I've been doing a lot of reading this weekend about Anne Morrow Lindbergh. She says you have to be narcissistic to write. I find that slightly comforting. I'm definitely narcissistic. But when you think about it, it really is true. Who are you to tell someone else's story? What's so great about you to share your own story? Who do you think you are thinking that you have anything to offer the world?
But anyways she wrote A LOT. Especially in her diary. I have one...sort of...but I rarely use it. Mainly because I have to dig it out from it's hidden location. And then it'll suck up a few hours of my day because there's always more on my mind than I ever realize, which is pretty scary. So I usually avoid it. I never want to write about "events" either like it seems you'd want to...I need to write most often on days when absolutely nothing is happening. That's when I lose it. I should probably write more, it always does make me feel better. I'm in a really crappy mood. I don't really know how to put it in words. I'm too lazy to get my diary out so I'm just typing here. It just seems like every feeling has already been felt, what's the point of even writing it out? But Anne made it all seem important the way she wrote everything. Maybe feelings do matter. I mean, I know they do, but...I wondered for a moment that if people ever just get used to sadness and somehow come to abhor happiness. But you can't define happiness can you? It's different to each person. Cookies may be joy to me but depression to someone else who finds lasagna heavenly and I find it disgusting. So their happiness would be my dismay and so forth...that's a weird example, but anyways...everyone hates sadness. You might learn how to cope, but it will always wear you down. I just can't understand people who proclaim that the world sucks and that they're always sad. Yeah, it's pretty much true, but they make it sound like they don't enjoy anything and that they have no hope. I've been depressed, I don't know if I've ever really recovered, but I always held onto something and wasn't proud of my sorrow.
This weekend I started out in a bad mood and still am in one. I'm losing everyone close to me. I thought about my ex a lot. I think I was missing him...more missing certain aspects. It seems foolish looking back, but he did matter to me. I know that, but in a way I've forgotten. I erase specific pain from memory as to somehow comfort myself, but overall it stains memories, my entire life. I miss the innocence. I miss having him alone to care about. I miss talking...though I still to him. It's not the same, but it's easier right now. But it's not the same. There's an odd friendship. There's nothing, yet everything there. Two people who've never truly gotten to know each other, but that know each other better than anyone else. But that aren't willing to share anything overly personal. That can't ever see each other. That run out of things to say. But always come back to each other anyways. There are no romantic feelings anymore. But that's okay. I knew all along that we would just never be like that. But I wanted to think otherwise. I can't be so cruel to myself to ask why. It's so obvious. But now thinking about it, the chemistry was just all wrong...but now that it's over similarities keep coming. We grow more the same with each day. Yet my feelings fade more all the time. But I still miss him somehow.
But now my thoughts shift to Scandy. I'm concerned for him, I really am. I want to say I love him, but it's not in a way I can really describe. I lust after him and I respect him as a person, I care about him dearly, but something is missing. I think his respect for me. His refusal to believe in a dream. I know it would never work out. And I've admitted that early on, which is good. But I'll never give up my dreams, the dreams he refuses to even give a chance. It's already sort of falling apart, but I don't know...maybe it's better that it happens earlier on that getting all attached and being even more heartbroken later. But I don't think of the same anymore lately.
"Love" has disillusioned me. The "love" I know is an illusion. It's not real. I'm not so hateful to say it doesn't exist, but it doesn't in the ways everyone says it does. From my reading on Anne and just from different ideas and opinions I hear lately, I just don't believe in it, think of it the same way. I recall reading something like "marriage isn't just about love". And I'm beginning to believe it. And sex isn't the greatest thing in the world like society is making it seem. There's more to life. Not every love story is filled with white horses, beach getaways, and expensive dining. Not every prince is handsome or worthy of love. The same goes for the princesses. They're not all that special. Sometimes love just happens. You don't always choose. The why, where, when, it just happens. You can't go out looking for love. It has to come to you. I don't know exactly how it works, I'm just a dumb teenager. But I'm not going to search anymore. It's lead to too many dead-ends. I'm not saying it'll be easy. But I have to at least try. I might be lonely, but I'm not going to be desperate anymore. Focus on myself more. Right now there's very little to love about me. I need to fall in love with myself for a change instead of avoiding how much I hate myself and living off of the moments someone else sees something in me.
Love is strange...my thoughts, my feelings...they're all changing.
I'm alone and broken. For now. But I'll grow stronger.
Like I phoenix I've been reborn...I have new dreams, new aspirations. If I fall I might break some bones, but I will fly again. And if I should perish, well at least I can say I died trying.
