I tend find beauty in everyone. It’s something that I’ve picked up through the years, something which came along unexpectedly as a by-product of being pissed all over by society and its friends, having lust and hate and love hit me hard in the face, something positive born from the ashes of hate and anger, which, like a phoenix, rose up within me as inconspicuously as a shadow in the night. But regardless of however such a gift came to be, I'm thankful for it. It allows me to forget about judging people based on first impressions. It allows me to seek out one key element of them, something special which was perhaps hidden behind the physical veneer, and see them for their wonderful parts. The way they walk, whether it be with elegant gracefulness or whether it be a jumble of mixed up, clumsy stumbles. They way they talk, pouring their intelligence into words, which are transformed into sound by two plates of muscle, falling out from the tips of their tongues with seasonings of accents and facial expressions and weird little hand gestures. The way they don’t just look, they see, gazing or glancing or glaring or staring or peering or observing.
The atmosphere they pull around themselves. It’s kinda like each and every individual is a star, around them a solar system, unique to them, revolves around their gravity, a solar system of emotions and thoughts, views, opinions, characteristics and relationships, loves, hates, and every shade of grey in between. Everything which makes them human orbits them, pulled inwards and held close by their gravity. However beautiful their solar system is: whether it be scattered with gaseous nebulas, sprinkled with a delightful helping of crystal-like new born planets or seasoned with asteroid belts and dark cosmic matter in between, each person’s universe is so different, each cosmos, like DNA, creates a pattern which defines the person for exactly who the hell they are. Depending on who they are, they either shine brightly or begin to fade with a dull, tarnished glow. Of course, this is all metaphorical. But I think it creates a pretty decent image of how we as people are composed, or as how I see it. It’s not all biology, because biology rarely holds any real beauty. What beauty lies within cell walls and mitochondria is far outshone by the beauty of a few kind words from a stranger or the cold mornings reminiscing with a cup of coffee, or a warm smile from a figure across the room, or that feeling of knowing that despite the fact that the world may be crashing down on you, everything else is worth a smile, and you’ve always got two middle fingers for when times are hard.
I mean, most people look at a person and instantly make a judgement. They remark on whether they’re fat, thin, tall, short, pretty, ugly; they stereotype them, depending on their race, clothes, demeanor, body language, and become irritated almost to the point of being angry when they don’t fit into any of the molds they expect them to fit into; this constant ignorance of people only results in a violent, fucking awful society full of people who do nothing but complain, hate, taunt and bitch all day, sitting on their fucking asses and protest about the fact that ‘no one is doing anything to change the world’ yet they themselves are not actively going out there to make the changes that they want to see, because they’re too arrogant to acknowledge the fact that the only way that this fucking disgusting world is gonna change is if people such as themselves lift themselves out of their armchairs, switch off the fucking tv, close their fucking mouths when it comes to judging people they don’t know and then stepping out of their front doors into the bright sun of the waiting world to chase after the results they want from this so called ‘change’. But, the blame shifts to ‘everyone else’, however broad that statement may be, and the issue is shrugged off.
I hate that. Sometimes I hate people. I forget that they’re actually people and think of them as stupid little cardboard cut outs, prancing about everywhere and just playing out political radio broadcasts through their mouth holes. But they’re still so interesting, each and every one of them. That’s why it’s so irritating, being me. Because I can’t ignore the fact that even though some people may be genuine assholes, there’s a scrap of humanity inside of them which still contains a little of the beauty that they could have had on a higher level, had they cultivated it. I can’t ignore the fact that yes, they may be rude, self centered, ignorant, bigoted twats, but they still deserve to be treated with respect because the only crime they’ve committed is the crime of being a complete and utter waste of space. If only people took a long, hard stare into their mirror reflections, and understood the side of them that others saw, understood how to fix it, create something better out of it, and actually bothered to stop judging people for their outer features and begin to fucking communicate with the rest of the human world. Unfortunately, some will never learn. Those are the people dragging everything down. Those are the people who are stopping change from happening.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Not holding much back lately..I blame it on insomina..
Ever since I can remember, I’ve had these thoughts. They’ll explode inside of my head and they’ll infect every cell in my body. Like viruses they divide uncontrollably, contaminating every cell and replicating inside of them, simply to burst out again in mini supernova explosions, scattering and polluting and destroying as they tear their way through my body. I can feel them burn. I can feel them scorch at my skin, scalding the flesh until it peels away from the layers of muscle, until my own skin runs away from me. And it is as if someone’s branding me constantly, branding these words into the flesh, from the inside, not the outside. So they’re part of me, but separate. Alien, but human. They scratch away and they are part of me, fighting to get out but longing to stay inside, to breed and populate and manipulate me.
I think that if thoughts had souls, their only aim would be to get out. Get out. Get out and cause riots. They would be the living dead girls, the ones who creep out of the woodwork at night to join the party with their smudged eyeliner eyes and gothic style, retreating at the first glimpse of the dawn’s early light, hiding away until the lunar beams light up their underworld yet again. Dangerous things, thoughts. Imagine what a thought could do, spreading like an airborne virus on a southern wind. Imagine what they could do, how they could spread and infect humanity, on and on and on. Reaching out across a world of opportunity. Because that’s the thing, you see: First it lies on the surface. Just an idea. A virgin idea lying idle in the brain. A question. A probing question. I’ll barely give it any attention. But when it begins to sink down, layer by layer, I’ll notice it. I’ll ponder it during your daydream hours.. think about it walking down the sidewalk or even just sitting in my room with my fucking coffee in hand. Adding bits of evidence and connecting it to other ideas. So, I lie awake at night. I blame it on insomnia and down some pills, but then the pills will become inadequate, and I’ll allow the thought to grow. I toss and turn and flip the pillow over to get the cold side. It will become clearer and clearer inside of my head. It will become a part of me, something I admire, something which gives meaning to some defunct part of my life. It will become me, and that’s when it gets dangerous. What if that idea was as simple as: these people are the cause of all of this. Or: could I get away with murder? Perhaps: life isn’t for me. Those are the kinds of ideas that cause a pacifist to blow up a public community centre. The kinds of ideas that dictators cling to. Those are the kinds of ideas that destroy worlds.
They make me different. I guess people -moronic people, cause you’d have to be pretty moronic to say it- would say that I had some form of disorder, a problem, a terrible, incurable disease. Because, in this world, this fucked up world, being different is a curse. We can’t stand what we don’t understand, therefore we push it away from us in order to hide from the fact that we lack the very understanding to make sense of something very real and therefore very dangerous to us. We victimize the difference, and the people who host these differences. We’re scared. We’re so afraid of what we don’t know that we make up stories to scare the shit out of our own children, passing on that fear like an infectious disease, thoughts transferring from generation to generation. This fucking disgusting world in which we live makes me sick sometimes...
Anyway, these thoughts of mine. They’re not weird. Not really bad, either. Well, depending on the perspective you look at it. Sometimes they are hurled at me out of the dark. Just questions, ya know? Things that my mind cooks up. I questioned the monster under the stairs. I questioned every single fucking fairy tale. I questioned spaceman stories. And now, I question the way our world is. Why people are the way they are. What the fuck we’re doing here. So they’re not really scary or weird or mental. They’re just, in the eyes of society, too much for a young lady to be thinking about. Because, probably, in society’s eyes, I should be training up for my future husband, to be a cook in the kitchen, a maid in the living room and an acrobat in bed. Not hiding away my vigilante streak.
Personally, it’s nothing to me. I was simply born with the universe crushed into my head. There is no disorder, no disease. There are only thoughts, millions of them, jostling for space inside of my skull. The reason I did so many things. I’m not an odd person. I don’t have dreams of living with cats in a seaside mansion in Wales, wearing thick wooly socks and dancing alone on cold winter nights to Joy Division, with nothing but the sound of the waves and Ian Curtis’s lonely melodies to keep me company; nor do I desire any Romantic period composer, wearing glasses for no apparent reason, daydreaming about dreary rainy spells in Northern France. I am a girl. Just a girl. A girl with a universe inside of her head. And I think, perhaps, that one day I will burst. This ticking hand grenade inside of me will detonate, scattering fragments of me flesh and bone everywhere, painting the walls with rich, red blood, leaving behind cold meat and dust. But for now, I’m left alone. Left with this fucking riot inside of my head.
I think that if thoughts had souls, their only aim would be to get out. Get out. Get out and cause riots. They would be the living dead girls, the ones who creep out of the woodwork at night to join the party with their smudged eyeliner eyes and gothic style, retreating at the first glimpse of the dawn’s early light, hiding away until the lunar beams light up their underworld yet again. Dangerous things, thoughts. Imagine what a thought could do, spreading like an airborne virus on a southern wind. Imagine what they could do, how they could spread and infect humanity, on and on and on. Reaching out across a world of opportunity. Because that’s the thing, you see: First it lies on the surface. Just an idea. A virgin idea lying idle in the brain. A question. A probing question. I’ll barely give it any attention. But when it begins to sink down, layer by layer, I’ll notice it. I’ll ponder it during your daydream hours.. think about it walking down the sidewalk or even just sitting in my room with my fucking coffee in hand. Adding bits of evidence and connecting it to other ideas. So, I lie awake at night. I blame it on insomnia and down some pills, but then the pills will become inadequate, and I’ll allow the thought to grow. I toss and turn and flip the pillow over to get the cold side. It will become clearer and clearer inside of my head. It will become a part of me, something I admire, something which gives meaning to some defunct part of my life. It will become me, and that’s when it gets dangerous. What if that idea was as simple as: these people are the cause of all of this. Or: could I get away with murder? Perhaps: life isn’t for me. Those are the kinds of ideas that cause a pacifist to blow up a public community centre. The kinds of ideas that dictators cling to. Those are the kinds of ideas that destroy worlds.
They make me different. I guess people -moronic people, cause you’d have to be pretty moronic to say it- would say that I had some form of disorder, a problem, a terrible, incurable disease. Because, in this world, this fucked up world, being different is a curse. We can’t stand what we don’t understand, therefore we push it away from us in order to hide from the fact that we lack the very understanding to make sense of something very real and therefore very dangerous to us. We victimize the difference, and the people who host these differences. We’re scared. We’re so afraid of what we don’t know that we make up stories to scare the shit out of our own children, passing on that fear like an infectious disease, thoughts transferring from generation to generation. This fucking disgusting world in which we live makes me sick sometimes...
Anyway, these thoughts of mine. They’re not weird. Not really bad, either. Well, depending on the perspective you look at it. Sometimes they are hurled at me out of the dark. Just questions, ya know? Things that my mind cooks up. I questioned the monster under the stairs. I questioned every single fucking fairy tale. I questioned spaceman stories. And now, I question the way our world is. Why people are the way they are. What the fuck we’re doing here. So they’re not really scary or weird or mental. They’re just, in the eyes of society, too much for a young lady to be thinking about. Because, probably, in society’s eyes, I should be training up for my future husband, to be a cook in the kitchen, a maid in the living room and an acrobat in bed. Not hiding away my vigilante streak.
Personally, it’s nothing to me. I was simply born with the universe crushed into my head. There is no disorder, no disease. There are only thoughts, millions of them, jostling for space inside of my skull. The reason I did so many things. I’m not an odd person. I don’t have dreams of living with cats in a seaside mansion in Wales, wearing thick wooly socks and dancing alone on cold winter nights to Joy Division, with nothing but the sound of the waves and Ian Curtis’s lonely melodies to keep me company; nor do I desire any Romantic period composer, wearing glasses for no apparent reason, daydreaming about dreary rainy spells in Northern France. I am a girl. Just a girl. A girl with a universe inside of her head. And I think, perhaps, that one day I will burst. This ticking hand grenade inside of me will detonate, scattering fragments of me flesh and bone everywhere, painting the walls with rich, red blood, leaving behind cold meat and dust. But for now, I’m left alone. Left with this fucking riot inside of my head.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Two steps forward, Twenty steps back....
It seems that when you want someone, they don’t want you. And when someone wants you, you don’t want them. And when you both want one another, either neither of you can see what’s right in front of your eyes, because you’re too fucking blind with infatuation or doubt or distracted by a haze of tracing paper events; or something, someone, whatever, comes along to fuck everything up, to rain on your fucking parade. Whence came the fucking monsoon, destroying my own personal Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, in a sort of ironic end of the world celebration, leaving everything as soppy, mucilaginous sludge of ash, ash which, in the same way as that day's snowfall, had fallen gracefully from the clouds, to reside as a thick, treacle-esque plague on the streets, slushy and disgusting. Ash that consisted of my hopes, ideas, dreams, those brief clips of day dreams hidden on film reels inside of my head as teaser trailers of potential scenarios, momentary lapses in conscious thought and control which resulted in my secret dreams leaking out onto the screens within my mind. The ash coated me. It stuck to my skin and it clung to my organs, it choked up my throat with black, sticky tendrils and it squeezed its slime trails around my stomach, pushing the acid further and further up my trachea.
I came out of love and was once again struck down by that feeling: numbness. Sinking, sodden, cold; that wet mid-November morning when it’s cold enough for frost or ice, but the weather is damp and icky and the wetness soaks up your jean legs, creeping towards you through the absorbent fabric and no one seems to lend a smile, a wave, a passing glance, the entire world, it seems, is too far up it’s own ass to care, and you’re hit with the realization, whilst sitting an extremely difficult exam in your wet attire that you are, in fact, lonely.
It wasn’t really just the heartbreak. That was the beginning, or maybe the trigger. It was everything which came crashing down because of that vital block which had been pulled out of place, that relationship which had previously cemented practically my world together. It’s not the goodbye that hurts, but the flashbacks which follow. Some people say that one relationship can ruin the rest of their lives, or that they never get over their first true loves, that they can never find anyone better and that tears them apart. It is true, I mean, you never actually do get over your first love: you can try to, I doubt you’ll get very far, chances are you can probably recall even the minute details; the way they walked, their smell, the way their eyelashes fluttered just before their eyelids opened in the morning, the way they kissed, the small gaps between kisses where mere breaths were cast across your lips, even, perhaps, the days spent simply being. And whilst you don’t forget, and whilst heartbreak does hurt (don’t believe those who say that it won’t: they are simply inexperienced, or incredibly good liars) your world is not compromised entirely of that person and their effect on you.
Remember that you are a human being, of course. And everything else which crashes down is the vital part. When self doubt, self loathing and anger seep into you, something odd occurs. Water pools into the cracks in rocks, sitting there until the temperature plummets, when it freezes hard into ice; the ice expands as it freezes, pushing both sides of the crack apart; and so it continues, thawing, freezing, thawing, freezing, until pieces of the rock fall away. That’s a metaphor. What really happens is a longer, more painful process. You see yourself disintegrating every time you stare into that mirror, every time you pause to think or allow yourself a moment in a quiet room. It becomes dangerous to live with your own thoughts and soon enough you’re contemplating ways in which you could kill what you’ve become without physically scarring the body within which you spend your days. And slowly, that eagerness, that lust for life, begins to fade. I’m not saying that I was suicidal... I wasn’t...I simply no longer saw the point of my existence, only that I had to continue.
I could glance in the mirror and smile at what I saw. I guess I was lucky in that respect: being relatively happy about the exterior. It was almost everything I wanted it to be, and it could be manipulated at any given moment. Many girls my age would have been jealous at my apparent happiness with my appearance. I didn’t stick my fingers down my throat to remain thin, I didn’t cake on the make up, I didn’t even spend time in tanning salons. But when it came to taking a long, hard look, I couldn’t face it. My eyes would deviate away from the mirror, I’d gaze down into the sink bowl or stare at the wall in front of me. I hadn’t felt self hate like that before and it was eating me whole; I couldn’t define precisely what it was I hated, but I think it was something in between being angry and still-...
Nevermind.
It never really matters. Because I try to never really think about that second phrase after being angry, I just cover up this weird inverted anger and such with a lovely big, wide, white fake smile. I pretend, lie, fake, and cover up. In my mind, I was playing the part of who I was before this all went wrong. And what worked inside my head usually worked when played out in real life, too. I could hide from myself even inside reality. That’s a pretty dangerous concept if you think about it.
My view of the world was flawed in many ways. It was poisoned by my own experiences, twisted slightly through the lens of my values and moral compass, shaded with deeper tones by my own patchy, incomplete knowledge. Most of all, my perception was altered by the way I judged the human beings surrounding me. I had thought that the world was just full of miserable people: always pining for something even if they have everything, always crying or moaning about their problems yet not actively getting the fuck off of their own asses to do something about it. I had thought that almost every single creature on the planet was unhappy. That happiness was a temporary state and unhappiness had a certain pungent permanence to it. Unhappiness was the blood on the bed sheets, rich, red, staining. Happiness? Simply a passing feeling. A certain rush, a burst of adrenaline. A short lived smile. I mean that was my understanding, that is until I'm proven wrong anyway. And it worked. It sounded fucking legit to me, it made sense, it matched up to the people who surrounded me. It matched up to me.
I came out of love and was once again struck down by that feeling: numbness. Sinking, sodden, cold; that wet mid-November morning when it’s cold enough for frost or ice, but the weather is damp and icky and the wetness soaks up your jean legs, creeping towards you through the absorbent fabric and no one seems to lend a smile, a wave, a passing glance, the entire world, it seems, is too far up it’s own ass to care, and you’re hit with the realization, whilst sitting an extremely difficult exam in your wet attire that you are, in fact, lonely.
It wasn’t really just the heartbreak. That was the beginning, or maybe the trigger. It was everything which came crashing down because of that vital block which had been pulled out of place, that relationship which had previously cemented practically my world together. It’s not the goodbye that hurts, but the flashbacks which follow. Some people say that one relationship can ruin the rest of their lives, or that they never get over their first true loves, that they can never find anyone better and that tears them apart. It is true, I mean, you never actually do get over your first love: you can try to, I doubt you’ll get very far, chances are you can probably recall even the minute details; the way they walked, their smell, the way their eyelashes fluttered just before their eyelids opened in the morning, the way they kissed, the small gaps between kisses where mere breaths were cast across your lips, even, perhaps, the days spent simply being. And whilst you don’t forget, and whilst heartbreak does hurt (don’t believe those who say that it won’t: they are simply inexperienced, or incredibly good liars) your world is not compromised entirely of that person and their effect on you.
Remember that you are a human being, of course. And everything else which crashes down is the vital part. When self doubt, self loathing and anger seep into you, something odd occurs. Water pools into the cracks in rocks, sitting there until the temperature plummets, when it freezes hard into ice; the ice expands as it freezes, pushing both sides of the crack apart; and so it continues, thawing, freezing, thawing, freezing, until pieces of the rock fall away. That’s a metaphor. What really happens is a longer, more painful process. You see yourself disintegrating every time you stare into that mirror, every time you pause to think or allow yourself a moment in a quiet room. It becomes dangerous to live with your own thoughts and soon enough you’re contemplating ways in which you could kill what you’ve become without physically scarring the body within which you spend your days. And slowly, that eagerness, that lust for life, begins to fade. I’m not saying that I was suicidal... I wasn’t...I simply no longer saw the point of my existence, only that I had to continue.
I could glance in the mirror and smile at what I saw. I guess I was lucky in that respect: being relatively happy about the exterior. It was almost everything I wanted it to be, and it could be manipulated at any given moment. Many girls my age would have been jealous at my apparent happiness with my appearance. I didn’t stick my fingers down my throat to remain thin, I didn’t cake on the make up, I didn’t even spend time in tanning salons. But when it came to taking a long, hard look, I couldn’t face it. My eyes would deviate away from the mirror, I’d gaze down into the sink bowl or stare at the wall in front of me. I hadn’t felt self hate like that before and it was eating me whole; I couldn’t define precisely what it was I hated, but I think it was something in between being angry and still-...
Nevermind.
It never really matters. Because I try to never really think about that second phrase after being angry, I just cover up this weird inverted anger and such with a lovely big, wide, white fake smile. I pretend, lie, fake, and cover up. In my mind, I was playing the part of who I was before this all went wrong. And what worked inside my head usually worked when played out in real life, too. I could hide from myself even inside reality. That’s a pretty dangerous concept if you think about it.
My view of the world was flawed in many ways. It was poisoned by my own experiences, twisted slightly through the lens of my values and moral compass, shaded with deeper tones by my own patchy, incomplete knowledge. Most of all, my perception was altered by the way I judged the human beings surrounding me. I had thought that the world was just full of miserable people: always pining for something even if they have everything, always crying or moaning about their problems yet not actively getting the fuck off of their own asses to do something about it. I had thought that almost every single creature on the planet was unhappy. That happiness was a temporary state and unhappiness had a certain pungent permanence to it. Unhappiness was the blood on the bed sheets, rich, red, staining. Happiness? Simply a passing feeling. A certain rush, a burst of adrenaline. A short lived smile. I mean that was my understanding, that is until I'm proven wrong anyway. And it worked. It sounded fucking legit to me, it made sense, it matched up to the people who surrounded me. It matched up to me.
Monday, March 14, 2011
I Hate Chick Flicks...
My Grandmother has been staying at my place for about a week or two now because she's sick and I'm close to the hospital. Everyday has been nonstop news, game shows, and chick flicks... I HATE chick flicks (with the exception of a few) so with my family's constant need to bring up my lack of a relationship, and watching nonstop chick flicks, let's just say I've got a bunch of pent up thoughts/opinions.
In the movies, the boy always gets the girl. And well, the girl... she always gets the boy. No matter what happens, they always end up together, sharing this magnificent love which spans across worlds and entire galaxies in between. Even in war zones and amongst imminent danger, that bond between the two protagonists survives and grows ever stronger as they both grow weaker. Our young heroes and heroines never succumb to the dirty diversions of the scum-ridden, tarnished world in which we all exist; they are instead surrounded in this fluffy pink bubble of love, immune to everything, it seems. And they live like that forever. No divorce, no mortgage repayments, no tax returns, no repossessions, no stress. Just an idyllic fantasy world spanning on into forever, the ideal environment for their love to continue to flourish and grow
...movies are fiction, dear friends...sorry to disappoint you, but yet again I must burst your bubble and tell you it's utter bullshit. Sometimes, the boy doesn’t get the girl, and the girl never gets the boy. Sometimes, people really do fall out of love. You can’t catch a bullet with your bare hands and you can’t put a guarantee on love. It’s a risky investment from the beginning and if it’s one that you’re willing to take, then be aware that at the very moment it consumes you, it controls you. It kills just as good as any bullet, and better. You come into this world with promises of fairy tales: of knights in shining armor and gentlemen who kiss the hands of women before asking them to dance; boys who treat girls as if they are princesses, regardless of social class, because every girl is special; balls with of ravishing, elegant women dressed in floor length, sweeping dresses in rich jewel colors, encrusted with diamonds and emeralds and rubies and sapphires, looking for potential suitors; and the very notion that this beautiful, beautiful thing called love, so enchanting to so many, is forever. What you receive instead, once your childhood is dead, is quite the opposite: boys with egos bigger than the sizes of their dicks, devoid of chivalry and gentility, who treat women as sexual objects, there to be used and defiled and abused; girls and boys who break the hearts of one another as they break the crockery, ignorant to emotion or just too fucked up to care; wild, slut-driven parties populated by girls wearing next to nothing in the dirtiest, most expensive labels and boys there simply to get their dicks ridden upon, and all of them will wake up the next morning plastered to the walls and floors with stupendous headaches and nauseous stomachs, surrounded in pools of their own vomit, crusty with semen and food stains; and you discover, in your own way, that love does not last forever, at least, not in this world, this hellish, disgusting, revolting world in which we live.
But it’s awful, if that’s all there is to it. Just a full stop after a dismal, bleak statement about our world. Making that sombre remark a fact is disheartening. It’s not like I believe any different: for some, love does not last forever. However, I do hope that whilst you’re sitting there, reading this, you don’t actually believe every word I say as your own. That would be terribly unimaginative of you if you did. It would be lovely to believe that somewhere in this world, someone thinks differently. That somewhere, someone still dreams. That’s the world’s problem, you see: the lack of dreamers. Everyone’s so busy being depressed to take the time to just sit and daydream and make believe. I believe, for one, that whilst some love isn’t forever, true, real love is. Whilst people break up, fight, fall out of love in some way, either by their own doing or by someone else’s doing; some remain deeply in love. Old couples sitting close together on park benches staring dreamily together at the same spot in the distance aren’t there because they can’t be bothered getting a divorce. That’s not my only evidence, but, ya know, it’s a pretty damn good example. Hard evidence that love can last for decades in life, and forever in whatever-the-hell-comes-next, if you want it to.
And so, in conclusion: some love lasts forever. That’s all there is to it.
In the movies, boys fight for their girls, and girls fight for their boys. They don’t give up: they endlessly struggle against the world in order for them to reach this person, in order to win them over or prove themselves to them. People say that nothing in the movies is real, ever. That we never get those movie star moments, that nothing ever goes as planned. I think those people haven’t ever experienced anything like that, because they’re too sheltered, or because they don’t believe that life can treat a person that well. It happens. People fight for one another. Even against themselves and their own fears.
In the movies, the boy always gets the girl. And well, the girl... she always gets the boy. No matter what happens, they always end up together, sharing this magnificent love which spans across worlds and entire galaxies in between. Even in war zones and amongst imminent danger, that bond between the two protagonists survives and grows ever stronger as they both grow weaker. Our young heroes and heroines never succumb to the dirty diversions of the scum-ridden, tarnished world in which we all exist; they are instead surrounded in this fluffy pink bubble of love, immune to everything, it seems. And they live like that forever. No divorce, no mortgage repayments, no tax returns, no repossessions, no stress. Just an idyllic fantasy world spanning on into forever, the ideal environment for their love to continue to flourish and grow
...movies are fiction, dear friends...sorry to disappoint you, but yet again I must burst your bubble and tell you it's utter bullshit. Sometimes, the boy doesn’t get the girl, and the girl never gets the boy. Sometimes, people really do fall out of love. You can’t catch a bullet with your bare hands and you can’t put a guarantee on love. It’s a risky investment from the beginning and if it’s one that you’re willing to take, then be aware that at the very moment it consumes you, it controls you. It kills just as good as any bullet, and better. You come into this world with promises of fairy tales: of knights in shining armor and gentlemen who kiss the hands of women before asking them to dance; boys who treat girls as if they are princesses, regardless of social class, because every girl is special; balls with of ravishing, elegant women dressed in floor length, sweeping dresses in rich jewel colors, encrusted with diamonds and emeralds and rubies and sapphires, looking for potential suitors; and the very notion that this beautiful, beautiful thing called love, so enchanting to so many, is forever. What you receive instead, once your childhood is dead, is quite the opposite: boys with egos bigger than the sizes of their dicks, devoid of chivalry and gentility, who treat women as sexual objects, there to be used and defiled and abused; girls and boys who break the hearts of one another as they break the crockery, ignorant to emotion or just too fucked up to care; wild, slut-driven parties populated by girls wearing next to nothing in the dirtiest, most expensive labels and boys there simply to get their dicks ridden upon, and all of them will wake up the next morning plastered to the walls and floors with stupendous headaches and nauseous stomachs, surrounded in pools of their own vomit, crusty with semen and food stains; and you discover, in your own way, that love does not last forever, at least, not in this world, this hellish, disgusting, revolting world in which we live.
But it’s awful, if that’s all there is to it. Just a full stop after a dismal, bleak statement about our world. Making that sombre remark a fact is disheartening. It’s not like I believe any different: for some, love does not last forever. However, I do hope that whilst you’re sitting there, reading this, you don’t actually believe every word I say as your own. That would be terribly unimaginative of you if you did. It would be lovely to believe that somewhere in this world, someone thinks differently. That somewhere, someone still dreams. That’s the world’s problem, you see: the lack of dreamers. Everyone’s so busy being depressed to take the time to just sit and daydream and make believe. I believe, for one, that whilst some love isn’t forever, true, real love is. Whilst people break up, fight, fall out of love in some way, either by their own doing or by someone else’s doing; some remain deeply in love. Old couples sitting close together on park benches staring dreamily together at the same spot in the distance aren’t there because they can’t be bothered getting a divorce. That’s not my only evidence, but, ya know, it’s a pretty damn good example. Hard evidence that love can last for decades in life, and forever in whatever-the-hell-comes-next, if you want it to.
And so, in conclusion: some love lasts forever. That’s all there is to it.
In the movies, boys fight for their girls, and girls fight for their boys. They don’t give up: they endlessly struggle against the world in order for them to reach this person, in order to win them over or prove themselves to them. People say that nothing in the movies is real, ever. That we never get those movie star moments, that nothing ever goes as planned. I think those people haven’t ever experienced anything like that, because they’re too sheltered, or because they don’t believe that life can treat a person that well. It happens. People fight for one another. Even against themselves and their own fears.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Ranting or Venting? Either way it's out
It's remarkable how long anger can hibernate within a person’s body. It’s funny, because people tend to say that time heals all wounds, but everyone knows that while that statement isn’t complete bullshit, it isn’t necessarily true for all cases. With every human emotion comes a trillion different segments or variations, splintering off into shards with their own separate definitions and separate cures. Anger, like love, is so implausibly personal that even talented, weathered psychologists cannot really aid a person’s mitigation from it, instead they have to listen, put up with the outbursts and fits and night terrors stemmed from built up rage with nowhere to go; or they medicate them until all they’re left with are living zombies, beings so disconnected from their own minds that they are like escaped balloons floating silently and helplessly away into the lower troposphere above a bustling, heated city... just blank pieces of paper that the pen could never fully touch down upon.
It’s believed that over a third of all teenagers in the U.S alone have been involved in physical fights, some [like me] for entertainment or real reason, but most are just to actually display that pent up rage. It’s like a tag attached to the package of being a teenager, this impossible rage at everything, that comes from the sudden realization of a) the fact that you have to deal with this world alone, and b) that almost everyone in it, save a few people, are assholes. And yet the way that we’re taught to deal with this anger, from birth, is to swallow pretty little white pills or to pretend that it was all a nightmare. We’re read fairytales of princesses and princes in castles who experience such horrific traumas as losing a fucking glass slipper, who all end up living ‘happily ever after’ because a fairy godmother waved her magic stick and made everything better. It’s sweet to hear when you’re three years old, but when the message is continued through life that your own prince charming will come and you will live happily ever after, and you realize that it's utter bullshit; you're mother becomes your ‘fairy godmother’ inhabiting you with the lovely snow white pills that will make magic with chemicals in your endocrine system and it’ll all be alright again, because every boiling, searing hot feeling you feel burning up inside of your circulatory system will be numbed with the sweetness of suppressants.
As a person, I know a lot about anger. Sometimes I can feel it become me, define me -almost- as it spreads like an itching, burning rash through my insides and contaminates every cell, filling me with that scorching lust for the expression of itself. Maybe I’ve always been angry. I just grew up understanding the meaning of the word too well, but never really let it fill me at any given chance. Through my teenage years, everything hit me with the speed of a bullet and the force of a fucking solar system. I had a universe crammed inside of my head, but I wouldn't show it. I had the pressure gauge turned up to the extreme. Little bits of everything whirled around and around like dust and crap inside the sac of a vacuum cleaner, and sooner or later I wouldn't be able to separate out my anger at particular events and my anger at other events, it would just combine in a tremendous cluster, a calcified ball of blood and emotions; it'll buzz violently and spark a blinding electric blue, before the charge builds up further, and soon it has its own electrical field, orbiting it as satellites orbit a planet, barbed wire shaped and bright, bright, bright fucking blue. Sometimes it just flares up, touches the surface, which provokes an outburst of rage from inside me, aiming ammunition at the outside world. But most times it would soften, die down a little and lay low. It's just waiting for the day to explode.
It’s believed that over a third of all teenagers in the U.S alone have been involved in physical fights, some [like me] for entertainment or real reason, but most are just to actually display that pent up rage. It’s like a tag attached to the package of being a teenager, this impossible rage at everything, that comes from the sudden realization of a) the fact that you have to deal with this world alone, and b) that almost everyone in it, save a few people, are assholes. And yet the way that we’re taught to deal with this anger, from birth, is to swallow pretty little white pills or to pretend that it was all a nightmare. We’re read fairytales of princesses and princes in castles who experience such horrific traumas as losing a fucking glass slipper, who all end up living ‘happily ever after’ because a fairy godmother waved her magic stick and made everything better. It’s sweet to hear when you’re three years old, but when the message is continued through life that your own prince charming will come and you will live happily ever after, and you realize that it's utter bullshit; you're mother becomes your ‘fairy godmother’ inhabiting you with the lovely snow white pills that will make magic with chemicals in your endocrine system and it’ll all be alright again, because every boiling, searing hot feeling you feel burning up inside of your circulatory system will be numbed with the sweetness of suppressants.
As a person, I know a lot about anger. Sometimes I can feel it become me, define me -almost- as it spreads like an itching, burning rash through my insides and contaminates every cell, filling me with that scorching lust for the expression of itself. Maybe I’ve always been angry. I just grew up understanding the meaning of the word too well, but never really let it fill me at any given chance. Through my teenage years, everything hit me with the speed of a bullet and the force of a fucking solar system. I had a universe crammed inside of my head, but I wouldn't show it. I had the pressure gauge turned up to the extreme. Little bits of everything whirled around and around like dust and crap inside the sac of a vacuum cleaner, and sooner or later I wouldn't be able to separate out my anger at particular events and my anger at other events, it would just combine in a tremendous cluster, a calcified ball of blood and emotions; it'll buzz violently and spark a blinding electric blue, before the charge builds up further, and soon it has its own electrical field, orbiting it as satellites orbit a planet, barbed wire shaped and bright, bright, bright fucking blue. Sometimes it just flares up, touches the surface, which provokes an outburst of rage from inside me, aiming ammunition at the outside world. But most times it would soften, die down a little and lay low. It's just waiting for the day to explode.
Rough Nights
Ever since I can remember I've had problems with sleeping. I very rarely ever get a full night sleep, I spend most of the night just laying in bed waiting for sleep to come and when it does it is only for a few hours or I have massive nightmares. This doesn't just affect me, but also my friends and family. Numerous times I've caused a panic to people by texting or calling in my sleep, but there have been times that I've had a good dream and texted my friends "come back to bed huny" and "I'm cold" and they play along and come back and "snuggle" with me just to keep my good dream going. It has gotten to the point that I dread falling asleep because of the nightmares I've been having, because sometimes I can't wake up from them. I've watched people I love be brutally murdered, my pets be skinned alive, even things happening to myself..and all I can do is just watch it happen. If anyone has any advice for me..please tell me..because for now all I can do is remember to breathe
Saturday, March 12, 2011
My First Attempt at a Blog
So after reading a friend's blog I was convinced that I should take a stab at doing my own. For quite some time I was seriously against blogs after my sister and her friends created an entire "We hate Brittany" site and a blog, but whatever I believe it is down now. So anyways... Hello, I'm Brittany. I have 2 stepsisters and today was their birthday party. Both of my sisters hate me, they have their friends hating me, I had a fall out with my father before, and I'm the shy stepchild so the rest of their side of the family ignores me...so you can just imagine what a blast I had there. I used to be really close with my youngest sister, but she began to hate me because I listen to mainly rock music and usually wore dark colored shirts. Now maybe 3 or 4 years later, she is goth [head to toe black with heavy eye makeup] and listens to screamo and rock music only, and STILL hates me for the same reason...this pisses me off... I don't recall ever doing anything to my sisters but yet they hate me and don't even consider me their sister. Just once I wish that I could be accepted by my family for who I am...note to self: remember to breathe
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