I must write quickly, for I am in school and supposed to be playing on some stupid thing to prepare everyone for the science FCAT. It is, of course, not working- as is typical with all these FCAT preparation sites they make us to get on.
This, given the aforementioned circumstances, anything I write shall not very much be worth anything.. Forgive me.
I am such a fool, forever causing myself pointless hope or pointless confusion and driving others away. Just by saying so, I cause more of it.. But what can I do? I just wish someone would care about me so that I could have the power to care for others and the strength to stay on track towards loving others and, perhaps, being loved a bit. But I just don't have something to fall in to. If someone asked, I'd probably do it- but who wants that responsibility? Who cares to put up with me when I am so helpless in that area?
No one, no one loves like me. But what good am I? My love is held back by loneliness, disappointment, and the beginning stages of hate.
Showing posts with label alone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label alone. Show all posts
Friday, January 15, 2010
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Imprisoned
Where head I? The same destination I've always sought.
Always magical because of my fabrications, but evermore to
Lack your material presence- just like I... Oh..
Kind you are not, in being or in thought.
An average walk; one I take with the most frequency. All about me are various trails to traverse, heading here or there, but I always head towards the place that enchants me with memories of you and all I attributed to you and how much you always meant to me, for better or for ill.
The five corpses of cormorants have decayed, I notice, but whoever the sadistic man is who is killing them must have attempted a sixth killing: a poor cormorant hobbles, with one wing extended- broken, shot, or both- as fast as it may. I make a note to seek it out on my way back and perhaps inquire as to what can be done with it, rehabilitation wise. It scoots off and I feel terrible and guilty but continue down the road of sugary, dirty sand.
A family- mother, son, and daughter- are underneath the bridge. I believe I frighten the lady, who probably assumes that I am off to either use or buy drugs. I smile meekly and continue on, forsaking my usual gaze into the brown water.
It's nice to get out, and out of my house and out of all other stifling, oppressive places, my problems are more clear- revealing that they are, indeed, insolvable but at least able to be classified if only I would bring a pencil and paper to write it all down for future reference..
There are many, many birds out, as it should be. I believe they are robins; they look like the proud bird I saw hopping about in Idaho. It's pretty. It's nature. And it reminds me of you. It makes me wish I weren't alone, so that I could vocalize all the small joys I could feel from what is about me, if only the darkness within me weren't suppressing such things. I continue on.
My thoughts follow the same pattern they have for years as I walk here.. Still! Still I cannot understand these things! Still I lack hope in the most complete way, both consciously and unconsciously, and yet simultaneously hold on to a dream- as the basis for that dream within me crumbles to minuscule pieces. The thoughts I harbor are the same I did a year ago- a year and a half ago- very near to two years ago. It is as if I cannot extricate myself from a cruel dream in which I play the part of one who can be neither pitied nor liked, loved or hated, understood or misunderstood, and though living, can never live because others have denied her existence.
Dreaming. It must be a cruel dream. No one lives like this, right? No one is like me! Not one person! No one holds on to the things I do! No one is so suppressed in real life! No one is imprisoned by their very existence! No one is given only one exit: death! Therefore: I dream; surely I dream.
But no one will wake me up. The ones I love care not to do so.. Why? Why am I always first to be forgotten and hated?
But I do not cry. I do not wish to return home, to my mom, with incriminating eyes and a reddened face. I do not wish to brush off the truth and ignore the elephant in the room after it has kicked me in the face.
Always magical because of my fabrications, but evermore to
Lack your material presence- just like I... Oh..
Kind you are not, in being or in thought.
An average walk; one I take with the most frequency. All about me are various trails to traverse, heading here or there, but I always head towards the place that enchants me with memories of you and all I attributed to you and how much you always meant to me, for better or for ill.
The five corpses of cormorants have decayed, I notice, but whoever the sadistic man is who is killing them must have attempted a sixth killing: a poor cormorant hobbles, with one wing extended- broken, shot, or both- as fast as it may. I make a note to seek it out on my way back and perhaps inquire as to what can be done with it, rehabilitation wise. It scoots off and I feel terrible and guilty but continue down the road of sugary, dirty sand.
A family- mother, son, and daughter- are underneath the bridge. I believe I frighten the lady, who probably assumes that I am off to either use or buy drugs. I smile meekly and continue on, forsaking my usual gaze into the brown water.
It's nice to get out, and out of my house and out of all other stifling, oppressive places, my problems are more clear- revealing that they are, indeed, insolvable but at least able to be classified if only I would bring a pencil and paper to write it all down for future reference..
There are many, many birds out, as it should be. I believe they are robins; they look like the proud bird I saw hopping about in Idaho. It's pretty. It's nature. And it reminds me of you. It makes me wish I weren't alone, so that I could vocalize all the small joys I could feel from what is about me, if only the darkness within me weren't suppressing such things. I continue on.
My thoughts follow the same pattern they have for years as I walk here.. Still! Still I cannot understand these things! Still I lack hope in the most complete way, both consciously and unconsciously, and yet simultaneously hold on to a dream- as the basis for that dream within me crumbles to minuscule pieces. The thoughts I harbor are the same I did a year ago- a year and a half ago- very near to two years ago. It is as if I cannot extricate myself from a cruel dream in which I play the part of one who can be neither pitied nor liked, loved or hated, understood or misunderstood, and though living, can never live because others have denied her existence.
Dreaming. It must be a cruel dream. No one lives like this, right? No one is like me! Not one person! No one holds on to the things I do! No one is so suppressed in real life! No one is imprisoned by their very existence! No one is given only one exit: death! Therefore: I dream; surely I dream.
But no one will wake me up. The ones I love care not to do so.. Why? Why am I always first to be forgotten and hated?
But I do not cry. I do not wish to return home, to my mom, with incriminating eyes and a reddened face. I do not wish to brush off the truth and ignore the elephant in the room after it has kicked me in the face.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Metaphorical Tornado
As the skies grew darkest, I was left alone..
Loneliness is my home, when most I feel.
Inside I prayed that you'd protect me..
Verily, I go where only I can.
Ever I will forgive you for my passage.
I dreamt..
And in that dream, it so happened:
I was sitting at a bench in a large field before what appeared to be a stereotypical New England private college (white, pristine, old but well maintained, statues dotting the courtyard- it even had the classic path leading to a circle going both ways about a fountain in the middle of the path). I was not alone; at least, I was not alone, technically. Sarah and a few other people that were paying little attention to me were there, too, and though I wasn't particularly enjoying the interaction with the other people (because, as I said, they paid me little heed), I wasn't too miserable.
The sky, as we sat beneath it, appeared as most skies do right before a wicked, fast-moving storm, except that the clouds morphed from type to type, changed color, and moved from here to there within seconds. A cloud that was a steel grey one moment became black the next and then would revert back to a near-white, dull grey. I was spending a lot of time looking at the sky, and as I watched, a group of terribly black clouds conjoined and formed what soon became a funnel-cloud and then- in a matter of seconds- a tornado that was about a half-mile from us (yet not bothering us, yet). At first, its path pushed it towards the beautifully stereotypical school building, but it soon bounced back and headed towards the picnic table where we sat when it reached the school's gates.
My friends, who were sitting on the ends of the picnic tables (in other words, in positions which allowed them to get up from the table and run with little effort), sped away in directions horizontal to the table, but I was unable to rise in time to safely run (I was situtated in the middle of the table and took a long while climbing over the bench). By the time I freed myself of the bench's stiff support, I had no time to run either right or left (I know, in reality, a tornado wouldn't be able to be escaped by running right or left away from it, but). I fell to the ground- somewhat like the suggestion always made for one to lay in a ditch, should one be out when a tornado forms- and held tight to the muddy, perfect, prepatory school sod. Ten dream seconds or so later- and after already beginning a feverish prayer to God to help me through and keep me from harm- the tornado was atop of me, where it span in its circle for a good ten seconds or so, trying its hardest to uproot me from the ground. I kept praying and my task- to stay connected to the grass in order to not be sucked into the vortex- was easy. The tornado passed and continued on.
Afterwards, in the halls of the school, as my friends began to gossip about the tornado, I would interject with my story of being within it and not being harmed. However, even though I presented my story each time with zeal, each time my "friends" (many of them the ones who fled in fear themselves) payed little attention to me and my story and, in fact, blatantly ignored me (as people often do in reality).
I had made it through a tough time, with God's help, and no one cared to hear of what was, to me, a miracle.
It both foretells and sheds insight on the past. This story- my story- is all my own. What is spectacular to me is old hat to others.. Or simply not interesting in the least. I have my tales. And I wouldn't trade them for anything.
Loneliness is my home, when most I feel.
Inside I prayed that you'd protect me..
Verily, I go where only I can.
Ever I will forgive you for my passage.
I dreamt..
And in that dream, it so happened:
I was sitting at a bench in a large field before what appeared to be a stereotypical New England private college (white, pristine, old but well maintained, statues dotting the courtyard- it even had the classic path leading to a circle going both ways about a fountain in the middle of the path). I was not alone; at least, I was not alone, technically. Sarah and a few other people that were paying little attention to me were there, too, and though I wasn't particularly enjoying the interaction with the other people (because, as I said, they paid me little heed), I wasn't too miserable.
The sky, as we sat beneath it, appeared as most skies do right before a wicked, fast-moving storm, except that the clouds morphed from type to type, changed color, and moved from here to there within seconds. A cloud that was a steel grey one moment became black the next and then would revert back to a near-white, dull grey. I was spending a lot of time looking at the sky, and as I watched, a group of terribly black clouds conjoined and formed what soon became a funnel-cloud and then- in a matter of seconds- a tornado that was about a half-mile from us (yet not bothering us, yet). At first, its path pushed it towards the beautifully stereotypical school building, but it soon bounced back and headed towards the picnic table where we sat when it reached the school's gates.
My friends, who were sitting on the ends of the picnic tables (in other words, in positions which allowed them to get up from the table and run with little effort), sped away in directions horizontal to the table, but I was unable to rise in time to safely run (I was situtated in the middle of the table and took a long while climbing over the bench). By the time I freed myself of the bench's stiff support, I had no time to run either right or left (I know, in reality, a tornado wouldn't be able to be escaped by running right or left away from it, but). I fell to the ground- somewhat like the suggestion always made for one to lay in a ditch, should one be out when a tornado forms- and held tight to the muddy, perfect, prepatory school sod. Ten dream seconds or so later- and after already beginning a feverish prayer to God to help me through and keep me from harm- the tornado was atop of me, where it span in its circle for a good ten seconds or so, trying its hardest to uproot me from the ground. I kept praying and my task- to stay connected to the grass in order to not be sucked into the vortex- was easy. The tornado passed and continued on.
Afterwards, in the halls of the school, as my friends began to gossip about the tornado, I would interject with my story of being within it and not being harmed. However, even though I presented my story each time with zeal, each time my "friends" (many of them the ones who fled in fear themselves) payed little attention to me and my story and, in fact, blatantly ignored me (as people often do in reality).
I had made it through a tough time, with God's help, and no one cared to hear of what was, to me, a miracle.
It both foretells and sheds insight on the past. This story- my story- is all my own. What is spectacular to me is old hat to others.. Or simply not interesting in the least. I have my tales. And I wouldn't trade them for anything.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
For once.. I wish to return to civilization.
Being alone is fine, when alone is what I choose,
After that, I long for the chance for a change.
Carelessness I cannot long uphold..
Kristen, my dear, you are meant to dream of better things while you have the good. Return!
I deeply want to attend school tomorrow. It is getting rather depressing and worrisome being cooped up in my house with both my eyes itching and being rather stiff. I'd rather go to school and face the bittersweet reality of possibility and failure than the pseudo-reality of missing out on all the small, insignificant occurrences. My! I would never survive should I drop out of high school. Good thing I haven't the least desire to do that (I love the concept of learning and showing learning achievements through the passing of classes and the acquisition of credits).
Anyhow. I am in a sort of bland, good period of my life where God is really giving me the opportunity to peacefully learn about Him. Sadly, I have neglected this opportunity more than I should.. But the time I've spent reading the Bible has been fruitful, though I can't yet tell you how. I read the words, and though they aren't convicting me, they are real to me. As if I witnessed Jesus' sermons and saw him in his last days and really heard the wisdom in his parables.
My life is really, really good right now. I've found peace in God and don't have to fret over a certain someone. COUGH. That doesn't mean I still don't like him.. But putting him as my god unintentionally not only ruins me and my relationship with God but also freaks him out. Besides, I don't want a desperate relationships- ever. I want one of mutual dependence (to an extent), kindness, help, and trust.
That is all- I want to get to bed so that I can focus, should I attend my silly school in the morning.
After that, I long for the chance for a change.
Carelessness I cannot long uphold..
Kristen, my dear, you are meant to dream of better things while you have the good. Return!
I deeply want to attend school tomorrow. It is getting rather depressing and worrisome being cooped up in my house with both my eyes itching and being rather stiff. I'd rather go to school and face the bittersweet reality of possibility and failure than the pseudo-reality of missing out on all the small, insignificant occurrences. My! I would never survive should I drop out of high school. Good thing I haven't the least desire to do that (I love the concept of learning and showing learning achievements through the passing of classes and the acquisition of credits).
Anyhow. I am in a sort of bland, good period of my life where God is really giving me the opportunity to peacefully learn about Him. Sadly, I have neglected this opportunity more than I should.. But the time I've spent reading the Bible has been fruitful, though I can't yet tell you how. I read the words, and though they aren't convicting me, they are real to me. As if I witnessed Jesus' sermons and saw him in his last days and really heard the wisdom in his parables.
My life is really, really good right now. I've found peace in God and don't have to fret over a certain someone. COUGH. That doesn't mean I still don't like him.. But putting him as my god unintentionally not only ruins me and my relationship with God but also freaks him out. Besides, I don't want a desperate relationships- ever. I want one of mutual dependence (to an extent), kindness, help, and trust.
That is all- I want to get to bed so that I can focus, should I attend my silly school in the morning.
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