My thoughts fade in as drops, falling from an unknown sky, and ripple throughout my consciousness in a sky blue pool of light. My torso is eight feet long, twisting under the covers as I continually work to get comfortable. My room is vibrating, just enough to keep me awake a little while longer, and I wonder if it will ever end, as I always do, hoping at the end that I'll be normal again, given enough time. It's always worth it.
We ascend creeking steps, paint fully chipped off, to the apartment door. The bottom half is covered in dried footprints from being pushed open by intoxicated feet, and the top corners fade from black to what was probably once white. I don't know where we are. Residually stoned from hours before, I don't worry about it, trusting to new friends leading me, despite having just spent two hours in the wrong place smoking cigarettes on an external window sill. We've arrived at a third source who could allegedly come through, and does. Eric's just called him, and the door is pulled open in quick stages, hinges cracking at each stop. Inside, the small rooms' walls are bare save the stains, like piss, somehow settled and dried on top of the paint before they were erected, those ubiquitous marks of more pressing concerns. The door is shut behind us, and we shake hands with him separately. His name is meaningless. He cuts a small square into ten thin strips, and we trade for one, uncomfortably making small talk. At two inches in length, it seems too small, but Eric assures me that it doesn't need to be any larger. We cut the strip into five equal pieces. "So I just put it in my mouth?" I ask. "Yeah. Once it's in, it's in." It feels even smaller under my tongue, but it's gone within ten minutes. We have forty-five minutes to get home before the reaction overwhelms us. Ryan's started the truck, and the anticipation begins.
"Fourth floor - going down."
I step out of the elevator and am confronted. "Hey man, Matt's kind of freaking out, come hang out with us in the commons."
Jim looks concerned, but he also looks like he's waxing and waning at the same time, stretching and shrinking, and rather than avoiding the subject I state, "I dropped acid like twenty minutes ago and I already feel really weird. I'm sorry man, I can't help you out." I give a weak smile and march to my room. Inside, I pause and look around, confused. What am I here for again?
My pack of cigarettes, not yet unwrapped, glows on the desk, and with a small laugh to myself I grab them and head up to Eric's room. The common area surrounding his door has three residents talking together, and though they pay me only a cursory glance, I am filled with anxiety about them simply being there - why are they there, what do they want from me, what if they know?
Eric's door opens and I enter, feeling my anxiety flow out with a quickly forgotten sigh, almost passing a mirror - but I stop. Each pore on my face opens up and closes as another near it opens its maw and drowns it out, an endless cycle of shifting patterns. My eyes have never looked so clear, the pupil an inky pool dripping out to the iris, so thin, barely a border to the solid white. It looks like my eyes are filled with water, and as just the thought causes them to be, I turn away.
Ryan grins at me. "How was that?"
Wiping my eyes, I mumble, "My whole face is melting randomly."
"I've gotten lost in my own reflection for an hour or more before, it gets crazy. Come over to Eric's side, let's play some Sonic."
Holy shit! Seriously? The screen is split horizontally and colors are sliding from right to left. I take the offered controller and say, "Hold on. What buttons do what?"
"This jumps." I look at the paddle, then back up, then begin holding right. As Green Hill Zone flashes by, I start to feel emotional. The blues dominate, and feel wistful, while the flashing greens from below spike into this wishful nostalgic chaos with a dirty, almost accusatory glare. I get lost in the frames, each a different experience, gasping during the moments of flight, laughing when rings go flying, and after about ten minutes I begin feeling overwhelmed. I glance over my shoulder at Eric, whose glance I somehow interpret to be upset. "What's up man?"
"What? Sonic. I think this was a bad idea. There's way, way too much going on." He glances down and up quickly, sniffs.
"Yeah, I was just holding right the whole time." I'm scared to look anywhere but his eyes, worried for some reason that maybe I'm the cause for his distress.
"You beat three levels." He glances again at me, then away. Each movement of his eyes rends my consciousness, and I realize that I'm caught in a light breeze, or maybe I've put my head just below the surface of a stream. Every bit of information coming to me is lightly brushing my hair, and as it does so I can feel the tingle of each strand to be the various interpretations possible.
"Uhm." I pause. Ryan's sitting in a chair, still staring at the screen. I realize that he's been saying variations on "Whoa..." the entire time. I look at Eric. "I kinda want a cigarette."
It seems like a simple proposition - take cigarette, walk downstairs, smoke cigarette. Instead it's like suggesting we return to our heyday of literal carhopping through neighborhoods... we spend the next fifteen minutes arguing over what the plan is, and eventually decide to just go for a walk to calm our nerves. This one full pack of cigarettes is looking like less and less.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
It's Called A Literary Technique, FRIG.
I only initially joined the high school debate team at the insistence of Alex, who would always take time out of my sardonic monologues to bring attention to what he called my ability to connect seemingly unrelated dilemmas, like I was able to suggest the facades a subject might seem to be hiding behind. I heard it simply as praise of being good at something both generally useful and potentially characteristic of myself, and I was interested simply on the basis of exposure. As I was gently introduced to the structure of the competitive aspects of the extra-curricular activity I observed the social flow within the team itself and soon came to recognize that despite the title of coach and the paychecks being received by our reluctant droopy-eyed overseer Mr. Clifford, the course was actually organized and resultantly controlled by the more veteran members of the team, and through his disinterest our alleged leader unwittingly allowed the indoctrination of the team's novice members to the usually criminal standards of behavior held by those doing his job.
There was an office in the back corner of the classroom that, in the confusion of constantly shuffling out teachers beaten by this sort of thing and recruiting newly graduated experience-seekers to fill their places, had become a supply and storage closet stacked full with old debators' records and a collection of old children's tales used as practice tools for a particular speech event called Retold Story. My varsity mentor sometimes utilized this bunker and its supplies to create, via typewriter, memos addressed to the class concerning book club meetings and the banning of popcorn due to the invading nature of its scent and the detrimental effects being recorded throughout all of the company's accounting divisions. These inventions were then copied thirty times, handed out to all students at the beginning of class, and incorporated into the speeches given opening the class session, as though to reassure those present of another 53 minutes of free time.
About a block from the school was a gas station quaintly emblazoned in red block letters with Kwik Stop, behind which we would go on these common free days to smoke pot and cigarettes and it was there that the majority of my actual tutoring took place. It became a favorite method when composing a debate case negating the National Forensic League's chosen resolution to seek out a key term such as Justice and expose its frailty through the necessity for a subjective interpretation in order to legitimize the stated resolution. Probably this seemed so appealing because it allowed us to essentially avoid debating the actual issues and instead point out the loopholes in a statement's phrasing; we didn't have to strain our consciences to support an argument. This in tandem with Clifford's laissez-faire approach eventually led to apathy for the greater part of the team, and we began intentionally disrupting the imposed order of the organized tournaments to find fulfillment. We were inspired by the rules regulating appearance for students attending Brigham Young University to equip false mustaches before entering student congress and at a critical speaking point throw them dramatically to the floor as if fed up with their juvenility, though we were always careful to collect them again before returning to our seats. We also took it upon ourselves to apprehend and claim in the name of the team several orphaned garbage cans, furniture, and any sort of interesting sign or item we could weave into our post-tournament recap speech to increase the chances of another successful filibuster.
At the end of the debate season there were fewer members of our team who maintained an emotional relationship with their competitive success. Mr. Clifford taught for a second year, then digressed to teaching only Speech and Drama, and finally followed those before him out the door. Which isn't to say he wasn't fun and fairly useful to have around, just that he had unfortunately fallen into what seemed a comfortable stereotype.
I wrote this for school; probably because I don't post here anymore, I will relegate this space for such items as this. So yeah, some of it's not in the right order or whatever, I don't give a shit, and it was just our first sketch for the class. I also wrote it in the wee hours, if you will, and was less worried about consistency with chronological facts than quality and word count. Ha-haaa!
There was an office in the back corner of the classroom that, in the confusion of constantly shuffling out teachers beaten by this sort of thing and recruiting newly graduated experience-seekers to fill their places, had become a supply and storage closet stacked full with old debators' records and a collection of old children's tales used as practice tools for a particular speech event called Retold Story. My varsity mentor sometimes utilized this bunker and its supplies to create, via typewriter, memos addressed to the class concerning book club meetings and the banning of popcorn due to the invading nature of its scent and the detrimental effects being recorded throughout all of the company's accounting divisions. These inventions were then copied thirty times, handed out to all students at the beginning of class, and incorporated into the speeches given opening the class session, as though to reassure those present of another 53 minutes of free time.
About a block from the school was a gas station quaintly emblazoned in red block letters with Kwik Stop, behind which we would go on these common free days to smoke pot and cigarettes and it was there that the majority of my actual tutoring took place. It became a favorite method when composing a debate case negating the National Forensic League's chosen resolution to seek out a key term such as Justice and expose its frailty through the necessity for a subjective interpretation in order to legitimize the stated resolution. Probably this seemed so appealing because it allowed us to essentially avoid debating the actual issues and instead point out the loopholes in a statement's phrasing; we didn't have to strain our consciences to support an argument. This in tandem with Clifford's laissez-faire approach eventually led to apathy for the greater part of the team, and we began intentionally disrupting the imposed order of the organized tournaments to find fulfillment. We were inspired by the rules regulating appearance for students attending Brigham Young University to equip false mustaches before entering student congress and at a critical speaking point throw them dramatically to the floor as if fed up with their juvenility, though we were always careful to collect them again before returning to our seats. We also took it upon ourselves to apprehend and claim in the name of the team several orphaned garbage cans, furniture, and any sort of interesting sign or item we could weave into our post-tournament recap speech to increase the chances of another successful filibuster.
At the end of the debate season there were fewer members of our team who maintained an emotional relationship with their competitive success. Mr. Clifford taught for a second year, then digressed to teaching only Speech and Drama, and finally followed those before him out the door. Which isn't to say he wasn't fun and fairly useful to have around, just that he had unfortunately fallen into what seemed a comfortable stereotype.
I wrote this for school; probably because I don't post here anymore, I will relegate this space for such items as this. So yeah, some of it's not in the right order or whatever, I don't give a shit, and it was just our first sketch for the class. I also wrote it in the wee hours, if you will, and was less worried about consistency with chronological facts than quality and word count. Ha-haaa!
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Fortunate Timing
So Wednesday rolls around, and it's already been three, four days I've spent alone - something I noticed, believe me, and just allowed to gently permeate my experience. When the cut came, it hurt as usual, but being prepared definitely softened it.
I go to my classes, sigh. Look around, sort of, mostly down, mostly writing notes or elaborating on the title, little flourishes here and there. I do that when I'm thinking, I doodle on top of what I've already written, as though the emboldened lettering will somehow apply itself to my fickle conclusions. Class is dismissed, and as usual I pack up as quickly as possible to get out before Stephen is ready to leave, ready to follow me and talk as awkwardly as he knows he's talking, whilst I smoke a cigarette and he pretends not to be repelled - all for his own benefit, not for mine, and also not today. I once told him I had a girlfriend, which was true, and underhand, and worked as well as I'd hoped it would, but not for as long I'd imagined.
Jimmy and I hang out for a while. I don't remember what we do, it hardly matters though... probably played some ping pong or guitar hero. I do remember not really being into it. Not his fault... you know.
I get ready to think. "I'm gonna walk to WinCo, just something to do." Tessa glances over - "Oh, can I come?" We head out about fifteen minutes later, and it's better than thinking because it prevents me from thinking, instead time spent bullshitting, the way it ought to be. We're in the parking lot, and I'm carrying my head somewhat down, and glance up - "COLIN?!" "Holy shit!!" Apparently he's staying for five days or so.
The timing couldn't have been more fortunate. While at this point, I'm still not sure how I'm handling the separation, having one of my best friends show up like immediately afterward was perfect. Five days of good times had, now I'm wondering how I would've felt if I'd been left to languish in my own feelings.
Probably a little worse, probably never as bad as before, so definitely not too bad to handle. I think from the beginning we both knew what the end result would be, despite our futile attempts to convince ourselves (myself?) otherwise. It's something I find seems to recur, convincing myself. Hmm. Still.
Lots of thinking about whether or not college is the life for me. Got friends telling me they're of the opinion that if someone can't handle dealing with college, well that's just another sign of how weak we're breeding our people - how we're unable to just do the work we ought to do to keep living. Same kids happen to be telling me that competition is the most fulfilling thing for humans to engage in and it's simply too bad that most people suffer as a result - you know, those ones who are optimistic about the future of humanity? Those kids.
Well, then my other friends are telling me how if you don't dig college you don't really have to be here. We really only live so long, and it doesn't really matter at all - really, nothing we do matters to anyone but ourselves. So why do we stress so much about trying to be impressive?
Arguments of glory vs. satisfaction. Internal frustrations compounded with external annoyances, and that ever present buzz making me wonder what it used to be like to wonder, if it's still the same, if I used to sometimes stare at the ground for a minute or so and then realize I've not been thinking.
Woot.
I go to my classes, sigh. Look around, sort of, mostly down, mostly writing notes or elaborating on the title, little flourishes here and there. I do that when I'm thinking, I doodle on top of what I've already written, as though the emboldened lettering will somehow apply itself to my fickle conclusions. Class is dismissed, and as usual I pack up as quickly as possible to get out before Stephen is ready to leave, ready to follow me and talk as awkwardly as he knows he's talking, whilst I smoke a cigarette and he pretends not to be repelled - all for his own benefit, not for mine, and also not today. I once told him I had a girlfriend, which was true, and underhand, and worked as well as I'd hoped it would, but not for as long I'd imagined.
Jimmy and I hang out for a while. I don't remember what we do, it hardly matters though... probably played some ping pong or guitar hero. I do remember not really being into it. Not his fault... you know.
I get ready to think. "I'm gonna walk to WinCo, just something to do." Tessa glances over - "Oh, can I come?" We head out about fifteen minutes later, and it's better than thinking because it prevents me from thinking, instead time spent bullshitting, the way it ought to be. We're in the parking lot, and I'm carrying my head somewhat down, and glance up - "COLIN?!" "Holy shit!!" Apparently he's staying for five days or so.
The timing couldn't have been more fortunate. While at this point, I'm still not sure how I'm handling the separation, having one of my best friends show up like immediately afterward was perfect. Five days of good times had, now I'm wondering how I would've felt if I'd been left to languish in my own feelings.
Probably a little worse, probably never as bad as before, so definitely not too bad to handle. I think from the beginning we both knew what the end result would be, despite our futile attempts to convince ourselves (myself?) otherwise. It's something I find seems to recur, convincing myself. Hmm. Still.
Lots of thinking about whether or not college is the life for me. Got friends telling me they're of the opinion that if someone can't handle dealing with college, well that's just another sign of how weak we're breeding our people - how we're unable to just do the work we ought to do to keep living. Same kids happen to be telling me that competition is the most fulfilling thing for humans to engage in and it's simply too bad that most people suffer as a result - you know, those ones who are optimistic about the future of humanity? Those kids.
Well, then my other friends are telling me how if you don't dig college you don't really have to be here. We really only live so long, and it doesn't really matter at all - really, nothing we do matters to anyone but ourselves. So why do we stress so much about trying to be impressive?
Arguments of glory vs. satisfaction. Internal frustrations compounded with external annoyances, and that ever present buzz making me wonder what it used to be like to wonder, if it's still the same, if I used to sometimes stare at the ground for a minute or so and then realize I've not been thinking.
Woot.
Full Circle
I deleted my facebook the other day, or put it on hold or whatever. I liked the same things about it that I liked about myspace; namely, comments are fun and photo sharing is really fluid. It's proven to be equally annoying though, as where myspace had bulletins facebook has updates on everything your friends are doing. And it gives you the option to deny all requests from some people who are on your friends list - why are they on your list then?
Just the feeling that I'm spreading my faculties too thin, trying to focus on what's happening in real life and also trying to stay updated with the internet. People expect me to have looked at their photos simply because they put new ones up. What the frig? Seriously? Sorry, no, I didn't hear what happened on wednesday. My bad.
Also, I wish I didn't live in this friggin dorm anymore. It's like I'm walking around on tiptoes, nowadays, peekin into rooms and sprinting back around the corner. It's keepin me on my toes, I guess, except that, you know - I live here. This is where I live. Fuck.
Just the feeling that I'm spreading my faculties too thin, trying to focus on what's happening in real life and also trying to stay updated with the internet. People expect me to have looked at their photos simply because they put new ones up. What the frig? Seriously? Sorry, no, I didn't hear what happened on wednesday. My bad.
Also, I wish I didn't live in this friggin dorm anymore. It's like I'm walking around on tiptoes, nowadays, peekin into rooms and sprinting back around the corner. It's keepin me on my toes, I guess, except that, you know - I live here. This is where I live. Fuck.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Ignorance IS Bliss! - A Facebook "Note"
I like anything but country music!
I'm Christian but I HATE Mormons, with their, different beliefs - EW!
I'm eighteen but would never deign to date a seventeen year old, those immature little kids!
I - I - fuck you.
People need to stop postulating generalized hatred, it's such bullshit. How can you ever say you hate everything about a group of anything? That's the most retarded thing you could ever do, ever. There's always something good in everything - it's like saying there's any sort of single cause for catastrophic events. Man, FUCK THAT. How fucking ignorant are people? Is life really so much better when you fool yourself that you're right because it's easier? Lazy pieces of shit, too self-absorbed to try and branch out and be optimistic about anything, goddammit. Even as such fucking fools I'm sure some of you have nice traits - maybe you're good at math, or understand how people feel; hell, maybe even some of you care. How would it be if I just completely overlooked everything about you without trying to find any nice qualities? You can say that you're justified because I can't feel what you feel - kinda like Faith, where you believe in something because of its lack of logic - but really what you're shouting to the world is, "Hey everyone! I don't give a fuck about you, and you sure as fuck shouldn't care about me!"
Well I'm listening motherfuckers. I'll still be the person I am but I am totally going to start pointing out everyone else's ignorant generalizations, because it's one thing to try to make people feel good all the time - this is for me.
I'm Christian but I HATE Mormons, with their, different beliefs - EW!
I'm eighteen but would never deign to date a seventeen year old, those immature little kids!
I - I - fuck you.
People need to stop postulating generalized hatred, it's such bullshit. How can you ever say you hate everything about a group of anything? That's the most retarded thing you could ever do, ever. There's always something good in everything - it's like saying there's any sort of single cause for catastrophic events. Man, FUCK THAT. How fucking ignorant are people? Is life really so much better when you fool yourself that you're right because it's easier? Lazy pieces of shit, too self-absorbed to try and branch out and be optimistic about anything, goddammit. Even as such fucking fools I'm sure some of you have nice traits - maybe you're good at math, or understand how people feel; hell, maybe even some of you care. How would it be if I just completely overlooked everything about you without trying to find any nice qualities? You can say that you're justified because I can't feel what you feel - kinda like Faith, where you believe in something because of its lack of logic - but really what you're shouting to the world is, "Hey everyone! I don't give a fuck about you, and you sure as fuck shouldn't care about me!"
Well I'm listening motherfuckers. I'll still be the person I am but I am totally going to start pointing out everyone else's ignorant generalizations, because it's one thing to try to make people feel good all the time - this is for me.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Djarum Black
I get out of the elevator, having just made a situation awkward by stating its awkwardness. That's a regrettable move. Pushing both doors open royally, cigarette prepped, I breathe a sigh. It smells like christmas, and the evidence is, as a matter of distinguishment, pinched between thumb and forefinger of my apparent walking partner... but I'm too filled with latent emotions to give him much notice beyond nods and a few prepared comparisons to my schooling woes.
Cloves do that to me almost every time, remind me of this summer. Caleb and Jeremy with the cloves, mostly, but it brings back Colin too, who had already proven himself beyond replacement. Bonfires, almost zen reenactments replete with what could be seen as ritualistic artifacts, circles of twenty or more people - easily the majority being strangers - beneath the trampoline, and throughout it all some strange clicking accompanied by a momentary illumination and a lingering cherry-red glow. Nearly every day was filled with one substance or another, making pizzas whilst out of my mind to a rythm imagined in synapses.
It's actually been that way a lot lately, little more than the song of the day filling the empty spaces in conversation, preventing me from bringing anything new or interesting to light. Probably this is facilitated by the recent abrupt changes in my lifestyle, almost back to the year before now, in the potentially ignorant yet still hugely self-assured and comfortable sense. My company has subtly changed again, my habits unwillingly so, but I'm okay with it all. I miss Colin, Alex, Claire, the Joshes... I miss a lot of people, but it's not like at this point I'm shocked. I'm not numb. I'm just living life and trying to regain a handle on what that means, and as I belt out this last sentence at record speed I'll state with ease that it pleases me to see that it doesn't hurt anymore. Dylan was enough for me to learn that it's not worth it to regret someone else's leaving, just recognize their importance and never forget.
That was not the blog I intended to write. Good old Djarum Blacks.
Cloves do that to me almost every time, remind me of this summer. Caleb and Jeremy with the cloves, mostly, but it brings back Colin too, who had already proven himself beyond replacement. Bonfires, almost zen reenactments replete with what could be seen as ritualistic artifacts, circles of twenty or more people - easily the majority being strangers - beneath the trampoline, and throughout it all some strange clicking accompanied by a momentary illumination and a lingering cherry-red glow. Nearly every day was filled with one substance or another, making pizzas whilst out of my mind to a rythm imagined in synapses.
It's actually been that way a lot lately, little more than the song of the day filling the empty spaces in conversation, preventing me from bringing anything new or interesting to light. Probably this is facilitated by the recent abrupt changes in my lifestyle, almost back to the year before now, in the potentially ignorant yet still hugely self-assured and comfortable sense. My company has subtly changed again, my habits unwillingly so, but I'm okay with it all. I miss Colin, Alex, Claire, the Joshes... I miss a lot of people, but it's not like at this point I'm shocked. I'm not numb. I'm just living life and trying to regain a handle on what that means, and as I belt out this last sentence at record speed I'll state with ease that it pleases me to see that it doesn't hurt anymore. Dylan was enough for me to learn that it's not worth it to regret someone else's leaving, just recognize their importance and never forget.
That was not the blog I intended to write. Good old Djarum Blacks.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
An Entry, But Not From Today
“Representing Everything I Hate to Love”
I know that it’s illogical; I try not to talk about the matter too much, while it’s never actually not on my mind. I know that what I’ve always looked for in a girl isn’t what I actually want, but rather what I’ve been taught to want. I’ve been taught to not look below the surface, and to base my wants on just what I think a person is about... and my entire life up to now (and undoubtedly beyond) has been based around this focus. I’ve spent months, years of my life lusting after the mere idea of beauty, what I perceive to be beauty, all along not knowing what I really want. I get the idea in my head, having met someone, that, based only on their looks and mannerisms, they might be someone whom I could connect with. Invariably, I discover that these very same have nothing to offer me... yet I nonetheless feel the need to continue my efforts to somehow coerce them into a frame of mind that mirrors my own, which would in turn cause them to see some sort of value in my own being.
And invariably, I fail to do so. The initial idea is that this would cause some sort of negative impact to myself, likely in the form of a general lack of belief in my own abilities, a lack of faith in what I am capable of. Instead, it’s taught me. I’ve slowly, slowly become more aware that those whom I am initially interested in, due to what I‘ve been led to believe is what I should look for, are incredibly unlikely to actually be someone I can connect with. The obvious response to this would be to look for someone who doesn’t fit exactly into the classic mold of what is beauty, and instead to try to find one with whom I can still feel a slight connection, but because of their not being the same as all the other candidates might somehow offer me something unique, and thus something worth giving all of my waking efforts in order to achieve.
And, because of how easily this idea came to mind, I have given it various tries in years past. Unsurprisingly, my attempts have ended the same way those before them did: failure, as much in my ability to choose a possible mate as in my ability to help this other realize my merits. Initially it seemed because of my own inability to spot someone that features a personality so different from what the media purports to be what I want that they might be worth my time. As I looked into the matter, I came to the realization that what I’ve been looking for isn’t what I actually want. And actually, I was unsurprised to discover this; I’ve known all along that the girls I’ve been interested in haven’t been the same type of people that I would actually make friends with, but somehow this knowledge didn’t spur me to change my criterion for possible dating material.
Now, having consciously made this realization, I’m forced to make another, equally as real: It doesn’t matter. I know that I don’t actually want what I strive for, but at the same time it’s become too far imbedded into my being that I can’t help it. I’ve been brainwashed by the world I was born into, by videos and images and stories, that what I want and what I need to lead a life worth living ends with a preconceived idea of beauty. All other things in life become background to the ever-present search for an acceptable partner, whether it be conscious or unconscious at the time.
So I’m forced to continue in the way that I have, and in doing so I’m forced also to deal with the bullshit of relationship related drama. Having invested enough time and thought into any individual that I might consider myself ‘interested’, as soon as things seem to be looking up some outside force beyond my reach intersects and causes everything to fall apart, turning that which I once cared about into the embodiment of my hatred for the way I view the world. It’s only after I’ve found the will to ignore the lust that I understand once again that the interest I invested was not deserved.
It really is just generally frustrating that I could care so much about someone and end up in a situation that isn’t in my favor, yet at the same time seems all too familiar to me, and all along I’ve known that it would be the only possible end.
[Written in my Junior year of high school, this entry represents who I was, while the changes I have since experienced and - as suggested above - learned from represent the growth of just one individual, both internally and externally. It was easier to find logic in frustration in those days; now, as I find myself forced to recognize the illogic of monocausal personal problems - indeed, any problem - I am further forced to continue my efforts to better myself, rather than simply seeking and finding the simplest end. Also, I'm very bad at maintaining anything I postulate for myself. So, Jr. Year Me, funny how that worked out eh?]
I know that it’s illogical; I try not to talk about the matter too much, while it’s never actually not on my mind. I know that what I’ve always looked for in a girl isn’t what I actually want, but rather what I’ve been taught to want. I’ve been taught to not look below the surface, and to base my wants on just what I think a person is about... and my entire life up to now (and undoubtedly beyond) has been based around this focus. I’ve spent months, years of my life lusting after the mere idea of beauty, what I perceive to be beauty, all along not knowing what I really want. I get the idea in my head, having met someone, that, based only on their looks and mannerisms, they might be someone whom I could connect with. Invariably, I discover that these very same have nothing to offer me... yet I nonetheless feel the need to continue my efforts to somehow coerce them into a frame of mind that mirrors my own, which would in turn cause them to see some sort of value in my own being.
And invariably, I fail to do so. The initial idea is that this would cause some sort of negative impact to myself, likely in the form of a general lack of belief in my own abilities, a lack of faith in what I am capable of. Instead, it’s taught me. I’ve slowly, slowly become more aware that those whom I am initially interested in, due to what I‘ve been led to believe is what I should look for, are incredibly unlikely to actually be someone I can connect with. The obvious response to this would be to look for someone who doesn’t fit exactly into the classic mold of what is beauty, and instead to try to find one with whom I can still feel a slight connection, but because of their not being the same as all the other candidates might somehow offer me something unique, and thus something worth giving all of my waking efforts in order to achieve.
And, because of how easily this idea came to mind, I have given it various tries in years past. Unsurprisingly, my attempts have ended the same way those before them did: failure, as much in my ability to choose a possible mate as in my ability to help this other realize my merits. Initially it seemed because of my own inability to spot someone that features a personality so different from what the media purports to be what I want that they might be worth my time. As I looked into the matter, I came to the realization that what I’ve been looking for isn’t what I actually want. And actually, I was unsurprised to discover this; I’ve known all along that the girls I’ve been interested in haven’t been the same type of people that I would actually make friends with, but somehow this knowledge didn’t spur me to change my criterion for possible dating material.
Now, having consciously made this realization, I’m forced to make another, equally as real: It doesn’t matter. I know that I don’t actually want what I strive for, but at the same time it’s become too far imbedded into my being that I can’t help it. I’ve been brainwashed by the world I was born into, by videos and images and stories, that what I want and what I need to lead a life worth living ends with a preconceived idea of beauty. All other things in life become background to the ever-present search for an acceptable partner, whether it be conscious or unconscious at the time.
So I’m forced to continue in the way that I have, and in doing so I’m forced also to deal with the bullshit of relationship related drama. Having invested enough time and thought into any individual that I might consider myself ‘interested’, as soon as things seem to be looking up some outside force beyond my reach intersects and causes everything to fall apart, turning that which I once cared about into the embodiment of my hatred for the way I view the world. It’s only after I’ve found the will to ignore the lust that I understand once again that the interest I invested was not deserved.
It really is just generally frustrating that I could care so much about someone and end up in a situation that isn’t in my favor, yet at the same time seems all too familiar to me, and all along I’ve known that it would be the only possible end.
[Written in my Junior year of high school, this entry represents who I was, while the changes I have since experienced and - as suggested above - learned from represent the growth of just one individual, both internally and externally. It was easier to find logic in frustration in those days; now, as I find myself forced to recognize the illogic of monocausal personal problems - indeed, any problem - I am further forced to continue my efforts to better myself, rather than simply seeking and finding the simplest end. Also, I'm very bad at maintaining anything I postulate for myself. So, Jr. Year Me, funny how that worked out eh?]
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