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I've realized that I haven't done my usual daily soul searching lately.
When something seems to go wrong, I want to hold it in.
I want to keep smiling so that no one knows how I feel, when in fact I want them to know everything and nothing at all.
I wish people would stop judging me by my body, for example.
Am I supposed to be a complete idiot? Yes?
Am I supposed to get it on with every male or female in school? Of course?
Or am I supposed to be myself, feel the way I want to feel, instead of curbing my emotions so that I feel the way you want me to feel? No?
Which is what I hate most. I've felt, for far too long, as though my physical appearance was supposed to match my attitude. If I don't want to be beautiful, but rather invisible to your eyes, does it make me psychologically unfit for this world? If I would rather not make my hair look physically appealing so guys or girls will hit on me incessantly, and would rather write stories and draw my comics or make an artwork in my own right, or hang out with good, close friends does that make me a hermit?
To my own lips, probably not. Hopefully not.
I'm not sure I can live in a world where I'll be expected to fake it all the time.
My spiritual heart can't handle that.
It'll break slowly but surely with each passing year, until, in a rage and fit of bull-headedness, I kill myself while Gloomy Sunday plays on endless repeat, fully intending to back up the 'Currse of Gloomy Sunday.'
But I don't want to die. At least, not young.
Because for far too long already, I have had premonitions that I will die before my time, and I don't know why. . . I have wondered about my place in this world.
I believe we are all born with purpose, but that it doesn't become apparent until much later on.
But I feel like I need to get a job, fast. The problem is that I love to do so many certain things, that a certain job would probably kill me inwardly.
I don't want that.
I suppose my place would be with the entertainment industry, but I don't like to sing in front of people except in karaoke.
I would love to write, but I recently checked RL Stines website. He writes relatively short stories in the area of about 110-130 pages each. . .
and he finishes a book every eight days! eek
I have lots of ideas, but I can't get them out that quickly! Not with school, or even lack thereof!
I have no motivation, it seems!
I can't finish anything I start, and I don't know why!
Or I do know, but I won't let the idea come out. . .
Why won't I let myself finish anything I start? I can easily end short stories, but they always leave with a sense that they should continued. . .
Because, when you think about it, nothing really ends unless you die.
That's pretty final to me.
But when you end one long chapter to start a new one, you mentally check with yourself over and over. . .
When you're moving away, you sit on your bed the night before you leave and think. You know you carefully planned everything months in advance, carefully packed everything the week before, left some clothes out to wear, have the truck ready and waiting, you already got the sedatives so your pet won't freak out, you got a new Ipod so you won't get bored on the road, the hotels and your new place have been checked out, and your former room mates, or your family have the phone numbers to all the places you'll be staying at. . .
It seems like everything is checked out.
But after climbing under the covers and turning out the light, you find that you can't quite close your eyes.
"Can't sleep. Future will eat me."
And I know I would be the same way.
I can't make a living doing what I love because I fear I will come to hate it, and I don't want to hate my hobbies. What does that leave for me to do in the way of fun?
"Hey Saku, I'm bored. Should we doodle mindlessly?"
"Dude, I'm a comic artist!"
"Well, what do YOU want to do?"
"Eh. . . do laundry?"
"Okay, cool."
I DON'T think so. -___-
I want to do what I love, but I'm not the most punctual person, not the best at anything I do.
I've been told that I'm a decent singer, I showed my mom a song I wrote a couple years back (I don't think she really liked it, but she did encourage me. . . woot, mom. You rule.), I love to draw and people request that I draw things for them all the time, and I recently started using ink, so I've gotten some good feed back for doing so.
The bad thing is, I improved almost unnaturally quickly.
When you improve that fast, using leaps and bounds without noticing instead of the baby steps that others quickly realize you're jumping right past, where do you go?
I seem to only have a few steps to go, when in fact I could improve so much more than that.
But I got better so fast that it impressed by teacher, and now he expects the same improvement with each artwork. . . but now I'm thinking about it more, so I can't!
Like my recent concentration. . . I wanted it to be full black and white, but I realize it'll only be white if I can't cast some heavy shadows here and there. . . and the huge spaces are bothering me. Even with the scared girl in the background, it doesn't seem to fit. . . like I don't want the girl to be there anymore, but I don't know how to take her out and make her work.
The drawing is supposed to illustrate waking up from a dream that basically let you see your worst fear come to life.
Mine happens to be the inevitable death of my own mother.
Which is almost scary. . . that dream I had scared me so badly that I woke up in tears, shivering and nuzzling into my pillow, trying to tell myself it was okay, that I was too old to be scared by a stupid nightmare.
But it scared me.
And yet, if I have a dream where I am dying, I take it as it comes. No big deal. . . so I suppose the dreams where I am dying are better than the ones where she's dying..
Ah, it's so cold. These clouds are positively screening the sky in endless grey. . .but what I find almost mind boggling to know is that, beyond those grey clouds, a blue sky reigns, and the sun is shining brightly.
I guess that. . .as a kid, the sun of bright yellow and orange and the sky of blue completely disappeared, only to be replaced by a cold grey sky, and harsh winds.
It's just weird to think that I used to look up at the sky on a cloudy, rainy day and think that the sky and sun went away. . . but it was dark as it was, so how did it get darker, when it's still raining?
I've known why now for years. . . but it's still an odd thing to think about.
I kinda wish I could pierce the clouds, and get a taste of that blue.
I kinda miss it.
But I'm alone at home, so I should be happy that I get to enjoy seeing this wonderful grey covered sky, while a dead tree waves its spidery branches mesmerizingly toward my window. . .
when all I want to do is go back to sleep on the floor. .. or, rather, just cover myself up, and feel the warmth that these covers can give me by relaying and sustaining my own body heat.
I really should finish that artwork, though. . . the abstract one needs a border. . . and I haven't written a page for Versaillles in almost a month.
I need to get back to that, too, but I only have three more days to do this all in, so to speak.
Why don't I start now?
This something always holds me back. . .
 Sakura Moonflower · Thu Feb 24, 2005 @ 11:40pm · 0 Comments |
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