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14 February 2010 @ 09:14 pm

Or perhaps, Harold Kushner, it is the price we pay for being happy. Perhaps the two are the same. Lately it feels as though all the things in my life have the power to make me both happy and unhappy in equal measures. Double-edged swords, all of them, and you can only cut with one as deep as you're willing to bleed for the other. Given everything that's happened in the past six months, I'm afraid I'm becoming a bit jaded. I can no longer stop myself wondering, in the middle of being absurdly, wonderfully happy, just what it's going to cost me later. Because it always does, and the cost is always so much higher than I anticipated. The highest of highs are followed by the lowest of lows, a roller coaster track that has no end, and I either want to laugh or cry, both rather hysterically and often in the same time frame. I feel like I've lost most of my middle ground, and that this can't possibly be healthy.
 
The truth is, though, that I've forgotten how to function any other way. Last term was a hard experience in growing up, but I have to question whether it's actually made me a better person. On the one hand, it turns out that I'm much stronger than I ever gave myself credit for. If there's one thing I learned last year, it's that you'd be surprised who you can live without, and it's a bit of a relief to know what I'm capable of handling. It's not easy, of course, but that isn't the same thing as coping. It didn't break me, even though it felt at the time like it would, and I'm still occasionally surprised by the lack of fear with which I now regard things that used to terrify me. Spiders, the dark, getting lost, talking to people, even the future. What are those things, really, compared to the things, the people, that I could lose? Those are the truly frightening things. Everything else just seems a bit silly. On the other hand, it's no longer a comfortable place to be inside my head. I used to be able to put up with myself alone for days, but it's no longer possible. Even the weekends are rough if I find myself stuck at home with nowhere to go. Sitting still gives me too much time to think, and over-thinking has suddenly become dangerous. I can't spend too much time in there without hitting an inevitable breakdown. Not that they won't catch up to me now and then anyway, but sadness is always much closer to the surface these days, and any length of contemplation is like inviting in the darkness. At this point, I'm not sure which I'd rather have-- my courage, or my peace of mind.

 
 
26 August 2009 @ 09:30 pm
I am an utter failure at keeping this, most likely because I failed to have any interesting thoughts or experiences for approximately a three month span. Of course, it helps to occasionally leave the house if one wishes to experience those things, which I have mingled feelings about admitting I did not. I do believe I'm a hermit at heart. I wish I could say I spent all of this relative solitude writing, but that would be far from the truth. Perhaps the first month I managed to write something every day and, as always, then proceeded to watch my motivation stutter and go out like the flame on a match. I do, however, have seventeen inbox messages on livejournal alone. Is this a win? I cannot say, for I've yet to check them.

My purpose in returning to this charming little online journal, my friends, is, as ever, the thoughts in my head that I cannot seem to share, and yet cannot bear to keep inside. I can't say whether or not they'll make sense; indeed, I'm afraid I haven't captured the point of the thing at all, but as I no longer feel as if I'm drowning in inexpressible emotions (for imaginary people--imagine that), it must have done me some good.

My pen scripts the pages for your life, and I wonder again why I had to make it such a bad one. The more we play, the more tangled it becomes, your will and my will twined as one and every step we take together only taking us deeper into the hole. I want to cry from trying to imagine your future, because one that isn't as bitter and unhappy as the present is lost to me. How to write a happy ending to your tale? I'm afraid I cannot say, for even though I'm the writer, I'm as blind as you are, only able to see the next few steps for you, if that. I'm afraid I don't know how to fix things; we can only make it worse together, and see if that will somehow take us to the other side. I think that if I were there, I could love you the way you need to be loved; that I do love you, in spite of the faults I penned with my own hand, and maybe even because of them. I wonder anew if you can feel that even through the barriers, that endless expanse of time and space that resides between us, a looking glass that goes one way. I see you, every moment of your life, and every aspect of your character, both the light and the dark. What I wouldn't give sometimes to see you staring back, knowing me as I know you.  I wonder about my own Creator; whether she feels the same remorse. Whether she sits there and cries over the pages as I do, unable to change our fate. Unable to reach us, even for the briefest of moments.
 
 
 
In hindsight, I don't actually know why I created this thing. I think at the time, I remember telling Jordan I was feeling too quiet, but honestly? The last thing I need is another journal that I'm not going to write in. I don't really approve of angst-ridden diatribes about all of the non-drama that takes place in my life, concerning events and people about which I'm neither going to remember nor care about in another month, year, decade. And even if I were? It wouldn't be in a place where everyone could read it. Which, I suppose, is half of my problem. I don't want people to know those things about me. I don't want them to know about all of the selfish, petty, or hurtful things that go through my mind, because I don't even want to know about them. I certainly don't want to put them down on paper (metaphorical, or not). That's not what I want people to remember about me.

And since the song playing just changed to the 59th Street Bridge Song (the Simon and Garfunkel version, of course, because it's brilliant and unmatched), I'm going to change the subject and enjoy it. It always makes me feel better, that song. How could it not, with lyrics like that? Actually, I'm already better just having the music on at all. Sometimes, on bad days, when it's all you can do to just keep going, music is a way of holding on. And you know you'll be okay, as long as it keeps playing. It reminds me of everything I want my life to be. Beautiful, poetic, philosophical, fearless. Not that it is those things, but I'd like it to be. It's a goal, anyway, or maybe more of an ideal.

I spoke to Jordan of making this into a photojournal, to inspire me to take pictures again as well. The idea is that I'd take at least one picture that day, and then write about it later. I do like the idea a lot, and I think I might try it. The trouble is, the most important things that happen to a person in a day often aren't the most conducive to taking pictures, so I'm not really sure. I suppose I'll see how it works out. In any case, it'd give me something to write about that I'm also willing to share with other people, and that I'm not worried about anyone ripping off (hence the reason I can't put up the things I usually write, stories and what not, which is a damn shame because I could really use the feedback!)

By the way, Chris really reminds me of Nate, and just for the record, that is not a remotely flattering comparison. I hope he doesn't have it in his stupid, testosterone-infused head that talking to me is going to get him anywhere. (Which is vain of me, but I can't really help the way I'm interpreting this, can I? I can usually tell when boys seem interested, though I might do my best to ignore it. Oblivious is my tactic, and it's worked well for me in the past, until they force me to be direct. Not fun, or pretty, but what can you do?) He hurt Kayla, which is like kicking your favorite puppy, because she's sweet, and good, and a lot of other positive adjectives, and though I'm not remotely interested (but actually sort of repulsed-- he's so emo and angsty, and again, much like Nate), I don't really want anything to do with him after that anyway. Hmm. This is another good practice for me, telling the absolute truth. I should continue experimenting with that in my journal entries here, since I rarely say out loud how I feel about the things I don't like.

But for now, friends, the end.