Brosandi
Hendumst í hringi
Höldumst í hendur
Allur heimurinn óskýr
nema þú stendur
Rennblautur
Allur rennvotur
Engin gúmmístígvél
Hlaupandi í okkur ?
Vill springa út úr skel
Vindur í
og útilykt ? af hárinu þínu
Ég lamdi eins fast og ég get
með nefinu mínu
Hoppa í poll
Í engum stígvélum
Allur rennvotur (rennblautur)
Í engum stígvélum
Og ég fæ blóðnasir
En ég stend alltaf upp
Og ég fæ blóðnasir
En ég stend alltaf upp
Hoppípolla - Sigur Rós
Showing posts with label blue. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blue. Show all posts
Friday, October 24, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
it never rains etc
Dear God, but I am unhappy. I am stuck (oh, stuck!) in a job that I hate - that I hate mainly because I am expected to do my best for about as much money as the maids in my mother's school make; without any of the benefits e.g. vacations and weekends and the time for music classes spanish classes family friends sleep and the opportunity to take a day off and not be missed.
I am the only person in the office, most of the time. I am secretary and resident computer expert and office gopher and general draftsperson. I am expected to take initiative and learn as much as I possibly can in the time I am here. I am expected to be proactive and aggressive and focussed and determined and ONE-HUNDRED-PERCENT-CAREER-ORIENTED.
And all for the princely sum of INR 6000 a month.
Oh, I don't know. Perhaps money isn't the important thing as long as you're learning something. Then again, what am I learning, exactly? That my boss will cheerfully ask me to spend over a day uploading files to a client's server and then ask me to come in on the weekend because I didn't get any work done that day. It doesn't matter what the damage is to your sleep schedule or your health or your life, as long as the work gets done.
I feel as though I'm back at college, travelling two hours by bus each morning with my stomach in a knot with the fear of proving myself inadequate to doing a good job. And for what?
People tell me to quit; let it go; leave now; T, do the things you're really good at.
(like writing, for example? but you see, the writing let me go four months ago, and i was unwilling to let a profession, however unsuited i was to carry it out, go - for the sake of a talent that seemed to have disappeared...)
If I could quit, I would. but I am afraid of repercussions; of the small small world we live in; of what happens to people with bad reputations.
And so I go in to work each day with the hope that things will get better, and that I will learn something new about the world and my work and my self.
But all I learn is that I am lonely, and unhappy, and so very tired of being here.
I am the only person in the office, most of the time. I am secretary and resident computer expert and office gopher and general draftsperson. I am expected to take initiative and learn as much as I possibly can in the time I am here. I am expected to be proactive and aggressive and focussed and determined and ONE-HUNDRED-PERCENT-CAREER-ORIENTED.
And all for the princely sum of INR 6000 a month.
Oh, I don't know. Perhaps money isn't the important thing as long as you're learning something. Then again, what am I learning, exactly? That my boss will cheerfully ask me to spend over a day uploading files to a client's server and then ask me to come in on the weekend because I didn't get any work done that day. It doesn't matter what the damage is to your sleep schedule or your health or your life, as long as the work gets done.
I feel as though I'm back at college, travelling two hours by bus each morning with my stomach in a knot with the fear of proving myself inadequate to doing a good job. And for what?
People tell me to quit; let it go; leave now; T, do the things you're really good at.
(like writing, for example? but you see, the writing let me go four months ago, and i was unwilling to let a profession, however unsuited i was to carry it out, go - for the sake of a talent that seemed to have disappeared...)
If I could quit, I would. but I am afraid of repercussions; of the small small world we live in; of what happens to people with bad reputations.
And so I go in to work each day with the hope that things will get better, and that I will learn something new about the world and my work and my self.
But all I learn is that I am lonely, and unhappy, and so very tired of being here.
Monday, May 5, 2008
right through the heart
You might make a joke on that - something about "rude" and "rued", you know.
*sigh*
poor bread-and-butterfly.
*sigh*
poor bread-and-butterfly.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
anti-interlude
I haven't lost my temper for more than three seconds in four years; and now, suddenly, I'm boiling poison mad and I don't know why.
Everything bothers me. It bothers me that I'm mad. It bothers me that I have no reason to be mad. It bothers me that eleven people have not replied to letters I wrote them. It bothers me that I don't have a job. It bothers me that my phone is a piece of junk. It bothers me that every second person I meet is an idiot. It bothers me to be near people who fawn and grovel and lie with their faces. It bothers me that most of the people I call friend are not worthy of the epithet. It bothers me that I give so much and get nothing in return. It bothers me to see myself treated with a double standard. It bothers me that I might have double standards of my own. It bothers me that nothing seems worth it. It bothers me that I think of the same person when I wake up every day. It bothers me that people have borrowed my books and haven't returned them. It bothers me that I have books at home that I haven't returned, for whatever reason. It bothers me that I haven't read half the books in the house. It bothers me that we don't have enough money. It bothers me that I think money is important. It bothers me that it probably is. It bothers me not to have a grand dream. It bothers me that I hate the city I grew up in more with every day I spend in it. It bothers me that people disgust me. It bothers me that everyone is busy. It bothers me to imagine that nobody knows what they're doing. The constant rape of the planet bothers me. Pollution, garbage, self-righteous assholes who don't give a shit - they all make me want to break things and burn things and destroy things. It bothers me that I can't break or burn or destroy things because...that would be wanton and selfish and wrong.
It bothers me to be alive...
...in this space and time with all of you.
Everything bothers me. It bothers me that I'm mad. It bothers me that I have no reason to be mad. It bothers me that eleven people have not replied to letters I wrote them. It bothers me that I don't have a job. It bothers me that my phone is a piece of junk. It bothers me that every second person I meet is an idiot. It bothers me to be near people who fawn and grovel and lie with their faces. It bothers me that most of the people I call friend are not worthy of the epithet. It bothers me that I give so much and get nothing in return. It bothers me to see myself treated with a double standard. It bothers me that I might have double standards of my own. It bothers me that nothing seems worth it. It bothers me that I think of the same person when I wake up every day. It bothers me that people have borrowed my books and haven't returned them. It bothers me that I have books at home that I haven't returned, for whatever reason. It bothers me that I haven't read half the books in the house. It bothers me that we don't have enough money. It bothers me that I think money is important. It bothers me that it probably is. It bothers me not to have a grand dream. It bothers me that I hate the city I grew up in more with every day I spend in it. It bothers me that people disgust me. It bothers me that everyone is busy. It bothers me to imagine that nobody knows what they're doing. The constant rape of the planet bothers me. Pollution, garbage, self-righteous assholes who don't give a shit - they all make me want to break things and burn things and destroy things. It bothers me that I can't break or burn or destroy things because...that would be wanton and selfish and wrong.
It bothers me to be alive...
...in this space and time with all of you.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
interlude #230
I love
that the stray dogs i befriend on the road cry when i leave them and walk on.
that i can walk up to a crowd of old men laughing in a park and join them.
that i will not hesitate to throw away a stranger's cardboard cartons or fetch a stranger's ball or point out that a stranger's headlights are turned on, merely because it doesn't cost me anything to do any of those things.
that i will write letters to people i love without their ever asking me to. and that i will write them on real paper and with real handwriting and little doodles in the margin :) and post them on my morning walk.
that i can love people with such abandon. even when abandoned.
that i miss the words when they're gone; and that i always love them when they're here.
that it takes so little to calm me down.
that i can find beauty and wonder in little things.
that i have excellent spatial skills.
that, when i can sing without thinking, my singing can bring me closer to god.
that i can talk about god and not cringe.
that a morning walk can open my mind right along with my nasal passages.
him. you. yes, you. don't pretend you don't know.
:)
that the stray dogs i befriend on the road cry when i leave them and walk on.
that i can walk up to a crowd of old men laughing in a park and join them.
that i will not hesitate to throw away a stranger's cardboard cartons or fetch a stranger's ball or point out that a stranger's headlights are turned on, merely because it doesn't cost me anything to do any of those things.
that i will write letters to people i love without their ever asking me to. and that i will write them on real paper and with real handwriting and little doodles in the margin :) and post them on my morning walk.
that i can love people with such abandon. even when abandoned.
that i miss the words when they're gone; and that i always love them when they're here.
that it takes so little to calm me down.
that i can find beauty and wonder in little things.
that i have excellent spatial skills.
that, when i can sing without thinking, my singing can bring me closer to god.
that i can talk about god and not cringe.
that a morning walk can open my mind right along with my nasal passages.
him. you. yes, you. don't pretend you don't know.
:)
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
terribly depressing for a bit, what?
Well, certain people can do that to you.
Especially when you want to tell them every random thing that happened to you but they refuse to be around.
sigh.
I will try turning over new leaves on the birthday.
Especially when you want to tell them every random thing that happened to you but they refuse to be around.
sigh.
I will try turning over new leaves on the birthday.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
more answers
signs that read "Old No. -". strangers on the bus who correct my kannada handwriting. spanish classes. finding tristram shandy for rs. 50 at a used bookshop i haven't visited in two years. parks. directions. the things i do on the road that make people stare. the things that make me smile. the things that make me cry. times that i lose my temper. times that i don't. every book i read.every poem i like. every poem i hate. every poem i almost write. every fight i'm almost in. sunsets. sunrises. walks along the road. houses with gardens. foreign films with subtitles.
forty-five seconds out of every sixty.
ask me how i am to let it go?
forty-five seconds out of every sixty.
ask me how i am to let it go?
Friday, February 29, 2008
the answer,
the following.
vegetarian adventurers. naked fat men. alice. carroll. popcorn. airports. hotels. travel. adventures. bookshops. buses. transport. time zones. toronto. vancouver. any other place in canada. chicago. edinburgh. any other place in the u.k. chennai. letters. conversations. company. koshy's. the children's section. beatrix potter. tom kitten. presents. joni mitchell's a case of you. 200 other songs. walks. dogs. rabbit. cat. mathematics. books. english. the word "poetry". the word "egad". the word "agog". squirrels. first names. last names. people. visitors. borrowing. lending. waiting. reading. writing. not writing. babies. blogs. tennis. television.
happy. sad. love.
associations.
sometimes you don't know how much until someone tears you a hole and it all falls out.
vegetarian adventurers. naked fat men. alice. carroll. popcorn. airports. hotels. travel. adventures. bookshops. buses. transport. time zones. toronto. vancouver. any other place in canada. chicago. edinburgh. any other place in the u.k. chennai. letters. conversations. company. koshy's. the children's section. beatrix potter. tom kitten. presents. joni mitchell's a case of you. 200 other songs. walks. dogs. rabbit. cat. mathematics. books. english. the word "poetry". the word "egad". the word "agog". squirrels. first names. last names. people. visitors. borrowing. lending. waiting. reading. writing. not writing. babies. blogs. tennis. television.
happy. sad. love.
associations.
sometimes you don't know how much until someone tears you a hole and it all falls out.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
small revelations
Ever since I can remember (I would say the eighth grade, actually. It was a sad sap of a piece called Why... or some such stuff. It did not even rhyme.) I have used sad little poems and passages to remove myself from whatever awful things I was feeling at the time. Most of these little awful feelings bordered on one big awful feeling from one direction or the other, so it wasn't very surprising, perhaps, that all my writing tended to be of the "nobody loves me i'm so misunderstood where are *my* true friends" variety.
When I first started the blog, the trend continued for a while until I realized there were people out here in blogland who thought I was funny, or talented, or interesting, or some other mild compliment...and suddenly the world wasn't such a dreary place after all. For a while, happy writing didn't really seem impossible to do.
Lately, though, I haven't been very well. I suppose the regular posts about entertainment on public transport and the joys of getting lost made me forget this, but I realized it again this morning - sometimes there are horrible things that happen to you that you can't really laugh off.
I'm not talking, of course, about horrendous evenings spent in the midst of chain-smoking strangers (did you know that water could smell like smoke?) or about the auto driver who insisted on following me through three signals to try and make me acknowledge his vile insults, or about the fiasco at my University that led to my being failed in my final thesis project. No, these are stories I would have wanted to elaborate on and laugh about and try to make everyone reading this (well, the three or four readers I have, anyway) laugh about as well. I do write a good funny story. :)
But these are the stories I've tried to remember and write down for the last month and a half, but which wouldn't come out no matter how hard I tried. I thought it was because I'd lost my words, or the very mediocre talent I feel I possess... but that wasn't it, was it?
No. The only reason I haven't been able to write about all the little things that made me smile is that I have not allowed myself to write about the one big thing that made me cry.
In time I will. And then I will be okay.
When I first started the blog, the trend continued for a while until I realized there were people out here in blogland who thought I was funny, or talented, or interesting, or some other mild compliment...and suddenly the world wasn't such a dreary place after all. For a while, happy writing didn't really seem impossible to do.
Lately, though, I haven't been very well. I suppose the regular posts about entertainment on public transport and the joys of getting lost made me forget this, but I realized it again this morning - sometimes there are horrible things that happen to you that you can't really laugh off.
I'm not talking, of course, about horrendous evenings spent in the midst of chain-smoking strangers (did you know that water could smell like smoke?) or about the auto driver who insisted on following me through three signals to try and make me acknowledge his vile insults, or about the fiasco at my University that led to my being failed in my final thesis project. No, these are stories I would have wanted to elaborate on and laugh about and try to make everyone reading this (well, the three or four readers I have, anyway) laugh about as well. I do write a good funny story. :)
But these are the stories I've tried to remember and write down for the last month and a half, but which wouldn't come out no matter how hard I tried. I thought it was because I'd lost my words, or the very mediocre talent I feel I possess... but that wasn't it, was it?
No. The only reason I haven't been able to write about all the little things that made me smile is that I have not allowed myself to write about the one big thing that made me cry.
In time I will. And then I will be okay.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
the benefit of third-person narratives
I've lost my voice, and I've lost the T.
The double bereavement has left me utterly disjoint. It's not something I've ever experienced before, and I hate it.
Things have happened. Things have been happening.
I completed my thesis, and submitted it, and had complimentary remarks made about my design even though I'd neglected to draw elevations of my buildings.
I joined a Spanish class that's conducted on the weekends. I like the class. I'm a fabulous student, and the teacher's good at explaining things. I am, however, slowly growing unable to stomach her continuous slurs on Indians as students of language. I predict some unpleasantness.
I've been talking to people about freelance jobs ranging from the construction of the upper storey of a residence to writing articles for a magazine to the interior design of a restaurant to the possibility of working for a place that provides newsletter services for companies. This should make me happy, yes? Multiple possibilities! Sigh.
I've added a morning walk to my daily schedule, and I've had some wonderful pre-dawn strolls in the last few days that had me wish I were still writing. All I have now are some random disjoint memories of the thoughts I had on my walk (in the undead twilight with all the whites white and the snake hole snake hole snake-hole and the smell of dawn over grass) and a disinclination to do anything about it.
Perhaps I should try letting go for a while. ("for a while")
Hopefully I will be able to get myself to miss the writing by not trying to do it at all...
watch this space?
The double bereavement has left me utterly disjoint. It's not something I've ever experienced before, and I hate it.
Things have happened. Things have been happening.
I completed my thesis, and submitted it, and had complimentary remarks made about my design even though I'd neglected to draw elevations of my buildings.
I joined a Spanish class that's conducted on the weekends. I like the class. I'm a fabulous student, and the teacher's good at explaining things. I am, however, slowly growing unable to stomach her continuous slurs on Indians as students of language. I predict some unpleasantness.
I've been talking to people about freelance jobs ranging from the construction of the upper storey of a residence to writing articles for a magazine to the interior design of a restaurant to the possibility of working for a place that provides newsletter services for companies. This should make me happy, yes? Multiple possibilities! Sigh.
I've added a morning walk to my daily schedule, and I've had some wonderful pre-dawn strolls in the last few days that had me wish I were still writing. All I have now are some random disjoint memories of the thoughts I had on my walk (in the undead twilight with all the whites white and the snake hole snake hole snake-hole and the smell of dawn over grass) and a disinclination to do anything about it.
Perhaps I should try letting go for a while. ("for a while")
Hopefully I will be able to get myself to miss the writing by not trying to do it at all...
watch this space?
Sunday, February 3, 2008
but that's just a euphemism
Sometimes I think people should come right out and say what they really feel, like you broke my heart and now nothing makes sense but I think the fundamental problem with people whose hearts get broken is that they don't really have the courage to say anything that's big enough and true enough to change their world.
The reason I cannot write: I have things I must talk about that I cannot share. Why the sudden reluctance? Perhaps it's because this time it is bigger than anything I've had to handle before. Perhaps this time it's bigger than Across the Universe and Taare Zameen Par and a Mensa quiz and a job offer and another job offer and redesigning our house and completing my thesis and a bright and promising future, and perhaps - perhaps this scares me more than I am willing to admit to.
Perhaps.
Maybe admitting hard things lets you back inside yourself.
:)
The reason I cannot write: I have things I must talk about that I cannot share. Why the sudden reluctance? Perhaps it's because this time it is bigger than anything I've had to handle before. Perhaps this time it's bigger than Across the Universe and Taare Zameen Par and a Mensa quiz and a job offer and another job offer and redesigning our house and completing my thesis and a bright and promising future, and perhaps - perhaps this scares me more than I am willing to admit to.
Perhaps.
Maybe admitting hard things lets you back inside yourself.
:)
Monday, January 28, 2008
how long is a while, exactly?
I'm worried about myself. I worry that I have become unexpectedly and inexplicably apathetic.
(This also means that the worry is more than a little apathetic. Whatte vicious cycle.)
Things don't seem to matter much any more. When things get to me they do it for a maximum of thirty seconds before I'm back to a standard state of . <--- not an omission
I've had adventures in the great outdoors that would have, just a short while ago (October! Just October!) have sent me scrambling for paper and pen to scribble out a few lines about how awesome the world is omigosh just look can you believe it!!!11!!1
I've suddenly been found by one-two-three-four-five new out-of-the-blue internet acquaintances. In the space of ten days. I should have been hopping around like a thing-that-hops on illegal-substances-that-make-things-hop-more.
Only I'm not. I'm not moping or miserable, or melancholy - all of these states would mean I still had as much of my volatile spirit as I could possibly wish for. Things are going well. Things have also gone wrong. People let me down, people picked me up; I lost some money, I made some money... I've been not un-busy.
My life has even begun to look pre-promising: that strange state it goes through before it offers opportunities, but -
I'm just not as... enthusiastic... about life as I used to be.
Where did my heart go?
(This also means that the worry is more than a little apathetic. Whatte vicious cycle.)
Things don't seem to matter much any more. When things get to me they do it for a maximum of thirty seconds before I'm back to a standard state of . <--- not an omission
I've had adventures in the great outdoors that would have, just a short while ago (October! Just October!) have sent me scrambling for paper and pen to scribble out a few lines about how awesome the world is omigosh just look can you believe it!!!11!!1
I've suddenly been found by one-two-three-four-five new out-of-the-blue internet acquaintances. In the space of ten days. I should have been hopping around like a thing-that-hops on illegal-substances-that-make-things-hop-more.
Only I'm not. I'm not moping or miserable, or melancholy - all of these states would mean I still had as much of my volatile spirit as I could possibly wish for. Things are going well. Things have also gone wrong. People let me down, people picked me up; I lost some money, I made some money... I've been not un-busy.
My life has even begun to look pre-promising: that strange state it goes through before it offers opportunities, but -
I'm just not as... enthusiastic... about life as I used to be.
Where did my heart go?
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
dead vegetarian explorers
Nine days have passed since the year officially begun. There was a time when it would have bothered me to have begun the first post of the New Year on a day so patently unmemorable. Probably the same reason that once made me hold on to new diaries until my birthday before I break them in... But dates are nothing more than aids to memory, and a date attached to an important enough memory will manage to make itself remembered if it really needs to be.
(November 20th 1984, October 20th 1995, March 26th 2006, October 10th 2006, December 24th 2007)
New years are meant for resolutions and turning over new leaves, aren't they? Breaking some ties and restoring some others. One wishes to have learnt lessons over the past year that will prove useful in deciding what one does in the future. One wishes to have gained friends and experience and wisdom that one can be thankful for.
(One wishes wishes not to be uttered in public fora but rather muttered to close friends over the telephone in the middle of the night with the lights out...)
And then one wishes not to have wished at all and makes resolutions about losing and singing and passing and cursing and praying and wishing.
It's a new year!
What will 2008 bring for the T?
(November 20th 1984, October 20th 1995, March 26th 2006, October 10th 2006, December 24th 2007)
New years are meant for resolutions and turning over new leaves, aren't they? Breaking some ties and restoring some others. One wishes to have learnt lessons over the past year that will prove useful in deciding what one does in the future. One wishes to have gained friends and experience and wisdom that one can be thankful for.
(One wishes wishes not to be uttered in public fora but rather muttered to close friends over the telephone in the middle of the night with the lights out...)
And then one wishes not to have wished at all and makes resolutions about losing and singing and passing and cursing and praying and wishing.
It's a new year!
What will 2008 bring for the T?
Monday, December 24, 2007
all my pieces broken
However hard I try to convince myself that I am prepared, in every way, to face eventualities I tell myself I expect, the chances are that I will end up shocked anyway. Or jarred. Disconnected from myself and bereft of my moorings.
The truth is that as much as I hope (or despair) for something, I always put in that little catch, that clause that thinks it may not happen after all. However studiously I prepare myself to be let down by something (usually something I tell myself I shouldn't have trusted in the first place) there is a little part of me that will continue to cling to the hope that the fall will not, in fact, happen, that something will happen to turn things around:
perhaps i'm wrong; perhaps these vain hopes are not so vain; perhaps they are founded not on wishful thinking but on some signs my subconscious picked up that my waking brain didn't; perhaps things will work out in the end; it could happen.
Does it mean optimism or stupidity, that secret hope? Because it is a secret, or at the very least unacknowledged - something I will not admit to until the tears come to prove it was there.
And then I will sigh, and call myself stupid, and I will pretend that I learnt a lesson from the entire experience. Perhaps I do. I just don't seem to remember them later.
(and then i go, and do it all over again)
The truth is that as much as I hope (or despair) for something, I always put in that little catch, that clause that thinks it may not happen after all. However studiously I prepare myself to be let down by something (usually something I tell myself I shouldn't have trusted in the first place) there is a little part of me that will continue to cling to the hope that the fall will not, in fact, happen, that something will happen to turn things around:
perhaps i'm wrong; perhaps these vain hopes are not so vain; perhaps they are founded not on wishful thinking but on some signs my subconscious picked up that my waking brain didn't; perhaps things will work out in the end; it could happen.
Does it mean optimism or stupidity, that secret hope? Because it is a secret, or at the very least unacknowledged - something I will not admit to until the tears come to prove it was there.
And then I will sigh, and call myself stupid, and I will pretend that I learnt a lesson from the entire experience. Perhaps I do. I just don't seem to remember them later.
(and then i go, and do it all over again)
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
fool
I love stories. They are my escape from the world: from boredom and loneliness and panic. It is the simple story that I love the best - the one where everything works out in the end and everyone gets exactly what they deserve. I have always hated betrayals and misunderstandings - in books, in films, in television... Every story with a twist in its tale must end with the triumph of the worthy, the earnest, the good. I think, sometimes, that the kinds of stories I find myself most drawn to are the ones that end the way I wish my life would turn out - with justice for all. It shames me that I cannot, in my own life, judge people as they deserve to be judged.
It seems to me as though I choose, consistently, the wrong kind of person to place my confidence in. It is as though, even after twenty-three years on the planet, I still have no idea of how to choose a friend for all the reasons that I truly need a friend. Perhaps there is supposed to be a difference between the kind of people you admire and respect and the kind of people you love - it is just that my head cannot tell the difference.
In my head the people who are the most important to me are the ones who make me think, and wonder, and question - and so I become enamoured with them all: the smart people; the talented people; the people who are destined to make this world a brighter, bigger, more interesting place. They are the ones who make it worthwhile to wake up in the morning, the ones for whom it is sensible to give up your time, your energy, your heart. It is as though your life becomes better simply because it is lived in the outer circle of their influence.
It is hard - to find myself so often in this position, where I have misjudged and attributed to a person qualities of kindness and goodness that he or she does not have. To imagine affection and fondness where there is none. To expect attention and concern when I have no right to. To see a kindred spirit where none exists. If I am to be ruled so decisively by my emotions, what chance do I have to survive in the bold, bad world?
It has been eight years since my first introduction to the wonderful world of duplicity, and yet I continue to make the same mistakes again and again. I recognize the syptoms each time, even as the disease progresses; and each time I think this time will be different. There is no cure - I am doomed to eternal blind optimism - I will persist, until I die, in the delusion that all people are truly as wonderful as they appear to be.
I will always tell people just exactly what they mean to me, and they will always care not one whit.
Why is desperation so utterly despicable?
It seems to me as though I choose, consistently, the wrong kind of person to place my confidence in. It is as though, even after twenty-three years on the planet, I still have no idea of how to choose a friend for all the reasons that I truly need a friend. Perhaps there is supposed to be a difference between the kind of people you admire and respect and the kind of people you love - it is just that my head cannot tell the difference.
In my head the people who are the most important to me are the ones who make me think, and wonder, and question - and so I become enamoured with them all: the smart people; the talented people; the people who are destined to make this world a brighter, bigger, more interesting place. They are the ones who make it worthwhile to wake up in the morning, the ones for whom it is sensible to give up your time, your energy, your heart. It is as though your life becomes better simply because it is lived in the outer circle of their influence.
It is hard - to find myself so often in this position, where I have misjudged and attributed to a person qualities of kindness and goodness that he or she does not have. To imagine affection and fondness where there is none. To expect attention and concern when I have no right to. To see a kindred spirit where none exists. If I am to be ruled so decisively by my emotions, what chance do I have to survive in the bold, bad world?
It has been eight years since my first introduction to the wonderful world of duplicity, and yet I continue to make the same mistakes again and again. I recognize the syptoms each time, even as the disease progresses; and each time I think this time will be different. There is no cure - I am doomed to eternal blind optimism - I will persist, until I die, in the delusion that all people are truly as wonderful as they appear to be.
I will always tell people just exactly what they mean to me, and they will always care not one whit.
Why is desperation so utterly despicable?
Monday, October 1, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
eventually phone calls
I have always been one of those people (I assume there are such people) whose lives seem to be spent more in their own company than in anyone else's. I do not remember that it was a voluntary decision; all I know is that I woke up one day and realised that it was so.
The tendency to sit in dark corners and construct imaginary conversations is, however, relatively new (though still of long standing - probably dating back to my discovery of myself as a real person, some time in the eighth standard). It was the time I first realized I wanted friends and thought I hadn't any, and was dimly aware that I was neither prepared nor able to put in the effort needed to be part of a 'gang'.
I resorted, then, to rewriting my life in my head, because of course the reason I was unhappy was not because I was timid and shy and naïve and choosy in the matter of the company I kept, but rather because I was somewhere surrounded by people who could never understand or appreciate me as I deserved. And so I dreamed day-dreams to remove the sour taste of loneliness from my mind. The place I usually chose for my ruminations was my bed; and not necessarily at bed-time - I retreated to my room whenever bruised in spirit and ego, and pretended my life was entirely other than it was. (and perhaps this is the reason I love Montgomery's Anne so much, because she knew how to step out of her own life into her own head)
In these day-dreams I was always smarter and wiser and altogether more noble than I felt my real life persona to be. In these day-dreams I braved plane crashes and earthquakes and all manner of other disasters and always won the love of the most handsome and dashing male of the piece by being a down-to-earth earnest honest-to-goodness heroine.
It has been perhaps two years since I last saw my imaginary hero, and it is not because I have come to my senses and realized that living in dream worlds does not really make for real-life successes. It is, I think, because I found I liked my life and myself better than I had previously realized.
So now I restrict myself to sitting in the dark or out on my little balcony staring at stars making conversation with people who are actually in my real live life at the moment. And sometimes they are imaginary conversations that I create; and the people aren't really real people at all - merely constructs of humans made up in my head around the ideas of people I know.
I smile and cry over these as much as I ever did over all my burning buildings and sinking submarines and alien invasions.
I'm to assume this is an improvement.
The tendency to sit in dark corners and construct imaginary conversations is, however, relatively new (though still of long standing - probably dating back to my discovery of myself as a real person, some time in the eighth standard). It was the time I first realized I wanted friends and thought I hadn't any, and was dimly aware that I was neither prepared nor able to put in the effort needed to be part of a 'gang'.
I resorted, then, to rewriting my life in my head, because of course the reason I was unhappy was not because I was timid and shy and naïve and choosy in the matter of the company I kept, but rather because I was somewhere surrounded by people who could never understand or appreciate me as I deserved. And so I dreamed day-dreams to remove the sour taste of loneliness from my mind. The place I usually chose for my ruminations was my bed; and not necessarily at bed-time - I retreated to my room whenever bruised in spirit and ego, and pretended my life was entirely other than it was. (and perhaps this is the reason I love Montgomery's Anne so much, because she knew how to step out of her own life into her own head)
In these day-dreams I was always smarter and wiser and altogether more noble than I felt my real life persona to be. In these day-dreams I braved plane crashes and earthquakes and all manner of other disasters and always won the love of the most handsome and dashing male of the piece by being a down-to-earth earnest honest-to-goodness heroine.
It has been perhaps two years since I last saw my imaginary hero, and it is not because I have come to my senses and realized that living in dream worlds does not really make for real-life successes. It is, I think, because I found I liked my life and myself better than I had previously realized.
So now I restrict myself to sitting in the dark or out on my little balcony staring at stars making conversation with people who are actually in my real live life at the moment. And sometimes they are imaginary conversations that I create; and the people aren't really real people at all - merely constructs of humans made up in my head around the ideas of people I know.
I smile and cry over these as much as I ever did over all my burning buildings and sinking submarines and alien invasions.
I'm to assume this is an improvement.
Monday, September 3, 2007
cat lady
I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to unravel the mystery that I believe my mind is. The unfortunate side-effect of this is that I spend a lot less time on the more important things in life, i.e. studying, working hard, making a name for myself in life, planning my future. ( :( )
On the other hand, the upshot of all this deep thinking has led me to make some rather stunning discoveries as far as humankind are concerned. (They all seem to be discoveries that people have already made generation after generation through time, but when has that ever stopped someone from trying to find something out for their own dear self?)
Here is the latest I've wrapped my head around: my elders aren't really all wiser than me. Sure, I always knew they were probably less equipped to deal with the emergencies of life e.g. how to create a PowerPoint presentation with pictures of grandchildren, but I'd always assumed they were wiser than me, see? Because that's what I was told. It is what I was brought up to believe. Teachers, parents, grandparents - they all know better than us because they have (oh holy whisper) experience. They have seen life. Their advice is to be carefully considered before you make any decisions in life at all.
And now I spend more and more time around elders in the family and out of it, and I listen to all the things they say to see if anything makes sense, and I find that the wisdom of our elders is a myth that I believed in only because I was far too naïve to do otherwise.
Alas, the sad truth is that adults are often just older, uglier, more wrinkled versions of their misguided childhood selves. And it is galling to have to bow and scrape before them in mockery of respect merely because they are older than I am. And yet I will, and I do, because anarchy solves nothing.
I'm just going to make damn sure I'm a wise old woman and not a prattling idiot, is all.
On the other hand, the upshot of all this deep thinking has led me to make some rather stunning discoveries as far as humankind are concerned. (They all seem to be discoveries that people have already made generation after generation through time, but when has that ever stopped someone from trying to find something out for their own dear self?)
Here is the latest I've wrapped my head around: my elders aren't really all wiser than me. Sure, I always knew they were probably less equipped to deal with the emergencies of life e.g. how to create a PowerPoint presentation with pictures of grandchildren, but I'd always assumed they were wiser than me, see? Because that's what I was told. It is what I was brought up to believe. Teachers, parents, grandparents - they all know better than us because they have (oh holy whisper) experience. They have seen life. Their advice is to be carefully considered before you make any decisions in life at all.
And now I spend more and more time around elders in the family and out of it, and I listen to all the things they say to see if anything makes sense, and I find that the wisdom of our elders is a myth that I believed in only because I was far too naïve to do otherwise.
Alas, the sad truth is that adults are often just older, uglier, more wrinkled versions of their misguided childhood selves. And it is galling to have to bow and scrape before them in mockery of respect merely because they are older than I am. And yet I will, and I do, because anarchy solves nothing.
I'm just going to make damn sure I'm a wise old woman and not a prattling idiot, is all.