2004-04-27
I am at the crux of my soul�s dilemma
It seems as if everything around me constantly reminds me of my failures. I believe that it is now useless to sit down and attempt to figure out what is wrong.
This sadness consumes me, and at its very depths is a rage unable to be tamed. It reminds of those unruly vines wrapping around an old tree-stump. I start to believe that I lack desire, because everything has been so systematic. Conventionality and consistency are suicide to the human spirit. My old shell, my old haven and refuge where I would go and hide from the world. Perhaps not hiding, exactly...it was more meaningful than that--I was living (or so I ardently believed) in defiance.
That was me, and I am still under the supposition that such is who I am now. This must be the problem--trying to match an old soul with new inspiration. It is such a difficult thing to let go of--the person that I was. The image was much too ideal, and what�s worse...like a painting capable of stirring minds, it went unfinished.
Unfinished is a word that I seldom incorporate into my language. I don�t have things �unfinished�, but if I dare to venture out of transparent box of dry definitions, I can apply my own definition to the word �unfinished�.
Need I finish something that does not even pertain to me anymore? Oftentimes I question myself and repeatedly ask, �what do you want?�
The answer is always vague, but simple: �I want to be something more...simply, because that is who I am...more, beyond, are the words that define me�
I wake up at night, and I become angry inside simply because of fear. I fear that everything--my hopes and my hard work--will have gone to nothing one day. I once threatened myself by saying that I would forever lose all self-respect if I gave up and �settled�.
Settle. Another poisonous word. To settle means to succumb, and by succumbing one is throwing away precious potential. What I have is life, and I must understand that...
I cried my tears of frustration, I threw another fit, and upon finishing, I began to look around my room calmly. I slowly proceeded to identify the problem which was plaguing me and driving out the peace. The problem is that I am not living up to my own standards--that is the problem. Somewhere it occurred to me that I somehow given up, but I immediately remembered those who are in far worse situations than I.
I have a family member, but sixteen years of age...and pregnant. I then think of why she didn�t kill the bastard the moment she found out, and I think of why she just traded in her life for a miserable child (who was born last week, actually). Now, she has a daughter...not just any daughter, but a bastard that will undoubtedly grow old and repeat her ignorant mother�s mistakes. This is what disturbs me--to see other girls whom I have known at the same store as they shop for their clothes, and have them smile at me as they feebly whisper �hi�. I will whisper �hello� back to them, and as I glance down, I notice that the bastard in the carriage belongs to them. At that moment, a heavy dread and disappointment consume me to the point of sickness, because my worst fear is to be that girl. That is one such instance in which failure has undeniably made you its hostage.
Failure is what I don�t want...it�s what I fear.
Therefore, when I wake up in the middle of the night and gasp for breath amidst the cold sweat, how can I reassure myself that that will not be me? How can I promise myself anything anymore when everything is so uncertain? I can only remind myself of how much I love Greenwich Village in the fall, or how much I enjoy Voltaire. If there is but one desire that sits deep within me, it is to be able to once more be an idealist.
I stand in that long line that leads to the white vastness of infinite space, and I cannot see ahead anymore. The vision, no matter how blurry or vague, is gone...I would do anything, I would give anything, I would turn into anyone, just to take its hold once more.
I am but the shattered lover who stands in the moonlight, overcome by that lonely sense of absolute desperateness, and pining for a lost love.