Reckless

I can always tell when I'm feeling a bit suicidal because I get these urges to be incredibly reckless while driving.

Clarity

Dear Self,

It's amazing what a good cry can do. Thanks.

Years

When I was six
I knew I'd save
the world and be
a hero brave;

And at age nine
I found a group
to play and laugh
and shout and whoop;

Then I turned twelve
and desperately sought
to flee far into space,
alone with my thoughts;

But then fifteen came
and no one understood
this pain that I felt,
but I did what I should;

So at eighteen I fell
hopelessly obsessed--
busy though I was--
driven by love to madness;

At twenty-one I picked up
the pieces that remained,
tried fitting them together
(perhaps gluing them in vain);

Twenty-four and lost:
that's who I am today.
What will i be tomorrow?
I guess I'll find my way.

Happy Birthday

Days go by, still I remain
Hopelessly lost, endlessly drained.
I'd be a wanderer if I just knew
Which direction to start in; I haven't a clue.

Yet something tells me that deep within
Lies surety, conviction, passion even.
I need only find the right lock for my key
So that gateways will open to envelop me.

Too many questions, no answers in sight;
How shall I know if my choices are right?
Do I take the safe and well-worn road?
Can I really place my instincts on hold?

On this day, I wish to act, somehow
(seems appropriate, a turning point, now)
Still. Something in me releases a scream
And wants to know why I've let go of a dream.

Where do we go from here?

There has been an uneasy truce going on for a while, and it feels as though I'm just waiting for a catalyst. I have noticed that everything has felt dimmer and sharper at the same time. I'm not sure what this means; I'm not getting a bad feeling about it, which worries me a little.

On a more concrete note: I watched the PBS documentary "Depression: Out of the Shadows" (http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/takeonestep/depression/about.html) on Wednesday and thought that it was beautifully done. I highly recommend it to anyone who wants to understand more about depression. I'll try to post a more comprehensive review later, perhaps by updating this post.

I'm currently working on a poem/song. (I say poem/song because in my head, it's set to a tune.) I like it.

Back to falsity.

Nausea

I feel ill. And possibly suicidal. But hey, Bono says:

And if the night runs over
And if the day won't last
And if your way should falter
Along this stony pass

It's just a moment
This time will pass.

-- U2, "Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of"

Hiding

Something my mother said brought me another step closer to understanding why I fell apart then. Why I'm falling apart now. I'm most certain that wasn't her intent. She told me to stop being a turtle. That's the literal translation. Stop being a head-ducking turtle. The idiom, however, translates better as "Quit being a coward. Don't be a lily-livered fraidy cat. Face your problems."

It all sounds so simple. So straightforward. So easy.

It explains so much. Yeah, I'm a coward. I never thought there'd be a day when I willingly admitted to it, except I did. It's always so hard to convey what I'm afraid of, and what I'm feeling, and words never speak as loud as actions. Or rather, saying out loud that I'm afraid of rejection and I feel despair and then not doing anything about it... it's hard to get across the complexity of everything.

So it's easier to hide. In books, in TV shows, in fanfiction... even in news. Anywhere but here. Anywhere that I can be someone who isn't me. Anywhere that I can be someone who has a purpose.

//----------------------------

I'm coming back to this post 10 hours later. Not that it really matters. Life, I mean. Purpose or not, what's there to do but live it? And so what if I'm tired? I'll take a break. It doesn't matter that I have a great job, or any of that. If it's wearing me out, then maybe it's not right for me. I've tried so hard to make it work, but if it doesn't fit, then no amount of denial is going to change the outcome.

Maybe I'll make it. Maybe I won't. Maybe this step is a piece of some larger destiny that will stoke my hero complex. Or maybe... maybe it's just life.

That time of year thou mayst in me behold

I'm so tired. And it hurts. I think I'm entering another "listless" phase. What horrible timing.

I'm more than a bit irked because I didn't get nearly as much accomplished as I would've liked over the weekend. However, I did manage to complete my art project.

One task checked off, nine hundred and ninety-nine to go.

Deep Thoughts about Life and Death

Many people who deserve to die don't have the guts to kill themselves.

Others who deserve to live are dead.

To be or not to be

This post isn't about Casey. It's about me.

I've always been wary about writing personal stuff online. And even now, I'm not entirely sure it's appropriate to bring reality into this blog. Because, as Casey Serin knows all too well, the Internet remembers. Well, Google remembers, but these days, they're practically the same thing. And because everything is remembered, some enterprising graduate from the Benoit™ School of Internet Sleuthing might be able to follow the bread crumbs back to their source. And if I ever became rich or famous or something, those bread crumbs would be a tremendous liability.

But I don't know where I can turn to, who I can talk to. And I need to let this out, I need to be heard. Maybe one day, someone, somehow, will understand.

I know that it must seem really strange that I have this need to be so open online, where everyone everywhere can see it, but I liken it to blending into a large crowd. There, you're just one of the masses. You're anonymous. No cares about who you are, what you are, why you are. You're surrounded by people, and yet, you are completely alone. I love that about as much as I hate it.

I can't stand being here. I'm going through the motions, and I knew that was all I would be doing, but damn it, I thought I could delude myself for a longer period of time! Maybe I just know myself too well now. Which sucks. Ignorance is bliss, after all. But that's not the point. The point is that waking up every morning is a disappointment. If there was a scale, and unhappiness was a 1, and misery was a 10, I think I'd be somewhere around 23.

I can't go on like this. I've only been able to maintain a few shreds of sanity by losing myself in stories, searching for hope elsewhere, but they sort of just make everything worse, because they're not real.

Anyway. This is a really stupid post. Things are either going to get better, or they're going to get worse, and I supposedly have some say in all of this. I should just do what I want. Except what I want is for it all just to end. I'm so tired. All I want is to let go.

Here's an old poem:

Star's End - 01/22/02

I wonder about being a star,
Blaze of splendor twinkling afar,
Glittering cool in the night air,
Radiant beauty oh so fair.

But stars have got their limits too,
Their fiery glare will burn right through,
Leaving voids, deep and dark,
Scattered emptiness, no more spark.

They'll smolder seethingly, far too hot,
And either shrivel into a spot
Or flare outwards, grow immense
And burst because they were too intense.

Bursting a bubble causes an explosion,
Not so different from a star's implosion.
Needless to say, it matters not much,
Stars live, stars die, all such and such.

But for awhile they'll glimmer true,
Tears against a backdrop of darkened hue.
Stars do mirror, so I reflect,
Mortality on Earth, I do expect.