Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Saturday, July 25, 2009
A Space That Shouldn't Have Been Left Empty
It's 2:11am right now, and I'm sitting here...well, laying here, in bed, wondering what I should be doing aside from sleeping.
I feel more and more restles. I figure it's the fact that I'm still jobless, and that my efforts to secure a job seem paltry at best. It's probably the fact that I always feel inadequate around you, and no matter how many times you tell me "it's OK" and that I shouldn't, I still will. You say it's because I do not have enough confidence in myself, and that I need to believe in myself or else how can I believe in anything, even you.
Tonight was not a good night. I'm alone, rather than softly muttering into the phone and having to repeat myself and grinning because I know you want to talk to me despite my ways.
I'm stubborn, I'm brash. I'm foolish.
You should know that I do have motivation, that I do put forth effort. I don't believe I have "all the time in the world"...I never have. I simply don't act, and that has caused more problems than good, for myself and for us, for everyone I've ever dealt with it feels like.
But now, here I am, 7 minutes later, still in the dark, still alone, typing on a dirty laptop with a dead fruit-fly staining the corner of my screen. Has this gotten me anywhere? Does typing this out do anything for me? Maybe. All I can see is that when I actually create the words, when I can get them out of my head and on to something more...real...or at least more visible than from within my head, I don't feel as pressured. I don't feel like I'm being so easily crushed into a little ball.
But why should I feel so pressured, like I'm stuck in a compactor with no way out? Am I holding myself down to a lower standard and not allowing myself to achieve something? Am I simply resigning to the notion that there is nothing I can do in this world that makes a difference and I should just give up? I don't think I am, because I probably would have actually said that a million times by now. I doubt I'd bother writing about it, because that would only accentuate the futility of the whole thing. I think.
There's not much to this post. I'm just rambling to empty out my head a bit for other words to eventually take the place of the ones put here. It was time for me to make room I guess.
Looking back on the past few years, especially the college ones, I can find nothing that has struck me as truly fascinating work. I'd like to dabble in music in some form, despite my apparent inability to carry a tune. I want to go around taking photos for my own personal pleasure, but I feel that I do have an eye for visual media. Having no formal training, this would be a tough field for me to enter just yet. I am an English major, and yet I am afraid to write. It's a wonder I can even post anything, but that's probably because there is absolutely NO creative merit to any of them.
The idea of writing, be it scripting or poetry, story-lines or lyrics, scares me. When I used to write, in high-school, that's all I did almost every night before I went to sleep. I would be in bed, with my notebook and a book-light, squinting to see if I was still writing legibly. I could write forever. I once spent a good three hours writing in the dark like this. There was this feeling of accomplishment that came as soon as I finished a piece, but I would also later feel sick. Sick that I would write anything at all resembling what I saw on the paper, hating myself for expressing myself the way I did. It felt dark, it felt so wrong when I would revisit those lines scribbled in the night.
My mood changed as I wrote, and as the writing increased so was my mood affected. I would be glad to have finished writing, but I ultimately felt weak, scared, alone. When I wrote I felt as though the words were branded on my body, with the most hateful and dark of them upon my forehead. Each word weighed me down, but I could not stop. I was suffocating but I had to continue or else feel like I would explode. Either way, I felt like I was losing myself.
Thinking back on all that I have written, I feel sad, almost sorry for myself at that time. I feel that my writing did nothing but torture me, hold me hostage to feelings I did not want to have and force me to think in ways that scared me.
Eventually, the feelings started to dissipate. The urgent need to write started to die down. I really don't know what I can attribute this to, but it was a welcomed relief. It's almost as though I willed myself out of writing, forced myself to write only when absolutely necessary, such as writing an essay for school. This was most easily done during college, when I could really occupy myself between class and sleep.
When I think about sitting down and writing, I can't even come up with an idea of where to begin. I do miss how I used to be able to write endlessly, having new ideas all the time, but I do not miss the fact that my creativity was morbid, that it was destructive and bitter.
That was a fun tangent, wasn't it kids?
I guess I'm just doing all of this to fill a space that shouldn't have been left empty tonight. I'm sorry I don't talk more to you, and that when we do get together, I'm usually quiet. I still freeze up around you, even in the context in which we meet. It's like I'm still shy...-shrugs-
Okay. My mind has emptied itself enough for now. Hopefully Saturday will turn out more positively.
I feel more and more restles. I figure it's the fact that I'm still jobless, and that my efforts to secure a job seem paltry at best. It's probably the fact that I always feel inadequate around you, and no matter how many times you tell me "it's OK" and that I shouldn't, I still will. You say it's because I do not have enough confidence in myself, and that I need to believe in myself or else how can I believe in anything, even you.
Tonight was not a good night. I'm alone, rather than softly muttering into the phone and having to repeat myself and grinning because I know you want to talk to me despite my ways.
I'm stubborn, I'm brash. I'm foolish.
You should know that I do have motivation, that I do put forth effort. I don't believe I have "all the time in the world"...I never have. I simply don't act, and that has caused more problems than good, for myself and for us, for everyone I've ever dealt with it feels like.
But now, here I am, 7 minutes later, still in the dark, still alone, typing on a dirty laptop with a dead fruit-fly staining the corner of my screen. Has this gotten me anywhere? Does typing this out do anything for me? Maybe. All I can see is that when I actually create the words, when I can get them out of my head and on to something more...real...or at least more visible than from within my head, I don't feel as pressured. I don't feel like I'm being so easily crushed into a little ball.
But why should I feel so pressured, like I'm stuck in a compactor with no way out? Am I holding myself down to a lower standard and not allowing myself to achieve something? Am I simply resigning to the notion that there is nothing I can do in this world that makes a difference and I should just give up? I don't think I am, because I probably would have actually said that a million times by now. I doubt I'd bother writing about it, because that would only accentuate the futility of the whole thing. I think.
There's not much to this post. I'm just rambling to empty out my head a bit for other words to eventually take the place of the ones put here. It was time for me to make room I guess.
Looking back on the past few years, especially the college ones, I can find nothing that has struck me as truly fascinating work. I'd like to dabble in music in some form, despite my apparent inability to carry a tune. I want to go around taking photos for my own personal pleasure, but I feel that I do have an eye for visual media. Having no formal training, this would be a tough field for me to enter just yet. I am an English major, and yet I am afraid to write. It's a wonder I can even post anything, but that's probably because there is absolutely NO creative merit to any of them.
The idea of writing, be it scripting or poetry, story-lines or lyrics, scares me. When I used to write, in high-school, that's all I did almost every night before I went to sleep. I would be in bed, with my notebook and a book-light, squinting to see if I was still writing legibly. I could write forever. I once spent a good three hours writing in the dark like this. There was this feeling of accomplishment that came as soon as I finished a piece, but I would also later feel sick. Sick that I would write anything at all resembling what I saw on the paper, hating myself for expressing myself the way I did. It felt dark, it felt so wrong when I would revisit those lines scribbled in the night.
My mood changed as I wrote, and as the writing increased so was my mood affected. I would be glad to have finished writing, but I ultimately felt weak, scared, alone. When I wrote I felt as though the words were branded on my body, with the most hateful and dark of them upon my forehead. Each word weighed me down, but I could not stop. I was suffocating but I had to continue or else feel like I would explode. Either way, I felt like I was losing myself.
Thinking back on all that I have written, I feel sad, almost sorry for myself at that time. I feel that my writing did nothing but torture me, hold me hostage to feelings I did not want to have and force me to think in ways that scared me.
Eventually, the feelings started to dissipate. The urgent need to write started to die down. I really don't know what I can attribute this to, but it was a welcomed relief. It's almost as though I willed myself out of writing, forced myself to write only when absolutely necessary, such as writing an essay for school. This was most easily done during college, when I could really occupy myself between class and sleep.
When I think about sitting down and writing, I can't even come up with an idea of where to begin. I do miss how I used to be able to write endlessly, having new ideas all the time, but I do not miss the fact that my creativity was morbid, that it was destructive and bitter.
That was a fun tangent, wasn't it kids?
I guess I'm just doing all of this to fill a space that shouldn't have been left empty tonight. I'm sorry I don't talk more to you, and that when we do get together, I'm usually quiet. I still freeze up around you, even in the context in which we meet. It's like I'm still shy...-shrugs-
Okay. My mind has emptied itself enough for now. Hopefully Saturday will turn out more positively.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Harry Potter Strikes Again, But Misses
This was the first of the Harry Potter films I cared to see in theater. I was disappointed.
The quidditch match, good. The special effects, just fine.
The plot...missing. The acting...what acting?
This was some weird kind of transition film, that to me, said "Here's all this random shit. Remember it for the next movie when it will make sense, maybe."
I was bored out of my fucking mind during the movie. Thank GOD ALMIGHTY Dumbledore is dead, because the man playing him was shit. The wizard should not have been such a bumbling, stuttering retard. I was the only person in the crowded theater to cheer when Snape did him in, because at that point in the movie, something finally fucking happened.
And just what in the hell is the Half-Blood Prince? It's Snape? That's good to fucking know. Now, I ask you...what the hell does that mean? He gave himself a fancy title in school to console himself during periods of loneliness and teenage angst? Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. I'm the King of Fanciful Chocolate Farts. Does that title mean anything? Fuck no. Does the Half-Blood Prince mean anything? Given what I've seen, fuck no.
Here's another review. I agree on the part about the kids. Not one fucking child in the theater said a SINGLE word or reacted in any way. Some of them were asleep.
If you hate holding on to money, go see the latest installment of the MOST FORGETTABLE movie of 2009.
The quidditch match, good. The special effects, just fine.
The plot...missing. The acting...what acting?
This was some weird kind of transition film, that to me, said "Here's all this random shit. Remember it for the next movie when it will make sense, maybe."
I was bored out of my fucking mind during the movie. Thank GOD ALMIGHTY Dumbledore is dead, because the man playing him was shit. The wizard should not have been such a bumbling, stuttering retard. I was the only person in the crowded theater to cheer when Snape did him in, because at that point in the movie, something finally fucking happened.
And just what in the hell is the Half-Blood Prince? It's Snape? That's good to fucking know. Now, I ask you...what the hell does that mean? He gave himself a fancy title in school to console himself during periods of loneliness and teenage angst? Whoop-dee-fucking-doo. I'm the King of Fanciful Chocolate Farts. Does that title mean anything? Fuck no. Does the Half-Blood Prince mean anything? Given what I've seen, fuck no.
Here's another review. I agree on the part about the kids. Not one fucking child in the theater said a SINGLE word or reacted in any way. Some of them were asleep.
If you hate holding on to money, go see the latest installment of the MOST FORGETTABLE movie of 2009.
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