I know that I have been neglecting, intentionally, writing about myself; spending my time just musing about you. I know that I always assumed that you required more attention than you in actuality did. I figured that I did not need to self-examine any longer than I already do, in a reasonable, non-poetic fashion. I am also aware that I mistake self abuse for self reflection (it is plain to see how that came to be). It just takes me so long to get over things, and I would like to delve deeper into that. For example, mourning over how my life did not stay true to the fantasy I always envisioned for myself. I am not leading a simple, average, yet artistic path of romance, meaning and mental growth. Most days I feel as though I have in fact passed my prime, so early on (and things weren't even that good in high school). That rotting away feeling has actually only increased, worsened over time, in spite of all circumstances. I did not want to write the things that I did not want to face. I am unemployed, with the least amount of money I have ever had, uneducated, fat, and lost, sitting in Oakland, making absolutely no use of myself. How this inner monologue all began tonight was starting at these two boxes that I set face out inside of my closet. I have no dresser, and no shelving at all, so I made my own with what I had. As much as I loath, and detest my parents, I still feel that overwhelming and completely cliche guilt about letting them down with how I choosing to live my life. Every mother and father sees their child as having potential; special gifts and talents. I was looking for so long at those boxes, and was disheartened by the possibility and idea that no one could compliment me on my being creative. That thought lead to the next, which was that being creative is one of my favorite compliments of all time. I was thinking today about how I still cannot bring myself to pretend to care about appearance, clothes, and superficiality. I honestly can only care about what is inside of a person, and what is inside of me. I hate feeling as though I am squandering, and stifling my own artistic abilities, and needs. I read this interview earlier and it was so inspiring, it doesn't even take that much. It was discussing how unproductive and wasteful it is to live without making, and creating. The interview was talking about all of the various platforms and outlets a person has access to, and can express themselves within. I enjoy doing so many different activities that I do not partake in whatsoever. The feeling of learning is such a wonderful and exhilarating sensation, and that is not to say that I haven't learned tremendously subsequent to leaving school, but there are different kinds that I feel as though I am leaving behind entirely. I believe that part of it is that working through personal and interpersonal issues, and learning from weaknesses, fights, and struggles is so bittersweet. Learning life's lessons by misfortunes and strife takes a toll, it's difficult, and not always regarding, it's consequential. Learning clean, arbitrary things is so pleasureful due to the fact that it is misery free, I suppose math, and such skills could require some blood, sweat, and tears, but I know there are plenty of ways to gain knowledge through positive experiences (likely often textbook, unfortunately). I have allowed myself to dwell, and live almost entirely inside of my head. My mind has been through every situation and outcome, emotion and sensation. I realize that I get everything from other people, and my relationships with them, but you can only get so much from another person, I really believe that. There are sentiments that can solely be achieved from one's self, and I have long deduced that those are the ones absent from my life. It is great that I am self aware, and understanding of my imperfections and shortcomings, it's marvelous that I can detect why it is I am acting and feeling the way that I am, although not nearly as therapeutic as it sounds. Really I sincerely hope that someday I am doing something with MYSELF that is congruent with all of my wishes to expend the dead aspects within myself. Stepping away from the messy, befuddling and very much consuming nature of the people in my life, I want to not go inward, but outward. I want to express myself, utilizing all of the outlets that I appreciate so much, and could so much bring joy to me every single day. Spending the last couple of years really workshopping and endeavoring through the most arduous of personal mishaps and woes, I see now that my exterior life reflect that fact that I have disregarding it almost altogether. I am fortunate and blessed enough to be where I am, how I am, knowing it could be so much worse off, easily. It is never to late to do what you want to, and I want to be selfish, do things for myself, discover that I am worth that, and really nearly more than anything, I wish for a life that displays the overcoming of nothingness, and shows something, anything, myself.
I can ascertain now how sick I was; holding onto dear life to the one thing that gave me purpose, and hope. After I left the boyfriend, the school, the job, even the town, I built you up the be the last chance, that you were. And two days ago was the first time, in a very long time, that I pondered our conversing as being just that, just what it was.
