Writing

Feb. 20th, 2008 03:08 am
lunitaire: (Default)
[personal profile] lunitaire

I generally end up hating what I write after I send it to someone or hit post.  Things are not as intelligent in real life as they are when I'm thinking about them.

I know I can write decently, but it's only when I know that only my teachers will see it; as soon as I know that it'll be public knowledge I start thinking too much, and it all comes out as a jumbled mess. 

The same is true with speech except that I can only talk to those I know well.  But if it is a group, especially if it's a group of strangers, then I laugh too much and talk too loud: I make a fool of myself.

And of course I have but a handful of people that I know well because I become so nervous around most people that I run away.  Or I find them ridiculously annoying and abandoned them like the hermit bitch I am.

Mainly I use this blog to vent and get the stress and depression out, but sometimes I look at it and feel ashamed.  I used to be referred to as a writer, and I am still confronted by old professors to publish some of my stories, but I hate myself so much.  I destroy everything I make.  I have nothing to show for my progress because I am eternally running backwards away from the future.  And the future follows me just inches faster than me so as to bring me to the present.  I barely make it from day to day.  Sometimes I think I am genuinely happy, but then I look back mere hours later and think otherwise.  I need something more.  My expectations kill me. 

For awhile I did not even consciously make them anymore.  Expectations surfaced, and I'd shoot them down.  But even then, when I'd start to develop that kind of life I would find myself unhappy, and I'd break away.  Now the expectations are surfacing again, and I am fighting them less and less, but looking them in the eye requires me to look at myself.

I used to always try to experience memories.  I would be in a beautiful place with a beautiful person, and I would think to myself "I am going to remember this years from now."  I was vain and in denial.  I would always criticize girls that spent all day in front of a mirror, and I still do, but at least I do not deny my own personality.  I am more aware of myself then I was then. 

And I look back, and I barely see these memories.  The people and the places meant nothing.  I mean nothing.  The most I remember was bits and pieces of the conversations and feeling secure in their attention because I was saying deep things and telling them my deep thoughts.

Looking back now brings a laugh to the surface, but only half-heartedly for I have a growing suspicion that I am still the same, and it gnaws at me, a parasitic thought that devours the mind. 

I choke on my own words.  The breath abandons me.  I am a shell of a person.

And even when I feel slightly intelligent and have some faith in myself, I still feel underdeveloped and at a loss.

And I hate this.  I hate writing or talking so emotionally and whiny because this isn't it.  It's just not it.

I say to myself, "I feel numb.  I feel so completely numb.  I read my words or hear my speech, and I sound whiny as hell, but inside of me I feel dead."  And part of me wonders how much of these words that I write or speak is really me and how much is just the bile of society.

And yet if I am unfeeling, then what is this disdain that I feel, this echo of despair, when I try over and over again to connect with people and meet with... nothing.  I've come to realize that there are too types of people.  The kind that just live, and the kind that think far too much.  I may think too much, but at least I think.  And don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with just living.  They are happy with who they are for the most part.  They are fine with what interests they have and the people in their lives.  They are happy with where they are in life.  And I envy that in them for I know I can never be them. 

For the past year I have slowly started to realize that within me a bitch is hidden.  I was tormented by my classmates in elementary school and tried to make up for it by being caring and deep.  This caused a spark, and this spark grew into thought.  I despised the popular girls for they represented that which caused me pain; therefore I despised vanity and fought against it in myself.  I felt different than everyone else, but really they just made me different, but since I blamed it on myself I embraced it and embraced anything that was out of the ordinary.  Who even knows what I would have grown into if I had chosen to follow my original path?  I do not know; I only know that I have spent my life trying to be a nice girl, when in reality I am numb bitch.  The only thing that separates me is that I have the ability to think and even then it's half-assed.

----
And with this new knowledge I wonder what I want in life.

I want to be able to speak clearly, to organize and present my thoughts the way they were meant to heard.
I want to be able to be myself around everyone and not be ashamed.  My friends tell me that I am a witty geek who is bitchy in an affectionate way.  But around everyone else I'm that silent, four-eyed asian chick who is dorky as fuck.  And if you can get me to open my mouth I am stupidly loud and never shut up, and you just want to hit me over the head with a Miata, then rinse, and repeat.

I wish I could do more than make obscure references to the books I read.  I've been told I'm well read, but often the amount of information I forget from each book is more than the average American reads.  I really wish I could just absorb books rather than reread them repeatedly and still only remember 20% of the first chapter.

I would like to just be held without worrying about betrayal or society's concerns.

I wish I could stop thinking of stupid things to write on here like "I'm stupid" or "I am a dumb ass."

RAWR!

I wish I was a rhinoceros.
But in the mean time I put on my robe and wizard hat.

Yeah, now that's quality statements to put on here. :P

I'll shut up more.  I need to sleep and I can always type more emo shit at 2 a.m. tomorrow morning.
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