I was about to open this with "funny how real life gets in the way of writing here", and realized I've already written that on a previous occasion; sucks to have a limited amount of excuses. Boe hoe, as an old online aquaintance would have said. Course, he was belgian, and I'd regard anything a belgian say with a healthy amount of regard - I mean, the waffles are cool, but most anything else coming from Belgium is dubious at the least.
On to the show, and enough with the sidekicks.
If you could see me right now, you'd notice that I'm halfway split between rubbing my temples, and actually writing this stuff. I could write about how I bought a new keyboard, and I'd feel totally disinterested myself; I could write about how my hair color's changed, or how job seems to be perking up in ways I had never anticipated. Hell, I could even write about how I seem to be attracting a certain flair for both deception in games, and how I've written documentation for work that'd make a professional consultant piss his pants in envy;
Neither of it really moves my world. I just keep a straight face, and march onwards. If I'm arrogant enough to think that I can decieve myself (and I am, most of the time), then I can be arrogant enough to think I can keep a mask on for nigh-on most of the time towards anyone else. The irony of delivering myself on a silver platter, online, is not lost to me, but hey - I might have been born in analogue, but I was baptised in digital...I see no better place than here to wonder.
It's awkward, yet not, because I know the chances of anyone reading this are about limited to (most) anyone I know online. Nearly no one I'd need to look in the eyes, knowing that they know what I've been saying here, pretending it's not been stated.
I've been trying to run from it, I realise. I've been trying to cover it up, like a person would cover up a blemish, wear a turtleneck to cover hickeys, or riding a flashy car to hide the lack of bulge in their pants.
I'm ashamed of myself. It seems to damn easy to say on text, and assuming anyone reads this, it means that I didn't buckle and delete the whole thing and go to bed.
I'm not what I should be, I'm not making what I should of what I have. Time's wasting, and I'm cruising along on autopilot. From time to time I rant about this, because I find it more cathartic to kick myself for my lack of personal progress, rather than the fact that I'm probably running my body into (and a select few feet under) the ground within a few decades.
And I keep returning to that question: Why? Why do I need to sit here, about 7 hours until I have to *be* at work, and ponder this, when I should do so when fully awake and coherent?
It's simple; I'm more self-aware when the lights go out. They say beauty is but a lightswitch away, and while being conceited enough to know that I am not physically unattractive, I feel emotionally repugnant. No one wants a broken body, even less want a broken psyche (bear in mind, I *did* avoid the "no one wants a broken heart cliché here - do I get bonus points?).
http://www.lyricstime.com/apollo-440-pain-in-any-language-lyrics.html
Listening to it right now; Apollo 440 - Pain in any language. I find myself, when I should be soaring upwards and making the most of what I have, to be stuck in regret. Again.
I fundamentally believe that for any meaningful relationship (friendship or romantic), that there are three levels;
Intellectual;
Emotional;
Sexual;
Of course, between friends, the latter is rather dubious, but here's my take on it:
For a good aquaintance, you need at least 1 of the three to make it mean anything.
For a close friend, you need two, otherwise it's not that close. While you can be okay friends with someone, if it's only intellectual or emotional, it's still not a close friend. If you fundamentally despise the person for lack of intellect (and we do always look down, don't we?), but value their emotional support, it's not a friendship - then it's a simple case of utilitarism.
...And for a relationship to be something that you'll not only remember, but will change you, you'll need all three. Two of them, and it descends into either friendship, or a fuckbuddy relation, and the plummet begins.
I find myself, once again, at the threshold; evaluating what means something around me, I find that there's a reason that I haven't told my girlfriend, in a long time, that I love her - simply because I'd (even subconsciously) rather not tell a lie, and hurt, than to tell a lie and live with it.
I think they got it right, when the protagonist in the film 300 told the traitor: "I hope you live forever." After all, at the end of the day, you're the one that has to live with yourself. Everything else is just flavortalk.
And that's what it all comes down to. There are things I'll have to tell, look someone I deeply care for into the eyes, and tell them what I feel, and don't, and I'll need to take the fall for it afterwards, simply because I won't lie anymore. I've done enough of it, I've seen people I loved break down from it, I won't do it any more.
I dreamt last night, about as cliché as it gets, that I was standing on the Copenhagen central plaza. Around me were people I knew, and I saw their faces looking at me in wonder. I dreamt that wings unfolded behind me, and feathers littered the ground as I took off. I remember the vague feeling of melancholy of leaving something I cared for, but soaring towards the sun like an Icarus prior to the fall, the sun beckoned, and smiled. In that dream, I knew that towards the sun was what I once had felt, the taste bittersweet on my tongue and in my veins, and while the pull on my heart's strings was palpatable, I rose, because I knew that the joy ahead would justify it. I remember muttering the words "If you love me, you'd want to see me smile." as the sun shone brighter than ever;
and I opened my eyes.
Reality's light was not bright enough to bask in, its shadows not dark enough to hide in; its reality ultimately unyielding to my dreams.
But, sitting here now, looking out the window, the sun's rising, and its light is radiant. The sun's reflecting on the windows across the street in a reddish hue, and for once, I take strength from the sun.
*chuckles*
Reading back on the past few paragraphs, I don't fully remember writing them, but my mother once told me that when I was writing, or making music, that I seemed almost glowing. I'm certain she was exaggerating, as is any parent, but I can't help to think that we all have a gift for doing something; and when doing it, we glow from the inside.
My glows just tend to go like fireworks these days, largely because there is nothing to tend to the flame; no one can eternally keep their own flame burning. We keep it on a wake-flame, waiting for a justification to flare up, and shine on the world. We all hope that our flame will warm ourselves, and the most of idealistic hope their flame will warm, and guide the path for others.
Is there any more beautiful way to become blind, than by the luminescence of a shining day star?
It...hurts to do this emotional rollercoaster, and I get reminded of whby I rarely write. I once had, if not a future ahead of me as a writer, but at least the prospect of becoming a reasonable prose productionist; I found, as I learned the sharp edges of life, that if you get too involved in what you write, you start feeling it on yourself. I do so now; projecting myself onto a virtual avatar of myself, writing late, writing drunk, to pretend that this here is not me. It is, and that is why any post that's worth spending the morning awake for, is worth feeling for me.
Me me me me me. As they say, the concept of weblog is egoism, after all, did we not take the 'we' out of weblog? (Yes, the accurate reader will spot that as a rip-off from userfriendly.org)
Anyone who reads blogs do so because they want a free in on someone else's life. I read other's blogs, and I sympathize. If they write well, I'll even drop my grammer fascist mask and read it with an open mind.
If they write something that touches me, I'd bleed with them if it came to that, as long as I am in front of the screen.
And that will be one of my last points; as long as we're in front of the screen.
Blogs are for pouring out one's heart onto the net, wrapped in ironic distance so that no one ever gets too close. Write something while your tears are blurring your vision, and you'll be lucky to get a "That really sucks, man" response. Behind the screen, we're all safe, snug, and immortally anonymous.
Fuck that. Over the past week+, some thinga have been set into motion for me. What I once thought was safely hidden away, far from my mind, has come to surface. I've nearly spayed myself trying to fit in, and pretending to be comfortable. That's not going to work. I'm not normal, so why bother trying to be it.
I owe almost all to a few, a little to many, and the rest deserves a twisted smile, nothing more.
I'm not going to stick to life with 2 out of 3.
And unlike Nietzche, I refuse to spend my entire life mourning over the inability to change my life. I've been blessed, I'll shine, and I will forge a path where there is none. I'll stumble, fall, curse and cry, I'll wish I was dead at times, wish others were dead moreso, I'll wish I chose a different way, but in the end, on my tombstone, I don't want the words "If only he'd had the courage..." to be written on it.
After all, we'll all stumble and get dirt on our hands, but in the low light of candles, we admire each other's scars.
You come to love not by finding the perfect person, but by seeing an imperfect person perfectly
Still as true as when I read it the first time.
