Writings to self (1)

Nov. 28, 2012

It seems I've turned off another faucet. This time, my actions (but what were my actions?) have left me parched, thirsting for what I thought was once drowning me. And the saddest thing is, I know the solution, but have not the slightest clue to touch upon something so impalpable. Or so I think I do... How can there be a problem when nothing is wrong?! Things lose their luster so easily, but on the same token can sweep me away in such conviction that I become the ignorant anonymity that I preach about in such belittling ways. It seems, to my understanding, that when I felt my old pains I could feel my own touch more than in this mundane happiness. I'm so sick of running around, placing a name on the casualties from the mental war my being is locked in. And even in my writings I hide behind ambiguity... Whose right is it to place a name on abstract affairs anyway? Well, I picked up what I thought I dropped; my creativity and reason to write. But the problem isn't finding it; it's realizing I haven't dropped it. In fact, my hands are cold from a lack of blood flow, due to gripping and clenching it for dear life.

Nov. 29, 2012

New days bring new feelings and moods, but just as easily, bring new challenges. Today isn't splendid, but definitely not too bad, even on less sleep than usual. I'm proud of myself for staying awake *lately* in class (but I'm caught up in writing now, haha) but I need a smack in the face when it comes to homework. It's strange how moods and "well-being" for that matter are such volatile states. They flip-flop! And repeat! And it follows one of the most complex patterns I've ever seen. When I chase them, it's like falling into a wormhole and being spat out somewhere completely askew from my previous destination. I guess I've set up so many tricks and traps to keep people out that I've finally outwitted my own self. And I can't remember how to disable these metaphorical landmines. I just wonder how many people can even see that treading through my mind is full of wrong turns and dead ends. And I wonder who might have gotten caught in my snares... (I can guess a few names)

I wonder why this predilection toward music and literature was bestowed to someone like me. I thank God everyday for that one, even if we are on shaky ground. Why couldn't it go to someone who could, would, should do more with it? I use it for a release, just another crutch, more or less a drug. I do want the world to see me though, at least for the few people who might feel how I do when I play my music, write my poems, etc. Regardless, I couldn't see life without my... well in all honesty, without all of what myself is compounded of. It's my most pronounced language, yet it is the voice hardly heard. Hardly any care to hear, either. Everyone wants to hear the venom my deceptive tongue can spit, but they want to hear that out of anyone. I've poured myself into music/poetry, and in a sense gave up a few worldly pleasures to establish a dwelling within myself. (that were worth it all in the end) Luckily, it seems I can finally start running toward myself when I'm in discord instead of looking to friends and the shelter of my mother. Sometimes I blame her for not teaching me morals; among other things. She has no amount of authority, and she walks, as I do, on the broken egg shells we've scattered in our path. But that's what I wanted, isn't it? A lenient parent I said I wouldn't take advantage of? Well, little did I know my own trifling. Despite all of this, I think she's starting to hear that little squeak I make with my heart, and she continues to be one of two people who I know have heard it. But their ears still lay deaf to the speaking of my egotistic disdain.. and why, only when I talk to myself, do I actually expand upon my vocabulary? And how can this kid in my class say that "allocate" is a big word?? *I love the irony and hypocrisy in the last paragraph.*
-Adam Whitney