2004-07-09
In a place like this
I don�t understand sometimes how winter slips past me unnoticed. When was the last time I looked out of my window to see my sunflower tree, bare?
A need to create and be alone and read that excerpt from �As You Like It�, which starts with the words �All the world�s a stage...�
I have dreams of myself in this pastel-yellow dress and wandering alone in some uncharted and thick forest whilst humming some carefree and happy tune. Oftentimes, we search for someone else to completely understand us as we write, and by writing, we make the attempt at articulating and bringing to life the many emotions that dance within us--twisted in our dark souls like vines. Through writing, we try to disperse the melancholy that dead memories and words leave us with, because ultimately--at some time or another--we are all haunted--to some extent--by dead words whose timeless echoes still ring within the profundity of our dark memories--trapped--inside of our heads. It is all like glass, and these things appear lucid, yet, when you reach for them there�s an obstacle. It makes everything seemingly intangible.
And I oftentimes do worry that I will go throughout all of my life writing, and creating things that are never at all appreciated by the rest of mankind. If so?
Once, there was indeed a time when these worries did not plague me and when I was not haunted. Certainly, memories did come and go, but not once did they scorn me with their ghostly wails. Those times were golden...
You know, I am not half the person I used to be. Certainly, that is a pity...a dreadful pity. If I were to tell you about this girl who had raven-black hair, and a contagious laughter....
If I were to tell you about this girl who wore glasses and smiled meekly. The same girl who used to mutter sonnets at the moon�s apparition...
Remnants of my old self still remain, but for the most part, I have been long gone. It is my own fault, I suppose. Occurrences--regarding matters of the heart--are to me, consanguineous because no matter how they end, it is...emphatically painful. Curiousness takes the better of me, and I wonder about that tiresome game of circles--life--and I hear Thoreau inside of my own head-- �live deliberately�. Other words are scattered as well: �to be awake is to be alive�.
And I continue to constantly ask myself what all of this means, exactly. I haven�t the talent to *express* myself through mere words. I ask for patience in this matter, until one day, I awake and find that everything comes forth effortlessly.