| The Writer
By Prinsesa Just look at all these things I�ve written. How pretty. A melody on paper, a portrait with words, a poem. I was smart, wasn�t I? With the big words and perfect grammar, wanting to come off as a writer. But no, my brain has always been too shallow for that, and so have my emotions. I have never experienced deep, angsty moods like those real writer-ish types. Both my brain and my heart have always been lacking in depth. Even when in the roller coaster experience of being in a relationship (with a person who is so fucking unpredictable that the only thing you learn to expect from him is that he will NEVER come through for you and he will NEVER do what he says he will) the most profound of emotions will have to be �happy� �sad� and �in love�. True, I experience them in varying degrees, �deliriously happy�, �heartbreakingly sad�, or �crazy in love� but, yeah, that�s basically it. Ha. I can almost see myself crying alone at night, wishing for things to change. I was playing the poor little unloved. Oh dear me, I am not given as much attention as I should be. I am neglected. I will write. Heaven forbid. This was before, when what was missing was all I noticed. I didn�t see the I love yous, I didn�t notice the hugs and kisses, I didn�t even realize that we actually spent so much time together. I was an idiot. I am a lot different now, definitely. I�d like to think that I am much happier, though I can�t really say that. I can�t take everything at face value, especially when even I�m not sure if I�m really happy or just pretending to be. Hmmn. Okay, I won�t go as far as saying that I�m happy. I�ll just go on record as saying that I�m not sad anymore. Now that I think about it, maybe �at peace� is the right description. [This changing phase has a lot of advantages. I think I�m able to experience those intermediate emotions now. Call me a budding Romanticist, but pretty soon I may be able to say �I am in deep angst� or some writerly-artsy statement like that. I may even stick my head into an oven, like Sylvia Plath. We don�t even have an oven. At least, not one where I can stick my head into and die. Can I just fry my brain in a different way? Like, for example, playing too much O2 Jam?] Isn�t it St. Francis� prayer that says, �Lord, grant me the strength to accept the things I cannot change�? [I�m sorry if I said it wrong. I�m not entirely sure, but I assume I at least got the gist of things.] That�s what I did. I stopped expecting things from people. [A certain person, to be exact.] I finally let myself come to terms with what I�ve been trying to ignore all along. It hasn�t been that hard to accept, after all, I�ve known it for a long time now. I just refused to deal with it. Now that I finally have, it came as a relief. I used to underestimate myself. Now I know. I love because I want to and not because I can�t help it. It is a choice, and if and when I want to, I can always stop. [*This is not an I�m-a-badass-survivor statement. I mean it. I�ve done it before, without any qualms, and I can and will do it again. Ask the parties involved. When I say stop, I mean stop. I won�t turn a yellow light for anything, even for a great deal of begging and crying. There is such a thing as too late.] This is turning out to seem like the ramblings of a schizophrenic. Excuse me, but these are actually what they seem- words tumbling out on a page. True, the paper I have written this onto does look like a schematic diagram for some major surgery. There are arrows here and there. I tend to try to rearrange the paragraphs in a half-assed attempt at editing, but that�s all. Unity will just have to be thrown out the window. I intend to keep in here everything that spilled out of my pen, coherent or not. Every piece must have its point, surely. But I really don�t know what this is for. Maybe it�s just because there isn�t any electricity and I�m reading �The Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All� for the rth time. [Yeah, that�s why they�re called variables. They can be changed.] Or maybe I just needed to write. |
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