and promises much good, but I know promises can be broken quite easily; I've seen it happen oh so often. I know how habit creeps in again after a while and how pain is so intertwined in life that it's there even when you can't directly see it. I suppose love must be there as well, and happiness too, and I wonder if a year from now, those two will finally dominate my lifeline.
I wonder what life will be like a year from now.
I am from dualism, two sides to everthing,
where nothing is ever simple.
I am from the city, where half a million people
live, but where there almost no contact.
I am from the truest sorrow,
and the lightest, deepest smile.
I am from sceptisicm, never believing,
but inside a need for faith grows steadily.
I am from a place where people say,
"You can be who you want to be."
I am from a place where one person
counters, "Stay the way you are."
I am from an ancient spirit that mutters,
"You will be who you should be."
Life is such an odd thing. Like a living organism. It has it's own ways of working things out, and while you're the star player, it doesn't really mind you. At all.
My life is passing before my eyes and I'm not even dying yet. It's going so fast I'm afraid it'll run me over when I trip. It can't be that bad, I already feel like I've been hit by a truck, but I still don't like the idea.
If the person directing this whole show happens to be watching, please give me some time and let me deal.
We all struggle. Inside us, there is a tremendous need to survive, to thrive. It's been there for as long as we exist. Hardened by life, too much life, some have developed a contrary force: the unconscious drive to self-destruct.
People like that, they recognize it in each other. They instinctively hear it in the warmth of a voice or know it from a feeling it their stomachs.
You told me you know how I do it. All I have to do now is find out how it happens behind your perfect facade. Because it takes one to know one.
It's barbaric how we torture ourselves. Years and years of evolution have taught us to be as hard as Mother Nature herself. Live and let live forgotten, it's every man and woman for themselves and the survival of the fittest somehow became our motto. We are taught to be strong, calm and collected and to fight to be the best we can, but most of all not too good, because you don't want to be noticed, either. In doubt and confusion we struggle to balance our lives and achievements, friendship versus battling for the right to exist. Fools, we are.
I remember my new found motto and it's meaning and walk on. It gives me hope and strength.
I watch out for stones to trip over; the old tumbling blocks are still on my path, and I manouvre around them.
Breathe, breathe, breathe. Nothing lasts forever and this will pass. If I just breathe, everything will be okay.
Any other faith changes with time and experience, but this, this is true and stays forever.
Everything flows and nothing is left unchanged. And for that, I thank whichever God exists and is listening
I can't keep a normal rhythm, can't keep my days and nights straight. 10 hours of sleep, then 20 hours of thinking and worrying; doing nothing with my mind working on overdrive. But I can live with that.
Forced back into days of consistency: first class, first bus. Going home and sleeping the headache off for a little hour. Going to bed too late because my head refuses to touch the pillow. But I can live with that.
The switch is the worst. I've been up for 30 hours; 7 hours of school and caffeine-induced anxiety, 21 hours of restlessness.
I love talking with you. You know everything about philosophy, history, books, people. You know me all too well, too.
You are a great fan of the Socratic method, and you lure me into your conversations time and time again. You are everything I'm not, and somehow I can't stay away from you.
I know you wonder how I became the person I am, what sort of life could have made me like this. Why won't you just ask me instead of quietly provoking me?
Drop the Socratic act. You're already through my defences. You know which questions to ask.
Hands with fingers locked together; flawless and young, un-calloused hands. A hand with bitten nails, an arm covered with freckles. The other with an odd looking scar: two tiny marks - who knows how they ever got there. Soft upper arm touching broad shoulder; tired bodies with spines struggling to carry their burdens, seeking support.
Faces without the tiny wrinkles around the eyes, with deeply grooved foreheads. Lips on lips, tongues that never battle for dominance, because that battle is long lost. Roles played to perfection, those two need each other like they need air. They'd suffocate without their moments.
The garden in my head used to blossom
Now look what it has become
Inside me flowers don't grow anymore
There's no more sea and no more shore
My mind now only holds desert land
Consisting of just stones and sand
My tears went dry, as did the oasis
That attracted people with multiple faces
Trees have fallen and have silenced
Thoughts about far and less wry lands
Thoughts that left me cold inside
Lost and broken and without guide
Now only the small cracks in the gound remind
Me of memories of a landscape of a different kind
I've cheated life so often that it's quite amazing.
In my dreams, I fly and love, free and carefree among people I don't know. In my thoughts, I am happy in a world far away, with grass that is still green and people who are nice and quiet. In my heart I am a writer, always inspired, as I sit behind my computer and write alone.
Life went out of it's way to make sure I'm among people, surrounded by reality, but it's not for me. I just close my eyes and smile and silently take off into the night.
Flip a coin.
Sometimes it's up to chance. And really, that's not always a bad thing. Decisions aren't my strong suit. I'm a doubter and always have been. Takes me ages to make a choice and longer to stay with it.
I don't care what you say. I won't let you tell me what to do. Sometimes, you have to doubt a little before you can do the right thing. It's life, and life is anything but certainty.
Flip a coin. Give me a break. It's gonna take some time no matter what I decide. At least make yourself comfortable.
When I step outside and it's raining, I can't help but get annoyed. After a few minutes, when I'm soaked through, it's okay. Light from the stars and the moon and the streetlamps reflects off the wet stones and illuminates the night. Hair clinging to my face, I don't even bother tucking it behind my ears anymore. It's no use, it never stays there anyway and will only tangle with my earrings. Moments like that, life is good; nothing but rain and light. Almost elemental; water and fire on the earth from the air. And the soul is within me.
It's a thread of the wrong colour in a very complicated carpet, tainting the oter threads. It's hard to see where it began and what thread I should remove; which one is the disease and which ones are just symptoms?
I don't know how it got there, and I paint the threads back to their original colours; I work on every fear and flaw, but the thread remains. I pluck out all the others and it just goes on. The harder I work, the more I start to believe the thread will always be inside me.
I am losing hope.
I spend too much time thinking. My head is always filled and working on full speed. I curse it often; the constant need to get things straight and worked out. A game of cards is never really a game of cards. Every offhanded remark is picked apart and analyzed, word by word and meaning by meaning. For all the thinking I do you'd think I'd have some answers right about now. I seem to go in circles. I don't know if it matters, though. Thinking is thinking, after all, and answers that can't be found can at least be approached.
I know this girl who can pull off anything.
Just to push the limits, she asks if she can go home because she feels sick. She shows the same "headache" note for 3 weeks, secretly does her homework anyway. She says she has 'appointments' and skips hours she doesn't like. She makes sarcastic comments and raises her eyebrow when someone responds.
Still, they like her. They tell her to relax, not to worry so much.
In all honesty, she doesn't care about the limits. All she wants is for someone, any one, to wonder why she is pushing her luck.
Tell me: what is right and what is wrong? Because honestly, I don't know anymore.
What should I say, how should I look?
Explain to me how you ponder when you can't sleep at night, so I can update my old methods.
Refine my taste: what is the good kind of misery?
Enlighten me: how is life supposed to taste?
What will make me like everyone else?
I don't need you to tell me who I am. Just tell me how to fit in, and I'll survive. This life is nothing more than charades anyway.
I'll flourish when I'm dead.
That one special moment; when you're with someone you can talk to and someone you have faith in. And it's all so much like a movie. Dark outside, empty streets, the sounds of the high heels you're wearing, the sound of your coat brushing against his, your hair messed up by the wind and the rain. And it's so hard to believe that it was actually me when I woke up the next morning and I couldn't find the smallest trace of the feeling of warmth that kept me from shaking the night before.
I could never hold onto happiness.
Hair down, glossy lips curved in a small smile. Studs replaced by black earrings with small stones and tiny beads. A top with pretty embroided patterns; brown on nearly see-through brown. Black heels. A smart look, I hope. I'm a different person tonight, not the practical know-it-all.
I get to the place where you'll be holding your speech. You nod at the person you're talking to and make your way towards me. Take my hand with a goofy grin on your face. "Good evening, miss. Have we met?" I smile. "Good evening to you, sir. I don't think we have."
Slow shutter speed and a blurry black and white picture. A young woman with grey hair, her skin almost white and nearly flawless. Her eyes alive and alight behind half-rimmed glasses, intense and focussed. A small smile on her lips.
High shutter speed and a sharp, coloured photo. A young woman with long blonde hair, carelessly pulled up in a bun at the nape of her neck. Dark circles under her eyes that age her face. Defeat clearly carved on her lips.
At full speed, she'll look like anyone else. When you look at her closely, she'll just seem faded.
As thunder splits the night sky, my head curses my mind's attempts to work away the problems of the world and my life. The headache isn't a headache but a bitter and sour taste behind my eyes that pulses through my body as I chase down skittles with water. The sugar high is good enough for my overloaded senses and will kick in any moment. I am already bouncing off the walls with energy found in misery and cleverly cloaked as happiness, but who gives a fuck as long as I'm not in bed, staring blindly at the white ceiling?
The Allegory of the Cave. You tell us to read it and write down notes, meaningful questions, make logic conclusions. Like we, at 16 and 17, understand what life is about.
"So?" A handful of people could make something of the text; no one seems to have the courage to speak up. "You are all mental cave people! You do not want to get out of the dark!" you say, harshly.
I smile; I've got a piece of paper in front of me with the answer to every question you asked. You're so predictable. Now get out of my cave.
Time goes by so quickly. Everybody says it, but I never realized it like I realize it now.
It'd been days since I woke up after more than 3 hours of sleep. Weeks since I honestly laughed. It'd been months since I got things off my chest, and years since I looked someone in the eye and saw true, true concern. Ages since I cried and someone made me smile through my tears.
If I'd known what was about to happen, I'd have walked away. I'm glad I couldn't know. This might have been just what I needed. Thank you.
I don't know how I got myself into this. I have a talent for getting myself in too deep and running into the same walls again and again. It's always been like that.
I don't understand how you got into this. You have a knack for knowing what's wrong with me that I didn't expect to discover in you. It's never been like that.
I have no idea how we got into this. We were just two people with seperate lives and nothing in common. Then I fell and you confessed and suddenly we were alike.
How could that happen?
People are like houses. You can look through the windows when you're allowed through the gates. You can see what's in the middle of the room, but stocked up against the walls are things you cannot see from there. Then there's a locked and bolted door to a room filled with things that are yours and protected, sometimes even from yourself.
You've seen how easy it was to break my windows, climb inside and make me talk. But you still have no idea what's in my hidden room, or how dangerous it was to say what you said to me.
Writing this is a terrible task now life has somehow managed to silence me. Things have happened and after thinking it all over I just don't want to speak anymore.
I have no idea where to go from here. I've been confused before, but never like this – never. I've been hurt before as well, bad and worse, but this is a different kind of pain – a sting in my head but also in my heart.
You said what you had to say. Your words were important. Now give me some time and let me be quiet for a while, please.
I know that, when I fall apart, I break. A thousand little pieces on the floor and I'll have to kneel and find them all, complete the puzzle again. As I build and rebuild, life flashed by and people come and go. I work silently until I can't go anymore and when I sit back, I see myself starting to take shape again. When I'm back on my feet, attaching the last pieces, I wonder where you came in. It's possible you broke me, or carelessly stepped on my fragments, but that feels wrong. I think you fixed me, somehow.
Every once in a while it's all too much and I stop for a minute. I can't pick the place or the time, I just know I have to cry. People worry and I tell them it's okay. I just need to let go sometimes. I work like that.
When it's all out, I go back to my normal place. People talk, tell me their stories, their pains. People who I know and don't know very well. People who are supposed to be in control. I'm the person they go to when they need to let go. That's my worth.
I give up. I freakin' give up.
It's been too damned hard and too damned cold and I don't want to do it anymore. It's been harsh and alone and I can't take it any longer. It hurts too much, every second of every day of every hour I just feel pain.
I'm reaching out right now. I need someone to talk to and I hope your offer still stands, after the mess I made. I always make messes and I don't want to scare you or scare you off. You really did help me. I hope you know that.
I'd never done anything like this before. Writing just to write, not because I felt the need. That's an odd thing to say, because I always feel the need, but it's still different. Writing 100 words a day has become a habit. When I see or hear something, I form the sentences in my head and walk around and around them to see if there are words that can be added or left out. It's the best exercise I've ever had.
The only problem was trying to remember where I left all the little notes and papers I wrote on.
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