Speechless

I'm so fucking angry. On one hand I want to rail and yell and scream and fight with him, because maybe after all that's done we can be us again.

But I don't think that's going to happen. And that makes me even more pissed. What the fuck.

The worst part is that I don't feel like I can write anymore. I'm rarely proud of my words now. Nothing makes sense in the same way. It's not some huge shift in my universe. It's just a subtle twist and slide that makes everything shine strangely. It's like the world's in color when it was in black and white. Not better, not worse. Just different. And unfamiliar.

I hate feeling like the inferior one, like the one who has to beg to get back into good graces. Like I'm the one who has to force us to be the way we were. It shouldn't have to be like that.

It's strange how I feel like I know exactly how she feels now. Or felt, I suppose. He reminds me of myself so much. I can't believe I ever acted like that, but I really can. I'm appalled. But the fact that I've realized it now is good. A step in the right direction.

I'm going to change.

Completion is nothing

Love, happiness; it's all anyone not self-admittedly shallow and materialistic wants. Once you've lassoed them, then what?

I guess there are the type that are okay with that. Monotonous happiness. Those are grandparent-types. You know. Million years old, still together, wrinkled as all get-out, holding hands, chaste kisses, dusty smiles. I know you know who I mean.

They are a small percentage of the population, though. Less then 25%. Much less. Maybe 10%. Maybe 5%. Or somewhere in between. I've never been good with numbers.

But hey. If you fall into the grandparent category, and you're in love with another grandparent type, you're set for life. Congratulations. A bliss of varying volumes is yours for eternity.

But you and me-- we're the other type. We're the quiet guys and the abrasive guys. We're the shy girls and the whores. Doesn't matter what you categorize yourself as. We've all got that spark of self-loathing inside. We've all got that self-destruct button we like to pummel once in a while. Usually the times when we really, really shouldn't.

But we do anyway. Just because.

We explode. We fly up and break apart, shards of our hopes and wants and dreams and wishes flying like confetti; ashes to ashes, and all that; and when the mangled bits of ourselves, smoking softly, we put ourselves back together.

We start over.

Because the journey is the best part.

Disconnected

I've come to realize that I actually have a really high standard for personal responsibility. I also think it's something that I unconsciously hold others to than more than I hold myself. But I think the realization of that fact is enough to change it. A lot of things are like that. Reminds me of this three piece comic I came across once, where at the end the guy realizes that he's been just as much of an asshole as every other asshole he's ever met. Very eye-opening.

So, to make a long story short, there's a new level of responsibility I'm holding myself to these days. It'll be great.

I've been writing lyrics a lot lately. (Lulz, alliteration.) It's like I wake up with lyrics in my fingertips and on my lips and on the cusp of my ears, just waiting for me to do something with them. I guess it's not enough to just write them down and sort of flop them into some sort of semblance of a song. I've got to actually try. Hard work and all that. Again, personal responsibility comes into play here.

Speaking of revising (maybe I've just been thinking it though, and not speaking it at all-- I tend to do that) I've never believed in it, really. I know it's a terrible habit, to not believe in revision, but I've never had anyone to convince me otherwise until I did it myself one day. It's like I'm my own devil's advocate. (I would be.) But I considered it from a reader's perspective. If this bastard writer hasn't given it her utmost, hasn't poured her sweat and blood and tears into this piece; if she hasn't given one thousand percent of her effort and revised and changed it and gone back and erased and pulled out her hair over it-- if this writer isn't proud of what she's written, why should I waste my time reading it? There's so much more I could be reading. A vast, limitless abyss of words just waiting for me. Mind-boggling, really.

So, let's see what else on the mental agenda: oh, right. This thing. Friends. Love. Sex. What of it?

You know, I really wish I could say I don't believe in love. I wish I could actually pretend to not believe in love. I wish I didn't believe in love. But when all that love is is a mental (as in daft) affliction that exists only in our hearts and minds (mostly our minds, if we're going to be Frank. Or Alice, she's a doll too) how can I deny its existence? It's something we bring upon ourselves-- completely insane and entirely bad for our health for the most part; proud and selfish and foolish and beautiful and life-changing. I guess I'm just a very firm believer in the power of thoughts.

If you think you're in love, you must be. Love is just a state of mind, a thought that lasts as long as you let it.

I'm going to stop apologizing for things that aren't my fault. An apology should mean something. It should be like a declaration of love or a prayer. And I know these things have lost their revered power, they've lost their sparkling might with overuse but it's not too late to change things for myself. Individual versus social realities. Suck on that.

I'll skip right over the fact that I want to go to Kentucky for a week or two and come right out with the one that deals with how who I've been hates who I am. I'm not the same person I was two years ago, and while I could go on about how and why I've changed it'd really only be for my benefit, and I've gone over it enough in my head in the past week. No need to reiterate. I know I'll keep going over it anyway. It's just shocking to think of how I've changed. What I let myself become, and what I've lowered my standards to. I've accepted much less than I ever thought I would, and the sad part is that I didn't even bat an eyelash during. I went right ahead and let the situation take advantage of me. I guess it's a comfort that I've hurt only myself in this respect.

My COD assessments are tomorrow. Feels like a step in the right direction. So does all this change in my life. It's small but it feels like the world. I finally have one home. It's startling how much that simple fact has done for me. I have four walls I can theoretically rely on seeing every day. I can put all my decorations up in one room. I only have one half of a dresser for my entire wardrobe but I don't even care. I've a feeling this room will feel more like home than any other has in my life. It's already on its way.

"If you're not going to forget, why forgive?"
Forgiving makes you a better person. Forgetting makes you a foolish one.