A Rant About Nothing

I’m overwhelmed.

I have to contact a few universities, make the resume I have been putting off for about a month now, and put together a portfolio for an internship/possible job at a design magazine. I dont even know if they’re looking for an editor or a designer. But I have an appointment. At 2. On Saturday. Thats 3 days away. Should be enough time to put together enough impressive shit.

As for the universities, I dont even know where I stand academically. I havent got my O level reselts back yet, and though…I’m “smart” and a “good student”, being realistic (not self depreciating) I havent got the slightest idea of how I’ll do. And anything below 6 A*s and 2 As is a failure. Hoora.

Doing things is daunting. I’ve managed to make a habit out of putting things off till they absolutely have to be done. I’m scared, but who isnt? Its no excuse. But what if I fall flat on my face and make a fool out of myself? I’ve never done that before. Ever. Not even at school. I feld school. Home-studied, never answered calls, never called back. Still dont. And dont intend to.

I feel as though I’m repeatedly being given a kick in the pants, to get a head start working toward a “happy” life. I do need a kick in the pants, with this attitude I’ve got. But my behind refuses to budge. Drive and Determination have gone down the crapper. Or maybe they’re just hiding behind it.Either way, I cant see ‘em. Confidence and I had a fight. It hasnt spoken to me since. I’m too much of an idiot to apologise and win back its favours.

Oh…well.

Self-Retribution

It comes in waves; and you could choose to be the cliff…Or the pebble that breaks away and drowns in one of the world’s twenty seven seas.

It comes in waves; you first stand at land’s edge and admire it licking your toes. Nothing more fresh, enlivening than how it nips your pinky and slithers away. You move closer still, allowing it to submerge you, every now and then. And you remain there, half-soaked, feeling it drag you a few centimeters back and forth. You watch as most turn and head toward land, but curiosity…and maybe something more… keeps you going.

It comes in waves; and you now realize there is no awe and wonder in its power, for you are held in it. You first thought, as it lifted you up to the moon that you may reach out and capture a celestial body in your fragile, human hand. And you did reach. Almost. It hauled you downward before your finger so much as grazed a star. It hauled you down and thrust itself upon you – then released you, just as you thought it might crack your twelve ribs, puncture your lungs and drown you in your own blood. It released you to the surface, where you breathed, and from where it took you under again. From then, all that kept you living were those few seconds zero meters above sea level.

It came in waves, and took away little granules of you, till you held no unique shape or form. It smoothed out the creases, cracks, curves, till you were another indistinguishable, weathered stone.

It came in waves and took you away.

Twitting…

I’m not one to adore a bird’s twittering. I rather dislike it. Its like an irritating alarm that I cant turn off or snooze. Its a call that brings me back to the here and now from my pleasant dreams (day or otherwise, usually daydreams).

But, anyhow, a friend and I have signed up for Twitter accounts.

Here’s mine: http://twitter.com/gindeloon

Henjoy.

Letters to No One #2

Cryptic statements and utter bullshit. Fuck this.

I hate you.

I hate you I hate you I hate you I hate you. And you’re too thick to see it, but everyone else does too. You’re bringing us all down.

Fuck you.

Fuck you!

It’d be better if you just get the fuck lost and never come back again. Better for you, better for every fucking one.

Fuck you. Because you know it, because I know and you know I know it and everyone else knows it. You count for shit. So just fucking get the fuck out of here. Stop wasting the world’s resources on your sick, worthless self and get the fuck lost because you’re not wanted. Like pond scum is not wanted. Like shit thats flushed down the toilet is not wanted.

Fuck you and good riddance.

Acceptance

I have the application form for university next to me. I’ve chosen something..mildly artistic..somewhat acceptable…a compromise mid-way. I’m sick of compromises but its either half or nothing. Seems like it always is. Oh well.

I dont know what to fill out in this form thats supposed to represent my academic competence. I have not yet received the results for my IGCSE exams (due August 10th) and I am now looking at the scheduled dates for my personality test + interview + TOEFL + math placement test in September so I can get a scholarship..to make my choice of profession more acceptable.

Acceptance is everything, is it not?

Incoherent Babble

5:18 – Random thoughts and thought process

You speak of death as if it is a blessing that will release you.

The sentence cycles around itself. It is a beginning and an end…and it commands to be put on paper…put to something that will do it justice… that will tell of the meaning behind it. It stands alone and yet MUST be put to words…to more words.

The fucking thing haunts me. And I’m not good enough a writer to spin a story around it. But I cannot let it sit. No brewing. No simmering… it must be written.

You speak of death as it is a blessing that will release you.

I see hair, dark, soft, falling on a silken pillow, head sinks in, blur.

Fade to black.

Morning – it comes…

Ah..the story comes.

The powers of talking shit out are under-rated.

Dissecting Anger

Once upon a time we went to the beach and had ice-cream. It was a fun day. We were all laughing at stupid things. Then I had a thought, and my brain ’sploded. After that I promised never to think again.

I am angry. My arm feels like an elephant sat on it and I feel like cruelly making fun of society and laughing, just because I can. I realise I tend to displace anger. I would rather make fun of society, since society, collectively, does not give a shit whether or not I make fun of it. I would rather seethe, secretly, develop a pounding headache, blame my silence on said headache and wait for everything to pass than say all the angry, mean, hurtful thoughts that come to mind when I have been treated with anger, carelessness, hurtful intent and such…stuff.

Anger,”they” say, is one of the seven deadly sins. I recall countless times I’ve been taught not to be angry. I remember my Islamic studies teacher in the 5th grade telling us how bad it was to be angry. She then used to shout uncontrollably at us for not doing such and such thing…or doing it..whichever was not “allowed”. But I suppose thats besides the point.

I used to wonder then, as I do now, how is one to keep from getting angry. We are humans, and according to Muslim, Christian and Jewish theology, God created humans, therefore God created anger..or at least, knows that it is inevitable for a human-being, at one point or another, to experience the feeling of wanting to rip out someone’s guts and strangle them…or throw a glass on the floor simply for the sake of unleashing the destruction that is wreaking havoc in one’s head. So it escapes me why anger has been termed sinful and wrong.

With theology out of the equation, we are all (still) human. It is inevitable for us to feel anger, and at times anger, correctly dealt with, has lead to the betterment of many situations. Revolutions start with a handful of angry people speaking out against something that they believe is wrong. But I believe extremism and its..results begin the same way – with a handful of angry people.

I was told once, by whom I do not remember, that anger is not one feeling. I was not told what other feelings go into the mix. I suppose that was something left for me to figure out. I haven’t yet found a feeling that makes anger what it is. Disbelief may be one – the realisation that some subconsciously expected and “known” variable is not, in fact, what you expected and “knew”- Resistance to change and all that. Self-defence/preservation can be another. I know it is easier to feel anger than it is to feel hurt. Anger, at times, allows one to deny the vulnerability of one’s self. Blame shifts elsewhere. And poof! You feel all better. Or, at least, better than bad.

I can think of other feelings that may come together and contribute to anger, but I don’t think they’re very generalizable, and are certainly not what makes anger distinctly…anger-y.

It could be that there are different types of anger. The productive and the destructive. Even then, children should not be taught to not be angry at all. It adds guilt to an already guilt ridden mind. Mine, at least, if no one else’s.

Since the pounding in my head has peaked, and I now have to baby-sit my sister till she falls asleep, I shall stop here.

If anyone has their theories on anger, I’d love to know… just for the heck of diving into our psychological depths and…finding out stuff thats ultimately pointless… or..um..whatever.

*goes poof*

Untitled

Shafts of light fall through and spill onto the floor from beneath the curtains. It is day. Not dawn, not early morning. It is close to noon.

I hear her waking me up every time I close my eyes to rest, in her usual commanding voice. Startled awake from my half-sleep, I look around and she isn’t there. It happens again. And again. I expect her to come in and tell me of the various things that I must do even when I am awake. Calling it a waiting game would be an understatement.

Coming to my wit’s end is not an option. I must obey. She is in control. I am not.

I have made her a monster in my head. I have embellished details, perhaps. Seen the bad, forgotten the good. But it is her that wakes me up now. And waking up is a chore in itself.

I have forgotten how it was when I was younger. Maybe that is why we’ve come to this. I have forgotten many things. Many, many things I know I should remember. That are there, somewhere, in boxes and trunks hidden under white sheets that have gathered dust and turned to gray. A long while ago I packed shit to leave. Somewhere along the way the habit took on a life of its own. Now I just pack shit, and I dont know why. Its all there, somewhere, insignificant, unimportant, dusty, unwanted, carelessly wrapped, gotten rid of. Parks, phone numbers, faces, names, parties, events, random recollections of funny incidents with the family, on the sofa, laughing.

At least, that’s what I imagine it to be.

The Road to Oblivia

Daylight.

Wake up and maybe today you’ll see the world afresh, with new eyes. What you saw before was a lie, a bad dream, a terribly written story told to you over and again. Wake up and maybe today…maybe today.

Daylight.

Wake up and maybe today you’ll see it – the beauty they all speak of. Wake up and you may see the world for what it really is – an opportunity. Seize the day. Seize it before it seizes you. Get up, spring to your feet. Opportunity awaits.

Daylight.

Wake up. Just. Wake. Up. Its not a lie. Its not a bad dream. Its not a story. You don’t live in a story and life doesn’t work that way. Just wake up.

Daylight.

It hits you. Repeatedly. Daylight burns into your soul as if you were a vampire. The rising sun heralds a new torture session. Each day leaves a little bit of you intact – just enough to be burnt again. And again. And again.

Energy cannot be created nor destroyed.

The ashes and embers of your soul land in Oblivia. And you become nothing. You live shattered – existing in both worlds but living in neither. It is for the best. When the time is right, you can will yourself back to Esperenza. Click your heals and say, “There’s no place like home.”

There is no place,

like home.

Still-born

Night dawns as realization, as water ripples over your grave in sync with the winds that emanate from your hollow heart with every beat and every contraction of a useless muscle that struggles to birth a dead human being.

It grew in your chest for years, suffocating you slowly from the inside till you finally had no room for it, place for it, love for it. So you left it alone to be smothered by its own greed to live and feel as humans do till it ceased just like you had and you smiled to yourself not having known before of the jealousy you felt. Satisfaction quickly sunk to your throat in a lump as reality pounded its fists in your head and you found yourself in tears and tatters when shards of guilt ricocheted off the hard marble floor and cut your flesh because your shield had shattered. You found the fetus of you still pressed against your lungs and heart and ribs and weighed you down as you tried to move on and move past and let go of the dead weight dragging you down to your grave where realization dawned as night did but came too late.

Self-Revelation

She whispers softly to herself the words that were placed inside her. Words that could not have come from her. Words that did not belong to her, but were, somehow, hers.
Relief is something rarely come by, she has learnt – but as long as she commits her own words to paper, she will be okay.

I keep talking of myself in third person. Its easier this way. I can step outside myself, outside of the situation and escape all blame, guilt, shame, anger and whatever else may be. It is easier for me to discover things about other people, than it is to discover things about myself. We are, somehow, expected to know ourselves. It is one of the many expectations I don’t fulfill. By referring to myself as she, her, it, you, they, I distance myself. I am light-years away before I realize I am – like I’m in a space craft on autopilot.

There here-and-now scares me Fear is not something I like to deal with, so I flee, then complain about the meaninglessness of this and pointlessness of that. At times I believe it really is all pointless. It is at those times I am most disconnected. Half the time I do not even know what I’m saying, stopping mid-sentence, having completely lost the ability to form a coherent sentence. Then there comes this odd aching in my head. Its almost always there, almost always threatening to blow into this huge headache that’ll make me cringe at the slightest sound and eventually end with a regurgitation of more than just my dinner. At times I wish it would, so the dull ache would stop for a few hours, in which I may rest. At other times the odd ache just spreads down to my throat, and then lower, till I can feel it in my chest, pressing against my lungs so each breath is a step closer to suffocating and my heart beats like it may break out of my ribcage. This is my reaction – my space ship is burning up in the Earth’s atmosphere.

Fear, I have come to realize, is one of the most influential demons in the Senatus de Cranium *coughcough* that governs my actions.

You must know, however, that I am not accustomed to fear. I love the dark, crave dangerous rides, do things for the thrill and will be the first to jump into a shrubbery at night to fetch a ball that has somehow managed to wind up in its deepest, darkest, most prickly division. Bugs do not bother me much – I feel guilty for crushing ants and even cockroaches – and most large animals, I have at some point in my life considered as pets (even snakes). There are few things I know I am afraid of, and I know precisely why. Or, have at least come up with a satisfactory enough/incomplete but partially correct explanation for all of my fears. Life has recently been added to the list, and it remains, as yet, unexplained.

You may wonder, if a fear can be explained, then why do I not solve it? Some fears cannot be solved, others I wish to not solve. My fear of thought is of the latter category. Yes, I fear thought itself. I have successfully blotted out most thought by persistent, religious, and almost compulsive use of an mp3 player. You will find one plugged into my ears at all times. If an mp3 player is not present, there will be music, somewhere, somehow, songs, with words to focus on, distracting me fro myself. In idle mind is the devils playground…or some such saying. The devil is me, and I’m a little too tired to play.

In truth, this post is a revelation, a confession and a declaration all wrapped up into a big jumble of words that have got tangled up in their mess enough to dodge the prying thought yet again –

Why the fuck am I afraid of life?

That Which Must Not Be

The likes of you are not meant for day. It is you, your kind, that hinders the growth of all that is inexistence, leaches from the earth all it has to offer before dying a wasteful death. It is you – unable to live from one day to the next, to hope, and love, and cherish and rejoice in the gift of what we all have received. It is you that brings us all down to where you are, in your little hellhole, unable to move, lay down, rest, blink, breathe. It is you, clinging to miniscule projecting roots in the soil, pulling them down as you attempt to climb higher, climb to where the air is easier to breath in, the sun is easier to see and the rain does not drown you out.

You exist, motionless, breathless, frozen in a moment that never shatters. A moment. That is all you are, that is your life encapsulated. You exist in it, suffocating, slowly, silently as time creeps – a metronome in slow motion, giving rhythm to the beating. The tempo quickens but your heart is dead. Your soul sings off key to a chorus quivering down your bones, the only way to stop icicles forming within you.
Soon, this too shall stop.

You feel yourself begin to disintegrate, become nothing more than particles of nothingness – that which you were before you found yourself lost. And when the rain stops, and saprotrophic beings begin to nestle in your flesh, you realize it was not the moment to be shattered, but you.

Thoughts

You shy away like a bug from a hot flame that may burn you, boil your innards and make the filth inside you pour out, be revealed, be shunned disgustedly. You skitter from shadow to shelf, back to shadows that you know will disguise you. You live, dodging the light, movement, discovery. You would not be this afraid, no, you are a strong one. You would not be this afraid if you knew they would not tear your wings away from your deceptively soft shell, and let you live in the agony of knowing – there was a time you were not afraid.

You lie. It was always this way. You have just come to realise and re-realise what life holds for you. Like a re-birth..only not. There is no way, you have come to conclude, that you may re-learn the past so it does not bind you. You are bound, you recall, by invisible threads to invisible thoughts that tower over you, threateningly. There was a time you were not afraid of your own mind.

They speak to you with their silence – not their ferocious attacks, but through their silent invasion of everything you first thought yours. They are under your skin, crawling, itching, uncomfortably close, uncomfortably you, uncomfortably no longer yours to command. And here you lie in a body that betrays you. Marked, branded with words they taught you. Your body betrays you.

You lie. Alone. Knowing where they were, where they went, where they touched, where they crawled beneath your skin and left their filth to be yours. And you know.

There is nothing left to be done now.

You know too much.

Poem about something

Light filters through the curtains as I write this. Another miserably failed attempt to sleep.

I can’t decide what to write about anymore, much like my inability to speak of or about anything.

I just deleted a piece.

Words come and go
as lovers and soul-mates that weren’t
as green grass that fades
to gold then yellow
and eventually
dies

words come and go as the days pass
to night
as I stare at the twilight of my dawn
and hope there was
time

(Poem will be edited..and worked upon… That came out of no where)

E-mails

Are very convenient.

Not so whiney, and yet -

I have written a lot recently, read a lot and generally communicated a lot in a lot of forms.

I’m exhausted as hell. And my head feels like it’ll split open and spill its contents on the table. Or at least, exert enough pressure on my eye to pop it out of its socket and onto the keyboard.

In all honesty, I’m not satisfied with what I have written. It is distant, blunt, and involves no structural or strategic innovation. Basically most of it is a rant I have written to merely content myself with the fact that I have written. *What* i have written is, however, not taken into consideration.

And now I am paying for it.

I have written but feel no release. And now am too spent to perform a catharsis all over again. Wonderful, innit?

I need to write something beautiful, spin a story, a poem, a little snapshot of a time and place and all those in it. I need to write *creatively*, make up things, make believe…
but I’m afraid. I start writing something of the sort, stop, go back and delete what I have written then carry on with some other task.

Must work through this. And must write something worthwhile.

Must also make resume and find job..and..other..stuff.

*sigh*

Paakiza

I happened to stumble across this movie last night as my dad and brother were watching it. For those that don’t know, its an old indian film built generally around the life of a woman that is an escort. I choose that word because it is more respectful than others I could find.

Those of you for whom this topic is…sensitive, it’d be a good idea to stop reading. Those that think they can take it are welcome to read and comment.

I say I stumbled across the film because I had no intention of watching it when I first sat down to dinner. I was, however, drawn in by the musical renderings of the film, the striking (for that time) cinematography and its wonderfully intricate plot that made a point. And was not just a plot for the sake of it.

The movie left me pondering the meaning of the word “Paak”. I first went through synonyms – clean, pure, uncorrupted, immaculate…and then I wondered where the word “virgin” factors in to all of this. It astounds me how people have such different interpretations of purity, most relying completely on chastity, and very few others taking into consideration something deeper.

Escorts are shunned and looked down upon. I can’t understand why, as no child wishes to grow up to walk streets and sell him/herself. We are all ballerinas, archeologists, teachers, writers, astronauts, race-car drivers and ice-cream tasters. It is no one’s dream to be exploited, no one’s dream to cooperate while it happens, and yet society shuns the escorts. Not the men that go to them, not their brothers, husbands, fathers that go to them. Society casts blame where it is most easily accepted. It does not repremand itself for driving women and men (yes, I speak of male escorts too) to such “choices”. It does not blame itself for raising childern so shamelessly that there are those willing to put a price on another’s “purity”.

For a world that values the idea of chastity, I’d say thats pretty low. For those that pride themselves for being above those that are forced to sell themselves, it is a slap on the face.

Paakiza made a point, that I am afraid not many people got.

I hope this post has perpetuated its message, even a little bit.

Whine, part 2

5:40am

I have stuff to do at 2 pm. If I sleep now, I wont wake up in time to do said stuff. There is then stuff at around 5. By the time I’m free with stuff at 2, it will be time for stuff at 5. By the time I am done with stuff at 5 and have recovered from both the stuffs at 5 and 2, and the stuff in between, I will have to get ready for the wedding at 9. The wedding lasts till around 1am, maybe more.

I *already* hate today >_> Not even 6 hours in.

I’ve decided what to wear, how to wear it, and what to do fo my hair but my brain dear god my brain is proving to be a problem, because apparently the “extra” 3 kg I have on me isnt supposed to be there.

I could do some brain exercises but I’m afraid muscle is heavier than fat >_> so it wouldnt really work.

I’m rambling. Rambling is fun. It keeps my mind going. I’m tired. I want to sleep. I cant sleep. I have a book I want to read. A bath to take. I should stop rambling now and go lay down before someone catches me but this is oh so much fun Its funny how, when the words come out, they dont mean shit. It rarely happens and yet here it is, clickety click click and nothing.

I dont care, I’m going to bed.

And not sleeping.

Hah.

Despair

Night falls – trips,
Over the blanket
That is itself;
And plummets
Into a bottomless pit
Where we reside.
Where a million suns cannot reach
Nor shine
Enough
for us to believe we are
Loved
By a lord
Or even remembered
By one of our own.

Night descends
From these shameful depths
Into the bottomless pit
That is our selves -
Where we eviscerate all traces,
Hide what cannot be eviscerated,
Disguise what cannot be hidden -
Till all we were
Has suffocated
Under a dark blanket
We mistook to be night
And a heart-stopping thrill
We mistook to be freedom

Ba Ba Black Sheep

“Lets all wear designer clothes and act stupid! Everyone’s doing it!”

I have recently been to quite a few social gatherings. Too many for my tastes. And if there’s one thing I’ve noticed, its that *everyone* looks exactly the same. Pin straight hair, the same damn shiny lip-gloss and “natural” make-up look, similar accessories (there was first a woven friendship bracelet fad, and then the rubber “I support *insert name of big, well-known earthly dilemma here* bracelets, and before these two, the jelly bracelet fad) and the SHOES! Dont get me started on the shoes! Those flat ballerina/mountian climber inspired shoes that EVERYONE is wearing. I wonder what happened to stilletoes or sneakers or flip-flops or sandals or any other damn type of foot-wear!

Its like theres a factory manufacturing people with the same “tastes” and despairingly low IQ level (I’m not a real fan of the IQ system, but it gets the point across, so bear with me). There used to be a time when people had *personal* style and not something marketed buy all those corporate jack-asses out there trying to fit people into moulds. Whats sad is the idea is being bought. Everyone looks the same, talks the same and lyk walks the same and lyk oh my god lyk dun you lyk agree? >_>

Small talk with such beings has gotten increasingly tedious. I have always hated small talk,?? but I abhor it all the more at present, because now it extends to this:

Me: So, what music do you listen to?

Idiot: Um..lyke, I dunno, lyke yew knw that muvee Race, I lyke those sngs and lyk nething new, yknw? Lyke this sng, I luv this sng

*Cue song sung by some sexually depraved, small-man-part-complexed guy talking about some person that brings shame to the word “woman”*

Me: >_>

<_<

-__-

Idiot: Yew dun lyke it?! Lyke omg!

Me(aside): Humanity is doomed.

You may choose to call me a snob, say there is more to people than their choice of music and clothes, and I should stoop down to- *cough* I mean I should be able to befriend all sorts of people

My definition of friendship, however, goes deeper than calling up someone when I need a favour. Friendship, to me, is more than just building a contacts tree that I can fall back on if my career should suddenly collapse. It is more than just shallow conversation consisting of “hey, how are you?” followed by a half-hearted response of how wonderful I feel, and mock-interest in what the other person has to say. The idea of befriending someone simply to gain favours, pass time and make shitty conversation repulses me.

With my stance on fake people and their many ills, I see a lot of boredom in my future.

And yes, I am a snob. Proud of it, too.

A great big whine >_>

3:57pm

Sleepy. Of all things. I feel sleepy.

And tired. And possibly dehydrated. I havent had water in about a week…or more. Diet coke tastes much better. I should have water…soon some time.

I hate the word soon. I keep putting everything off till “soon”. I have a lot to do. “Soon”.

I seem to be incapable of thinking in a coherent manner. Or writing in one. I’m just writing. Stuff.

I’ve been listening to “In Your Room” by Depeche Mode lately. Its one track and its on repeat. The lyrics are amazing. Well, not *amazing* but well done, with so many meanings. Basically they are vague, so you can draw your own meaning from them.

“We dont see things as they are. We see them as we are.”

~ Anais Nin

Link to song:

In Your Room – Depeche Mode

I’M SLEEPY!!!!! V_V
Right in the middle of the day. With so much to do and yet here I am repeating myself like I have nothing else to do.

*yawnsigh* I hate today >_>

A Message From the Universe?

This has happened twice in a row, on two separate days. I was browsing blogs and a message shows up saying:

Sorry, you’re looking for something that isn’t here.

Irony? Truth? A sign of sorts?

Whatever it is, its quite fitting. Now if it could only tell me which of the many things I’m looking for arent here.

Whisper (part 3)

Whisper….whisper….

The word is caught in my head as the wind blows softly but carries no sound of yours. Distant music from some far off restaurant wafts in the heavy air. You would love it here, this beach, the sand, the water and its foam. There are few sea-gulls here. I suppose that means there are not very many fish in the sea. None like you, anyways.

I wish to fall asleep here, with the waves carying out sand from under me – sinking. I wonder if I’ll wake up to find a message in a bottle you’ve sent me. I wonder if I’ll wake up at all.

May the waves carry me to where you are.

Suitcase

You laugh and forget for a moment – for one blissful moment; an all-encompasing moment that makes the raindrops freeze mid-fall and makes the world seem nothing more than a whirlpool of energy that is us.

Its not very hard to get lost in such moments. I seek to lose. Theres too much baggage to drag around already. How come no one ever grabs this from behind your back on an airport? It would be convenient, like more comprehensible legal forms and disposable cars. We have neither of those as yet. It’ll be a while before we’ll have emotional baggage theives.

In the mean while, I’ll sit here with you, and you with me, and we’ll unpack our suitcases together. And we’ll laugh, and forget for a moment -

Suitcase – Joe Purdy

(Click on the link for full effect. WordPress wont let me embed the player V_V )

Letters To No One #1

Dear X,

I’ve left you out in the proverbial rain wondering where I am and how I am. I’m sorry.

I wont make up excuses now. I am busy, and I am tired..but if I really wanted to talk to you, I would. More often than I do now. The truth is, i dont see the two of us clicking. Its not that you’re not a good person. You are, very much so. But you either have too many walls up, or there just is nothing more to you than…this. Whatever it is, I’m too tired to keep smiling..too tired to carry on a shallow conversation because you wouldnt understand if I went deeper, and in all honesty, I wouldnt want you to.

I’m a truly sorry for having lied and lead you on. If that counts for anything..I know you’ve been hurt and if it were up to me, I’d be the last person to do it again, but I’m not.

I hope you find it in you to forgive me some day.

Not yours,

Gin.

Absolute shit.

I feel myself becoming someone I’m not. I’m angry. Almost all the time. At almost everyone and everything. And when I’m not angry, I’m apathetic. When its not that, I feel like I’ll break into sobs any second but I’m usually too tired to. Its not fun. My head wont stop hurting again.

I want to change things. Redecorate my room, with curtains painted with my paint and my hands and my art, reassemble the bunk-bed, repaint the shelf and prop it upright… I want a new rug. A new look. I’m sick of this old dump. I’m sick of being sick of things. Its like one of those feelings thats so overwhelming, all you can think of is how nauseated and dizzy you are. Nothing reflects me anymore. To be fair, nothing ever did. I want that to change but I dont know how.

I have three parties coming up. One with class-mates from a school I abhored, simply because I wasnt sure which one of the many me’s I wanted them to see. They saw the moody, reclusive, book-worm side of me mostly.

The second one is with people I have, you could say, grown up with. 6 years is quite a bit, considering I’m 16. They’re people I used to love, used to share things with and go to when all I wanted to do was cry my eyes out because XYZ shouted at me. I dont like being shouted at. They saw mostly the kid me. And then I grew up..and they didnt. Mind you, I never was like them. Oddly. Never wanted to be. But somehow knew that I had to be. So, anyways, they clung to their superficial view of the world, of music, art, people, whatever. They talked about boys, went ga-ga over them and sent love letters and wrote their crushes’ names over and over in the back of their copy books in math class. I thought they were stupid. But then they all grew up a liiiittle bit. Gossiped about eachother, the teachers, celebrities, anything that had a pulse and moved. I thought they were stupid. By this time they started seeing a lot of the moody, reclusive, book-worm side of me too. But I was still well-liked. Rats.

At times I envy them, the stupid ones. The ones that didnt grow up as fast as I did. I feel I’m missing out on something..more specifically the something that was supposed to be in place of the big chunk of my life I spent wishing to god I was dead because it hurt too much to sleep or eat or stay awake or do anything other than want to die. And then I began to wonder if god existed at all.

Anyhow, the third party is part of a wedding ceremony – the wedding of a filthy piece of shit and an unfortunate 19 year old girl. Knowing his tastes, first hand, I’m sure he’s pleased.

I’m a social hermit. I dont like big parties. I like one-on-one conversations. I like to know *people* and not their facades. I like knowing whats special to them, what isnt, what makes thier day and how they are. I like knowing I am an indespensible part of their life as they are of mine. And if I dont find the possibility of such a relationship, I dawn my own facade and run circles around them with idle conversation.

I then hate myself for it. For lying so openly. Not saying “I dont think I could like you, ever. I’d rather read a book.” I hate myself for begining to enjoy myself in the lie, beginning to believe it. I am happy. See? I’m smiling. And laughing and talking about that person’s dress and that person’s hairstyle, and how wonderful school’s going and how I loved having a chat with you. We should catch up some time again. This was fun.

I dont think I have it in me to have 3 parties in a row, then come home and deal with immature grown-up kids. Theres a shouting contest at the dinner table each night. And in the car. And in the living room, and the study, and every conceivable place at every conceivable time. And they just dont put a sock in it. And then, tight lipped and tense, they spend quality time together, and ask me to join them so they can pretend to themselves what a wonderfully functional family we are.

Oh the irony – “Shiney happy people holding hands” REM.

I want a change. I dont want constant reminders of what I have separated myself from. It wasnt a mistake. I dont want history being thrown hard in my face every time I look up. I want to feel safe without the door locked, to not be on my tip-toes, to not feel like I’m responsible and failing miserably. I am failing miserably.

*cue apocalypse*