RESiNATE
11-18-2004, 07:46 PM
I must be going crazy; sat here, as I am, in a room lit only by the light of a few candles.
The rain outside pours down in a torrent, that mirrors the emotions that course through my body and soul.
On ocassion, I pace the room aimlessly, and shake my head to try and rid myself of the images that haunt me everytime that I close my eyes. And the feelings that those images bring; guilt, anger, frustration, longing.
I pour myself a drink, even though I know I will not drink it, and watch as the alcohol fuses with the cherryade mixer. No, I doubt that I'll drink it, too many memories even in that simple thing called Vodka.
Such a cruel twist of fate.
I have tried to move on, to put the past behind me and accept the situation, but alas I cannot understand. The bane of my existence, it seems, is a need to understand.
Some things in this life are not meant to be, but that is a bitter pill to swallow, when you thought that something that felt so right, actually turns out to be one of those things that are not meant to be. Of course the situation wasn't ideal, but then, when has anything been ideal? And the ramifications of such a thing would be castastrophic, but only to other people. It seems that I live my lives with more of a mind to other people's feeling, than my own. And we I the price.
Self-preservation?
Ha, more like a foolish attempt at denial.
It becomes a difficult task indeed, to try and forget about something that occupies your mind nearly twenty-four hours a day. So, I try to put up barriers of some sort...but I know before I erect them, that they will be brushed aside, as if they were twigs in a storm.
And the storm comes from within.
Some people search their whole lives for something, and then wonder if they ever found such a thing, or whether they were just living in a dream.
I remember standing in a park on a cold autumn day, asking myself this very question. I thought that I had answered correctly, but now I'm not so sure.
I remember lying on my bed, in a cold dark room with sad sounds for company, wrapped within my blankets for more than protection from the cold air,nursing the wounds of revelation.
Maybe it was just a dream; a brief excursion into the realms of happiness that I once thought never existed. And yet, how can it be, when the dream was a shared one?
And even now, when I ponder the possibilities, I see only chaos.
I see a world of heart-ache and hatred that will tear the dream apart.
My selfish needs for that thing that eludes me, makes me just as bad as the rest of them, doesn't it?
I sometimes curse my insight and perceptiveness, and long for ignorance.
And yet, would I be happy being a sheep?
Probably not, but then I would say that, because I know what the sheep do.
Enigmatic crypticism, is that even a phrase?
The answers cannot always be found with cryptic questions, but directness often offends, and that is the last thing that I wish to do. Plain talk, that's the way, I guess, but then the paranoia of discovery wells within me and prevents such blatantness. My loss?
I hide behind psydonyms and suggestion, weaving a thread of vague representation, then spend hours trying to spot some clue as to the real portrayal of the message - sometimes, I wonder if I am looking for something that isn't there, or at least, hoping to find something there.
And even this page you're reading now, is it just a bunch of random feelings that are thrown together, or does it hide the real issue.
I once thought, rather naively, that this situation was something that I could live with.
I thought that I could draw a line under the past, and be thankful for what little things I do have. Seems that I was wrong about that too. I wasn't afraid of the battle, even though it was the greatest battle that I have faced, but I wasn't prepared for the price that that battle would exact.
The price is paid whenever I watch a movie, see a girl in the street, or even hear a certain phrase.
The price is paid when I realise that I am destined to be alone for the rest of my life.
Alone.
And yet, I need not be alone.
I could have that little bit of something that I am allowed to have, and be thankful for small mercies, couldn't I?
Is it so wrong of me to want more?
And so, like a petulant child, I choose to 'cut off my nose despite my face', it seems. I decide, in my infinite wisdom, that to shut out that something will somehow ease the pain. I laugh at myself; who am I trying to kid?
The needs of the many, outweigh the needs of the one.
Such is my life.
I wonder if my search is over, and that the dream is just that.
I wonder so many things, that I may have lost sight of reality.
And what is reality?
Is it not just conjecture?
A translation of one's own beliefs and ideals?
I search my memory, and try to pick my way through those events, like a pathologist would a corpse. I wonder if my analysis can be trusted, or whether I am manipulating certain senarios to suit my prognosis. The human brain, I am sure, is capable of 'imagining' nuances that are simply not there - and even though I know my own mind (as much as any person can), can I really trust my recall?
Or will I further become a victim of my own fantasy?
The 'self-preservation' part of me, warns against absolute truth. On the one hand, it is better to know the facts of the situation; it would facilitate a way to settle any doubts - but I am scared of truth in many ways.
The truth is scary.
The truth is known
Time to move on.
RESiNATE
The rain outside pours down in a torrent, that mirrors the emotions that course through my body and soul.
On ocassion, I pace the room aimlessly, and shake my head to try and rid myself of the images that haunt me everytime that I close my eyes. And the feelings that those images bring; guilt, anger, frustration, longing.
I pour myself a drink, even though I know I will not drink it, and watch as the alcohol fuses with the cherryade mixer. No, I doubt that I'll drink it, too many memories even in that simple thing called Vodka.
Such a cruel twist of fate.
I have tried to move on, to put the past behind me and accept the situation, but alas I cannot understand. The bane of my existence, it seems, is a need to understand.
Some things in this life are not meant to be, but that is a bitter pill to swallow, when you thought that something that felt so right, actually turns out to be one of those things that are not meant to be. Of course the situation wasn't ideal, but then, when has anything been ideal? And the ramifications of such a thing would be castastrophic, but only to other people. It seems that I live my lives with more of a mind to other people's feeling, than my own. And we I the price.
Self-preservation?
Ha, more like a foolish attempt at denial.
It becomes a difficult task indeed, to try and forget about something that occupies your mind nearly twenty-four hours a day. So, I try to put up barriers of some sort...but I know before I erect them, that they will be brushed aside, as if they were twigs in a storm.
And the storm comes from within.
Some people search their whole lives for something, and then wonder if they ever found such a thing, or whether they were just living in a dream.
I remember standing in a park on a cold autumn day, asking myself this very question. I thought that I had answered correctly, but now I'm not so sure.
I remember lying on my bed, in a cold dark room with sad sounds for company, wrapped within my blankets for more than protection from the cold air,nursing the wounds of revelation.
Maybe it was just a dream; a brief excursion into the realms of happiness that I once thought never existed. And yet, how can it be, when the dream was a shared one?
And even now, when I ponder the possibilities, I see only chaos.
I see a world of heart-ache and hatred that will tear the dream apart.
My selfish needs for that thing that eludes me, makes me just as bad as the rest of them, doesn't it?
I sometimes curse my insight and perceptiveness, and long for ignorance.
And yet, would I be happy being a sheep?
Probably not, but then I would say that, because I know what the sheep do.
Enigmatic crypticism, is that even a phrase?
The answers cannot always be found with cryptic questions, but directness often offends, and that is the last thing that I wish to do. Plain talk, that's the way, I guess, but then the paranoia of discovery wells within me and prevents such blatantness. My loss?
I hide behind psydonyms and suggestion, weaving a thread of vague representation, then spend hours trying to spot some clue as to the real portrayal of the message - sometimes, I wonder if I am looking for something that isn't there, or at least, hoping to find something there.
And even this page you're reading now, is it just a bunch of random feelings that are thrown together, or does it hide the real issue.
I once thought, rather naively, that this situation was something that I could live with.
I thought that I could draw a line under the past, and be thankful for what little things I do have. Seems that I was wrong about that too. I wasn't afraid of the battle, even though it was the greatest battle that I have faced, but I wasn't prepared for the price that that battle would exact.
The price is paid whenever I watch a movie, see a girl in the street, or even hear a certain phrase.
The price is paid when I realise that I am destined to be alone for the rest of my life.
Alone.
And yet, I need not be alone.
I could have that little bit of something that I am allowed to have, and be thankful for small mercies, couldn't I?
Is it so wrong of me to want more?
And so, like a petulant child, I choose to 'cut off my nose despite my face', it seems. I decide, in my infinite wisdom, that to shut out that something will somehow ease the pain. I laugh at myself; who am I trying to kid?
The needs of the many, outweigh the needs of the one.
Such is my life.
I wonder if my search is over, and that the dream is just that.
I wonder so many things, that I may have lost sight of reality.
And what is reality?
Is it not just conjecture?
A translation of one's own beliefs and ideals?
I search my memory, and try to pick my way through those events, like a pathologist would a corpse. I wonder if my analysis can be trusted, or whether I am manipulating certain senarios to suit my prognosis. The human brain, I am sure, is capable of 'imagining' nuances that are simply not there - and even though I know my own mind (as much as any person can), can I really trust my recall?
Or will I further become a victim of my own fantasy?
The 'self-preservation' part of me, warns against absolute truth. On the one hand, it is better to know the facts of the situation; it would facilitate a way to settle any doubts - but I am scared of truth in many ways.
The truth is scary.
The truth is known
Time to move on.
RESiNATE