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| http://ashpatterson.blogspot.com/ | | |
| It's curious the situations I find myself in. I'm having an awful time maintaining relationships with everyone around me.
I've always sensed a hiatus of some sort between my inward and outward lives. It feel sort of difficult to wade through the dissonance and discord within my inward life, that I typically fail to produce a strong enough foundation to bridge the two worlds.
A glaring problem is the romantic life that I strive for. I've perpetually been seduced by the guile of the unreal; It has been the stalk of my silly doctrines. I feel that the more often something happens, the more "real" or factual and consequently less poetic it becomes. So I endeavor to keep things infrequent: the time I spend viewing captivating scenery or stay in company of most friends, how much I give or allow love and other "deep" connections, the amount of information I share about my life and experiences, the brief glimpses of this chaotic inward life, etc etc. I feel that in order to stay grounded (which may sound contradictory) is to be able to wear my rose colored glasses from time to time, otherwise it would be even more difficult for me to appreciate the generally mundane, common place things.
I live merely skimming over essential experiences so the world still holds wonder.
But the separation wouldn't be as set it if weren't for utter indifference, my faithful inamorata. I've grown content living such an inward life, and with such high influx of people over the last few years, it's been too exhausting trying to harmonize my thoughts and outward actions; there are those moments that my inward self attempts to cross the feeble bridge between my two worlds, but given such a wavering structure, with such brittle driftwood for footing, my inward self slips right through the crevices into the bleak abyss.
So, alas, I am left with two separate veils, like I'm two completely different people--the humble recluse and the disgusting sycophant.
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| Acceptance can be such a noxious concept--accepting situations as they are and alighting.
The despaired fly that finds himself in a body of water struggles, straggles, sprawls his wings about at an attempt to escape it's imminent end, and is overcome with the realization that the fight may prove to be futile, that trying is too difficult, that embracing the water, accepting death is the easier route. He relaxes and becomes reposed.
I'm terribly afraid that I've begun embracing instead of transcending. I spout justifications, complain about unfair disadvantages--whine, wallow, and whine. I've grown obscenely loyal to my excuses; they've become an indelible and progressively less invisible part of my life. I can't explain the paralysis of the difficulty of 'the fight'. I'm reaching all of these understandings, and make an ostensible effort, but to really put these realizations into praxis requires more energy than I currently have (or so it feels).
I wonder if, after making the irrevocable decision to give up, the fly realizes, as the water is entering his tiny lungs, that this is not the end he wants; and with one last display of courage he attempts, once more, to liberate himself from his unfortunate plight; but to his dismay finds that he allowed the water to weaken him, that his limbs were not are apt as before. It is too late.
I don't want it to be too late for me. | | |
| I'm worried that I wont be able to procure the charm that I once had; I have this recurrent notion that my intelligence has been somewhat abated over the last couple of years--hell, even the last couple of months. No solid logic can back this idea, and yet I succumb to the perpetual stress, and to some extent, give in to my nonsensical worries.
At the apex of my adolescence, I remember quite vividly coming to the somber realization that I couldn't, in all honestly. imagine my future. I was so inflicted with melancholia, that anything beyond the next day seemed obscure and unfathomable. I remember at times thinking that I wouldn't be alive after high school, as dismal as that inevitably sounds.
I feel that as children, and into our adolescence, we're conditioned to be prepared for adulthood, the "real world". Survival, by the means of education or by street savvy, are generally handed down from a sage mentor that I ultimately lacked. So I acquired sentiments from the various people I've encountered, mostly from the people I've read; I allowed my life to lived by proxy. And now I'm left quite alone, with nothing solid to lean on, and I'm, as Sarton complained, "failing to become what I see."
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| I'm finally realizing there can be no mending. As much as it hurts, I'm going to accept that this isn't a temporary hiatus, and let go. It was one of the most beautiful experiences I've had, and I'm glad I experienced it. | | |
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