How many times have I done this? Driving around this town, wasting gas in order to kill time? I grew up here. I know it like the back of my hand. I've the phrase, "you never forget your hometown." I believe it's true cause god knows I've been trying to.
I've referred to this place as a haunted city, infected with memories I'd rather just forget. The trouble is living here again has created a whole new set of memories tied to the places that are marked by the old set. Not all of them are bad. There have been some I hope to never forget, like the grin that crept over my face the first time I walked into Jake's living room. Or the pleasant surprise I felt the first time I heard J.R. sing. But too often the pain of this haunted city infects the new bad memories, only increasing their destructive power on me. Getting my heart broken here somehow hurts far more than anywhere else. Loneliness & the accompanying fear of it is more acutely felt till I can no longer breathe.
I've said it before, I know this place will destroy me if I stay too long. I've always felt like it'll happen in a sudden build up until I find myself once again desperately trying to hold together the pieces of my stable mind. I know what it's like to go insane. I've never experienced anything more terrifying in my entire life. And I've wanted to run away, to escape this place because I never know if today will be the day I lose everything all over again, including my mind. But I don't think that's how it's going to happen anymore.
This city, this place, it works more like an infection, weighing you down with haunted memories till you realize the impossibility of escape. Even if you were to physically get out of here, you can never escape those memories, that pain you experienced there. Things like that will change a person. Things will never be the same.
I think I understand the need to run away, to escape as quickly as I can. The longer I stay here, the longer I am exposed to the damage this places creates, until one day it destroys me and my chances of escape.
I need to get out of here.
Love you.
Mean it.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
The Morning Fills My Bedroom
I didn't sleep last night.
There are a couple reasons for this.
Reason 1: I got home too late so my dog slept in someone else's bed.
Reason 2: I was freezing (probably due to the lack of doggie warmth).
Reason 3: Alcohol & sleeping pills do not mix. Therefore, I didn't take any of the latter.
Reason 4: I got my heart broken, I felt like shit (emotionally) & my eyes were burning from trying not to cry.
That sums it up quite nicely.
I typically do not like to stay up all night. It leads to problems the next day, mainly with me being rather cranky as the day wears on. But this past night/morning as I was lying in bed, I faced my window. The blinds were closed but very poorly so plenty of light can come in once it decides it's had enough of the darkness. I watched my window fill with soft light through the slats of my blinds. My room began to take shape, from a formless mass of darkness & shadow to familiar & comforting pieces of my life.
I could see my two bookcases, completely filled and stacked on top with over 350 books that I've loved. I could see my typewriter sitting on my desk, and thought about all those times it's saved my life. I could see my Emily Strange poster I bought when I was a stupid little 15 year old emo kid. I've never taken it down. I don't know why, really. I guess I really do believe if you don't remember where you came from, you won't know where you're going. I could see my walls covered in framed photographs, mostly of friends & a few of family. So many faces of people I've loved. I guess I still love them. I don't remember stopping. I could see the two flags hanging above my bed, one is the flag of Wales, where my mother's family is from. The other is the flag from the Isle of Man, where my father's family is from. And finally, on the wall facing my bed, I could see a wooden plague I had made two years ago. It's blue with white letters, spelling out my granddad's motto: Don't Let the Bastards Win.
It's funny. If I hadn't experienced such a lousy ending to such a fantastic night, I wouldn't have watched the morning fill my bedroom. And I wouldn't have been able to feel the strange peace I received from it. Of course, if I hadn't had such a lousy ending to such a fantastic night, I might not need that peace. But let's not think about that. Let's just enjoy this feeling while it lasts.
Love you.
Mean it.
There are a couple reasons for this.
Reason 1: I got home too late so my dog slept in someone else's bed.
Reason 2: I was freezing (probably due to the lack of doggie warmth).
Reason 3: Alcohol & sleeping pills do not mix. Therefore, I didn't take any of the latter.
Reason 4: I got my heart broken, I felt like shit (emotionally) & my eyes were burning from trying not to cry.
That sums it up quite nicely.
I typically do not like to stay up all night. It leads to problems the next day, mainly with me being rather cranky as the day wears on. But this past night/morning as I was lying in bed, I faced my window. The blinds were closed but very poorly so plenty of light can come in once it decides it's had enough of the darkness. I watched my window fill with soft light through the slats of my blinds. My room began to take shape, from a formless mass of darkness & shadow to familiar & comforting pieces of my life.
I could see my two bookcases, completely filled and stacked on top with over 350 books that I've loved. I could see my typewriter sitting on my desk, and thought about all those times it's saved my life. I could see my Emily Strange poster I bought when I was a stupid little 15 year old emo kid. I've never taken it down. I don't know why, really. I guess I really do believe if you don't remember where you came from, you won't know where you're going. I could see my walls covered in framed photographs, mostly of friends & a few of family. So many faces of people I've loved. I guess I still love them. I don't remember stopping. I could see the two flags hanging above my bed, one is the flag of Wales, where my mother's family is from. The other is the flag from the Isle of Man, where my father's family is from. And finally, on the wall facing my bed, I could see a wooden plague I had made two years ago. It's blue with white letters, spelling out my granddad's motto: Don't Let the Bastards Win.
It's funny. If I hadn't experienced such a lousy ending to such a fantastic night, I wouldn't have watched the morning fill my bedroom. And I wouldn't have been able to feel the strange peace I received from it. Of course, if I hadn't had such a lousy ending to such a fantastic night, I might not need that peace. But let's not think about that. Let's just enjoy this feeling while it lasts.
Love you.
Mean it.
I Was a Damned Idiot
Remember a bit back when I said I wanted to feel some kind of extreme emotion because that was better than feeling nothing?
Well, I was a damned idiot.
Cause all I feel now is pain & heartache.
And I'd give anything to not feel this way.
Love you.
Mean it.
Well, I was a damned idiot.
Cause all I feel now is pain & heartache.
And I'd give anything to not feel this way.
Love you.
Mean it.
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Intrigue of Intelligence
If there's one thing I know to be true about myself it's that I am intelligent. I've always been clever, have always grasped concepts quickly & easily. I often find myself being the smartest person in a class or in a group of people. This has become pretty standard for my life. I don't mean this to be prideful. I don't consider it pride if it's the truth. And it is true.
However, every now and then I encounter someone whose intelligence is far beyond my own & leaves me in awe & intrigued. One such person is this guy from my Postmodern Hollywood class named Chris. The class discussions mostly consist of just he and I commenting on either the film in question or on each other's comments. The other members of the class contribute a thought every now and then but for the most part, the conversation is dominated by Chris & me.
Again, I know I'm smart, but this Chris guy is way ahead of me. He knows philosophy & theory like other people know sports stats or TV trivia. He can spout off different philosophical theories and their applications to cinema with such skill that is almost like poetry. His comments are fluid in their ease, as if it is almost second nature to him. It has me mesmerized, mostly because I know that is something I could never do. I have dabbled in philosophy & theory (I was planning on minoring in philosophy before I discovered cinema studies) but I can never recall the different theories with such precision and accuracy, infused with numerous details. I can do that about movies, such as actors, directors, similar films, etc. but never "hard stuff" like philosophy.
This all leads me to find Chris insanely intriguing. I've always been attracted to intelligence but his is a kind far above my own. This makes it even worse. Add to the fact his left arm is covered in tattoos, and I'm done for.
Love you.
Mean it.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
The Illusion of Prayer
I haven't voluntarily prayed in nearly three years. I have been asked, on occasion, to say the prayer before family dinners. Those instances are uncomfortable & unwanted, and, thankfully, don't happen terribly often. I think my parents are catching onto the idea that prayer means nothing to me.
The thing is, I don't believe in prayer. People generally pray to thank god for the blessings in their lives and to humbly ask for things they need. This concept of prayer completely contradicts my view of who/what god is. As I've stated before, I hold a deist view of god. To me, god created everything in the universe but then takes a very "hands-off" approach to his creations. He doesn't get involved, he doesn't intervene, & he doesn't interact. This is why prayer seems so silly to me. You can say them all you want, it doesn't do any good. God isn't going to do anything about it. I'm not even sure god listens to them. I can't see how he can. How could he listen to all the desperate pleas of his creations and not intervene? This leads me to believe no one is listening to prayers. The way I view it, prayers are just messages being left on the answering machine of the universe; people feel the illusion of talking to someone but in reality, no one is listening.
My feelings & experiences towards prayer served as a basis for me changing my concept of god from a theistic god to more deistic. In my experiences, I would often pray fervently & fiercely for comfort or relief from my depression. So often I would find myself lost & alone, not seeing the point in anything and not wanting to exist. I would beg god to let me feel comfort, let me feel relief, let me feel something other than emptiness & pain. And do you know what happened? Nothing. I was left feeling empty and alone. The only times I would receive relief was when I got up and did something about it. And I know about the whole "faith without works is dead" bit but I don't buy that. It's just a way of giving god credit for something you did on your own. I got up and I took my life into my own hands & found a way to cope with my depression. God had nothing to do with it. Whenever I found myself in darkness, I'd beg god to help me find the light. And he never did. I had to stumble along, blindly groping my way towards the light. Again, god had nothing to do with it.
However, I do see the benefit to some prayers. For instance, having standard set prayers, such as "Our Fathers" or "Hail Marys," can be extremely comforting in times of distress. But this comfort comes from the repetition of familiar words. Having set routines & repetitions can be soothing when one needs to find their center. The same idea can work for the repetition of a poem or even just a string of words. God doesn't necessarily have to be in the repetition. I tend to find comfort in writing the same sentence over and over on notebook paper.
I've been asked by people if I pray or if I believe in prayer. I've always tried to be honest about my views but prayer is a touchy issue, even more than if I believe in god. People seem more willing to accept my views about god because, ultimately, I still believe in a god. But when they discover my views on prayer, that god doesn't listen to them, people seem to think of me as some kind of heretic. Why should different views on prayer ignite such hostility? Is it really that big of a deal?
Love you.
Mean it.
The thing is, I don't believe in prayer. People generally pray to thank god for the blessings in their lives and to humbly ask for things they need. This concept of prayer completely contradicts my view of who/what god is. As I've stated before, I hold a deist view of god. To me, god created everything in the universe but then takes a very "hands-off" approach to his creations. He doesn't get involved, he doesn't intervene, & he doesn't interact. This is why prayer seems so silly to me. You can say them all you want, it doesn't do any good. God isn't going to do anything about it. I'm not even sure god listens to them. I can't see how he can. How could he listen to all the desperate pleas of his creations and not intervene? This leads me to believe no one is listening to prayers. The way I view it, prayers are just messages being left on the answering machine of the universe; people feel the illusion of talking to someone but in reality, no one is listening.
My feelings & experiences towards prayer served as a basis for me changing my concept of god from a theistic god to more deistic. In my experiences, I would often pray fervently & fiercely for comfort or relief from my depression. So often I would find myself lost & alone, not seeing the point in anything and not wanting to exist. I would beg god to let me feel comfort, let me feel relief, let me feel something other than emptiness & pain. And do you know what happened? Nothing. I was left feeling empty and alone. The only times I would receive relief was when I got up and did something about it. And I know about the whole "faith without works is dead" bit but I don't buy that. It's just a way of giving god credit for something you did on your own. I got up and I took my life into my own hands & found a way to cope with my depression. God had nothing to do with it. Whenever I found myself in darkness, I'd beg god to help me find the light. And he never did. I had to stumble along, blindly groping my way towards the light. Again, god had nothing to do with it.
However, I do see the benefit to some prayers. For instance, having standard set prayers, such as "Our Fathers" or "Hail Marys," can be extremely comforting in times of distress. But this comfort comes from the repetition of familiar words. Having set routines & repetitions can be soothing when one needs to find their center. The same idea can work for the repetition of a poem or even just a string of words. God doesn't necessarily have to be in the repetition. I tend to find comfort in writing the same sentence over and over on notebook paper.
I've been asked by people if I pray or if I believe in prayer. I've always tried to be honest about my views but prayer is a touchy issue, even more than if I believe in god. People seem more willing to accept my views about god because, ultimately, I still believe in a god. But when they discover my views on prayer, that god doesn't listen to them, people seem to think of me as some kind of heretic. Why should different views on prayer ignite such hostility? Is it really that big of a deal?
Love you.
Mean it.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
When Words Aren't Enough
I have always loved words. Words have this amazing power to create, to uplift, to influence, & do so much more. I have always trusted words & believed in their power. I've spent so much of my life reading words & writing words because I find such beauty in them.
I can see the beauty & potential of words. Words can change things and people in such powerful ways that it's never forgotten. Words can make people feel anger, love, joy, terror, heartache, agony, & so much more. That in itself is beautiful. It's creation & poetry & passion & freedom & life in all of their most beautiful forms. That's the power of words. That's what words can do.
I've experience the power & beauty of words on both sides, the creation & the reception of words. I write words and I receive the written words of others. But sometimes, mostly at night, words aren't enough. No mater how many read or how many I write, I still feel alone. And I feel helpless.
I try to help people feel less alone with my words. I try so hard to write words that when read will let someone know they are not alone. But sending out that message is so horribly strange sometimes, trying to comfort and assure others they are not alone when I feel so desperately alone.
And so I read. Like a madwoman in the night, I read everything and anything, searching for that other lonely writer to reassure me, tell me I'm not alone. I need to know that's true: I am not alone. And unless I can find those words, all the other words in creation will never be enough.
Love you.
Mean it.
I can see the beauty & potential of words. Words can change things and people in such powerful ways that it's never forgotten. Words can make people feel anger, love, joy, terror, heartache, agony, & so much more. That in itself is beautiful. It's creation & poetry & passion & freedom & life in all of their most beautiful forms. That's the power of words. That's what words can do.
I've experience the power & beauty of words on both sides, the creation & the reception of words. I write words and I receive the written words of others. But sometimes, mostly at night, words aren't enough. No mater how many read or how many I write, I still feel alone. And I feel helpless.
I try to help people feel less alone with my words. I try so hard to write words that when read will let someone know they are not alone. But sending out that message is so horribly strange sometimes, trying to comfort and assure others they are not alone when I feel so desperately alone.
And so I read. Like a madwoman in the night, I read everything and anything, searching for that other lonely writer to reassure me, tell me I'm not alone. I need to know that's true: I am not alone. And unless I can find those words, all the other words in creation will never be enough.
Love you.
Mean it.
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