A Bottle Washing Up On Shore: The Paper Inside

Stuff from an fb note where I updated now and then when I felt the need.



You know what sucks?

Realizing that something you depend on can't help. Not in this case. And then realizing you don't know what to do anymore. The pedestal you cobbled together from the wispy fabric of your ideals has just collapsed. And it won't, it can't, be re-assembled. So you're left with the little scratchy scraps that bear some resemblance to what you made of them. But hey, it was precarious at best in the first place, so why are you surprised your perfect sandcastle melted when the tide inevitably came? It's the chocolate palace melting in the sun, and trying to believe that because you're Prince Pondicherry the sun won't dare to melt your gorgeous possession. But posessions pass, can leave. And so do the things on your pedestal. Pedestals just give illusionary height, anyways. Breaking them into the jagged pieces that stab when you remember them is merciful. Them being pedestals. And the impression they give. If you're optimistic, you take those scratchy scraps, those jagged pieces, those remainders of what was and make a smaller pedestal. Try again. Maybe it'll be true this time, and your hopes won't leave you behind with only the company of reality. But if you're pessimistic, you'll just throw those scratchy scraps, those jagged pieces, those remainders of what was at other people's pedestals. Break their illusions, their versions of reality into pieces. Misery loves company, neh? Because you're never going to get out of that landfill of junk, so why not have other people join you? Maybe you'll make your own little junkyard society of pessimistic people. And then somebody will come along and tell you that you're stupid for making such a big deal over nothing, to show you that there was no pedestal in the first place, no dramatic collapse, no need to drown yourself in your need for angst. It was just a normal road, with a normal house, with a normal life, no hidden stories, no pure-perfect ribbons to wrap it all in. So the realization never existed. Never needed to exist. Because it's not real, it's imaginary, and who cares about the imaginary? The thoughts that swirl, half-articulated, spilling out from your ears, because your mouth is shut too tight to try to let them out. It's in the things you choose to hear that those imaginary things take birth. And then your realization is something you need to hear. Even if it's not real. Even if it never was real. And it's just that mirage of an oasis that you believed in because you needed to get across the desert. Even though you knew it was a mirage, you were still so disappointed when it wasn't there. It was your something like a star, and even though you knew you couldn't touch that pretty little jewel shining in the dark, your little hands still reached towards the sky, never able to grasp it and hold it and know it even when you grew tall. Can one be angry over having your fantasy interpretation of reality smashed to pieces when it only existed because you felt the need to have something to value because everyone else does? I think you can. Silly inadaquete words to make that one particle in the sandstorm a building to smash and storm and hurt. Oh, those constructions of lines and curves and all those meanings, they make it so easy to create the something out of nothing that is revealed to be nothing in the end. And then the disappointment comes. Because it's still nothing. The anticipation for a piece of delicious chocolate sitting in the pantry waiting to be savoured when you finally find a cause for celebration, something you need it for, but when you think you find that cause, and you eat it, it's horrible, and all that anticipation was for nothing. That step in the darkness you know is there, only it's not, and your foot falls through and there's that sickening lurching feeling of falling, of losing the balance you know you have, that you can depend on. Only you were wrong. And really it's insignificant. But in that moment, it's not.

That sucks.

(I just made a bazillion references to random things. That's cool. So is the word bazillion. Which is why I use it.)
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You know what's annoying?

The switch between periods of caring and not caring. I wish there was a way that you could not care about the caring, but somehow the not caring feeling doesn't extend quite that far. Because the regrets are always during the caring and due to the not caring.

That's annoying.
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You know what's fantastic?

Sleeping. And the epic dreams. I have all these dreams and bits and pieces I know have been repeated. Examples - repeated use of settings:
- A MASSIVE house built in the style of no halls, only room to room, very crowded, desolate, and situated on a driveway that is at like 80 degrees. Driveway also massive. No life has ever been seen inside this house. The windows that look out onto the driveway are gigantic (like 20 feet? Or so it seems to the size I adopt within this house)
- A rundown warehouse which houses a boarding house/orphanage type thing for girls in one section of it. The beds are non-existent. The kitchen is always lighted and welcoming - hot chocolate has been found within. There is somewhat of a gang survival on the streets culture existent. Frequently the rain works its way into the warehouse. It is cold and dank. The warehouse once again is massive in comparison to the size of the people. Getting lost in this warehouse entails running into nightmares.
- A mining camp on a rocky mountain. A dusty road leads into the camp and gates mark the boundary between it and the rest of the world. Once again, very steep. Attempting to escape is met with cruel and unusual punishment. Campers mine for an unknown thing - jewels?. Water is always in demand. The campers work in a section separate from their living quarters. A dusty truck provides transportation between these two locations. Punishments require walking back to the living quarters (have experienced this thrice - not pleasant with what was met on the way). Campers range from age 5 to 19. There is a type of rope thing which campers (me) have attempted to use to pull themselves "out" of the camp. Not met with success. May have been somehow influenced by Holes when younger.
- An intersection roughly 500 ft by 600 ft. Crisscrossed by a massive influx of cars and railroad tracks upon which trains frequently run. The traffic signals are rarely obeyed and a mess of wires, yet somehow it works out. One of the roads meeting at this intersection is very broad (600 ft) and lined on both sides (and occassionally in the middle) by trees is traveled by buses, cars, and trains with stops every 1000 miles.
- There are more that are slipping my mind at the moment in terms of detail - the underwater rooms, the magic worlds that contain too many scenes to remember, the tower with the ever present full moon, the amusement park/zoo/place for immigrants/magic place/place between worlds/boat/store on a street, and the dark street switching to the platform at a fair with a gypsy fortune-teller.

Also, the plots are always epic.
- A wild adventure with pirates, humongous bubbles, intoxicating substances that make people fly, saving babies, tarzan-swinging through a ship, a priestess fostering type institution with gigantic horses, and strange foreign people, and breaking through glass, and mistaken identities, and constant switching of point of view between at least 6 people.
- A gang-war in the warehouse with presents that are actually nightmares waiting in the kitchen, some friendship found in a exposed to the elements section of the warehouse, a music club in the neighboring rundown room, police chases, gigantic spiders arising from the dust in the sleeping area, and falling into a box.
- A quest to find something amazingly important with a wasabi map (a map contained in a rectangular waterglobe with lines made of seaweed), accompanied by the "Godsake" (amazingly arrogant hero-worshipped half fish thing and far too proficent at getting the girls that came along pregnant), and involving beating up of mermaids as well as flying dolphin rides. Also, had a viewing pool that prophesized at some point. Some sort of "Big Brother" entity that had a booming voice. Underwater hotel was seedy, but was where the wasabi map was found.
- A 10 year long story involving emotional confessions, bollywood style wedding interruptions, complicated scheming, a garage and a sofa, pointless bickering, and far too many stomach butterflies to be bearable for long. Very dramatic.
- A journey through the massive house, being trapped in it after being dropped off in the driveway - staring out the window at the driveway and watching it drop away and being unable to get out. The clutter is frightening and may potentially attack at any time. Never got out of house before dream ended.
- A dinosaur attack on an apartment building with graphic devouring of sacrificial family members. (I was 6. I was traumatized. I was prompted by a dinosaur school report) Please note that doors are not effective protection against a stegosaurus or a T-rex. Also, dreams tend to end when chewed up by a dinosaur. Also, peek-holes should not be used despite any curiosity about any dinosaur activity right outside the door - may lead to heart attacks.
- A trilogy of dreams revolving around a tall tower, the full moon, a tiger who could see for a radius of 100 miles with perfect vision, an old man who lied, and far too much stair-climbing. Please note that the old man was the villain.
- A epic story about war. Think HP Battle of Hogwarts x 15690 + spread over 5 years. Some questing for the appropriate magical items to defeat SirX.
- A look into the inner workings of the body, magical school bus style with attacks from rainbow colored tadpoles.
- Life as an ant.
- Blur of emotion with no plot.
- Dragon-fighting and princess-killing combined with a school, a squid, and a broken chandelier.

Dreams are also really cool because of all the people that appear in them in so many ways. This shall not be a detailed list for it is long. Let me just say. It's funny.

Lastly, dreams are fantastic because you can return to them, remember them for years (crystal clear memory of the dinorsaur dream 10 years later), and also feel them (dude, plot number 1? INTENSE. I went through like 80 emotions in 5 minutes.) (Also, in the dream with butterflies, the kissing was fantastic.), and you can read amazing dream analysis for laughs afterwards.

Everyone should keep dream diaries.

There were no deep thoughts on the nature of dreams. But I would think that we have them because our brains need tv even when we sleep. Or a form of it. Which maybe shows our brains are wired towards entertainment normally, and not being entertained is abnormal? I dunno.

That's fantastic.
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You know what makes me cry?

When nobody will talk to me because everyone's busy with their own lives and then my stupid fear of being abandoned/isolated comes back because I'm happiest when I'm connected to people in some way and can feel it because I cry myself to sleep on the nights when I feel so lonely and disconnected. When I hear or read things that make a sharp pain push through my ribs and into my heart, because they're so real, so poignant. When I close my foot in the door and there's pain drowning everything else out for a moment. When emotions feel like they're swelling and swelling and swelling and bursting out from me and I'm nothing but emotion, no thoughts for a moment. When nobody seems to GET IT, even though I know it's universal, this intangible sphere that grows out from me and surrounds me with it's mournful ambience. When I need to run outside and shout at the stars for being so aloof, like the rest of the world, and I'm trapped by manners and societal behaviors drilled into me and a fear of being taken as insane, because I'm not - am I?. When I'm overly melodramatic and realize it but I can't stop because I have to figure out some way to last and that weird belief that if I can manage to move into some pre-decided path I know about I'll be able to follow someone else's footprints out of the desert but I can't because they're not real paths, they're holes I'm throwing myself into without a ladder or hope of getting out, just holes disguised as paths, and my eyes are masked by seven veils that do not drop away. When I'm cold and tired and have to move. When I want something and I'm not getting it. When I find out how useless I am and can feel the lack of a reason to exist, because it's not the number 42 or some quest or world-important thing - it's just to continue existence anyways. When I'm doubling up with nausea from imagined situations.

That's what makes me cry.
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You know what makes me feel crazy?

When the things I read feel like an out of body thing, and the fact that the emotions are just driving and driving like a road out into nowhere but it's a car going at top speed because there's a tsunami behind - they're just driving it onwards in the story and I GET THAT. I know that. It makes sense to me. That's when I'm feeling crazy - because this thing that I should find completely illogical, not understandable is normal for me. Why do I find it so easy to relate to that? That knowing everything is spinning off axis, we're going to crash into the sun, and it's all peachy? The story - they're now Willy and Blanche trying so hard to keep their world the same, the way they want it, and that's me, wrapped up in these illusions I need I need I need to have because they're the tissue paper obscuring my view of the world just enough but they're so easily ripped apart and I can't let you do that. The stories have that stream of consciousness and those odd moments that should sound so crazy work. And I'm sitting here wrapped in my blanket and suddenly it's too hot and it's too much and I can't sit still because there's too much, too much of the gritty that hits too hard too much for me. I don't want to be able to understand that odd fucked up dynamic that's going on there. I know what it's like to be high without ever having been so. And I can't sit still, I have to pace, and it won't stop, this knowing. And I'm blowing it all up again, with the melodrama of my oh so not angsty life and it is. It is crazy. And I'm crazy. And it's not okay. Then why do we make it okay? I don't know. I don't like that. Because you can hide the crazy with the tissue paper because it works both ways, doesn't it? Except if you peer really close it's so obvious that I wonder why nobody comments and maybe it's because it hurts their eyes to have to see, to have to know, to have to realize and feel that they should do something about it. Then I realize the world is shitty. Then I read this over and it made no sense and it's not right and even these other entries aren't me, they can't be me because I'm not like this, wrapped up in my mind, creeping around, the yellow wallpaper decorating the inside of my mind.

That's what makes me feel I'm crazy.

(This one is so not up to par. I dislike this because the words just aren't put together as nicely as number one.)

A Pool of Tears

Hello.

Life as an IB student consumes me.

Yet I'm terrified of what will come after.

I don't think I know...how not to be a student. After having it be a big part of my life for the last 12, how can I?

College may help with the transition - but even college is short. And it too, is different.

I've gotten a bit better in the past years.
I don't procrastinate as much.

But I think that all that procrastination earlier on has instilled in me an idea. The idea that if I don't do perfect, it's because I didn't try hard enough - I no longer can tell that I've done all I could. I don't ever believe I have. Therefore, every time something doesn't work out - I can logically blame myself.

This happens far too often nowadays.

Blogging has never been an outlet.
I don't need outlets.
Why am I blogging then?

I don't know. It's a phase.

Looking back through THA and this blog and LJ...makes me sad.
Relationships, friendships..they're all so transitory. At least for me. School has cut any chance of keeping them apart.
I spend lunch in the library. I work after school. I wallow in my own world.
My conversations begin and end with homework.

Then, WHY IS IT NOT ENOUGH?

I screwed up my life earlier. Need I screw it up more? Apparently, the answer is yes.

Too often, I find myself back into the world of stories. They've never really left me, have they? From the moment I learned how to read, stories have grabbed hold of my heart, my soul, and burrowed in to tempt me, to hurt me, to control me. I am....addicted. Real-life, fictional, romantic, fantastical, mysterious...I am captured.

The word captivated has traditionally come with connotations of admiration.
I choose to look at the word "captive". This is not pleasant. I am a prisoner, of myself.

Does living in my own world of words mean I cannot step outside? I am afraid to believe it true. Subconsciously, I long to experience it all. Yet, that which frees me, which addicts me, traps me, holds me back.

Vicious.

My strings are pulled by my guilty pleasures, and I confess to understanding and inaction.





I want.
- To be free to read all I want
- Friends I do not grow away from
- A social life
- Love, even in the form of like.
- Chocolate
- Cheese

Soy una marioneta quien jugando el juego de vida.
Pero nadie saben quien tiran de mis cuerdas.
¿Es una persona, or solamente yo?
Es posible para encontrar una manera para regresar a una vida sensible?
Quiero encontrar mis suenos.

Espero que, un dia, lo haré.

- This blog is.

(Anyone know what the title references?)