Of impressions and foundations.
Home is not necessarily a place. It can be a memory, a picture, a feeling. Home can be a person. Some would assume it’s the person you’re comfortable to talk about everything with, but the truth is quite the opposite; it’s the person you feel comfortable talking about nothing with. Not having anything to discuss isn’t unpleasant and silence isn’t labored. Words aren’t needed at home; they’re a mere externalisation of what’s already been said through looks and communions and touches.
Alright, directly ranting again.
Haven’t been posting daily because my bipolar disorder has been getting worse and I can’t write, plain and simple. Every day I come to tumblr and open a new text post and try to write something and I just can’t. So maybe I’ll be a little more annoying than usual if I post these days.
Child of the wilderness.
And in seclusion I rejoyce for I am no creature of love but of reason. It is inside my mind and in my own darkness where I feel safe. No company is best welcome than that of my thoughts as with them I am in such comfort that no other person can provide.
The first occasional ranting I warned you about.
So I took my friend out the other night and we had a few beers. We were only supposed to go see a play and head back home, but another friend called me in the middle of that process and we ended up in a pub nearby. The thing is her mother is very religious and insisted on picking her up because she “hadn’t let Angela stay out so late” (for the record, Angela is 20). So she picked us up at the pub amd gave me a ride home since we live close to each other. Today Angela told me her mother is mad at me for god knows what reason. I’m probably banished from her house (that I’ve frequented for the past seven years) and her mother says it’s “too much to bear”. What I’m failing to understand in the whole situation is why exactly would I have to play nice and maidenlike forever when I am so obviously not. It’s making me mad that my relationship with my best friend is probably gonna change because her mother can’t just accept I’m not a church choir girl. It’s hurting, really, because she’s the only person I still have left that will back me up on anything for sure and will be there for me anytime. Or maybe I am bound to solitude, which in fact is fine by me because really I’ll be less disappointed.
Not creating expectations means a near to zero chance of being let down. Means anything is a surprise since you weren’t expecting anything at all. Especially with people. After years of raising hope you realise that’s not the most clever thing to do, because no one can read into your thoughts to precisely achieve or pass your expectations of them. There is no one out there that will not let you down at least once, even if it’s just a bit. If people would just learn that life would be way easier. No having to mantain an image or play it nice, not hiding who you actually are is way better than being preoccupied all the time with whose expectations you’re going to shread or whose hopes you’re hoing to crush. Some may call me selfish alright, but not having to worry about any of that also means people won’t be upset with you, who’s around you won’t be let down and will like you for who you are, not some cheap sold out image of someone who’s supposed to follow conventions because society said so.
The tears that quietly insist on falling uneasily through these eyes are not a product of sorrow but of a great happiness that has overcome this soul like a flower that blossoms with the dawn and brings new life to the prairie where it stands. Tears of joy are a strange thing, crying without being sad gives you a strong sense of vulnerability that we normally avoid, and yet it is so good, so freeing, it’s all out and you didn’t have to say a word. Talking through your eyes, some people call it, and in the end it’s very much like that.
Read not by a habit, but for an addiction. Habits are something you do automatically on a daily basis because you have to and not because you like to. An addiction on the other hand is a craving, it’s a need to have more and to feed on that something above all things. Read because you want to, read because it makes you interested, read because it’s important to you, read because it will make you more clever, read because you want to have the whole world inside your head, read to be up to date with it. Read because you can. Read because it frees you from a close-minded life, puts you up on another baseline. Read a book a week. Read two, three books a week, the more the merrier. Read to extend your lexicon, meet different writing styles, work on your memory, improve your grammar. Read out of love.
The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is to be yourself without fear of having society’s hands over your throat. May be a cliche but it is the truth. Once you are not worried about what others will think or say or do you are free to be who you truly are, no strings attached. No conventions to follow, nobody to please but yourself. That’s the biggest achievement in one’s life, the power to live for oneself and by oneself, to depend on no one and to be self-sufficient. What people say about needing someone else by your side to be happy, that’s not true. You are all you need.
Resquiescat in pacem.
"And by a sleep, to say we end the heart-ache, and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to? ‘Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep, to sleep, perchance to dream; aye, there’s the rub, for in that sleep of death, what dreams may come, when we have shuffled off this mortal coil, must give us pause."
I met Death for the first time on November 3rd, 2008. To look at it in the coffin was devastating. To feel it on a daily basis in my life razed me. I had no strenght or will to keep doing everything I had to do, Death took it all. It took me quite a while - four years, in fact - to understand I had to move on with my life. Today, November 3rd, 2013, it’s been five years since I lost perhaps the most important person to me. I want to leave here written my love and respect for the man who changed my life for good. Be your goodness remembered, your memory preserved and may your soul rest in peace.
It is funny how wrong you can be about someone. To believe you truly know a person and they end up being something else. A fake. Every story they ever told you, every tiny detail of their lives, all lies. Then comes deception, then denial, then anger. Then “why?”. Then you adapt but it comes to your mind every now and then, still the feeling of betrayal and hurt. Until it fades some time after and gives way to regret to have ever trusted them. That person who was supposed yo be your friend and now lies at the bottom of the river that is your flowing conscience. And nowadays that’s just how things go. People try to convey an image to look nicer and some other people end up broken-hearted and it’s a constant and eternal turn of events. And life goes on and that’s fine and no one stops for you to pick up a piece of yourself that may have fallen on the way. You are bound to limp along the road, never to complain or look back, but always learning to cope.
To wander adrift in life and never to find your port, and by lunacy’s flaming daggers to be targeted as you do not know where to turn. To feel lost, without a safe haven to be when the storm breaks. To feel lonely. To be alone and to be lonely - two very different things, sometimes the noise around you is too hollow to be accounted so you abstract the murmurs and are left only with your thoughts where you can freely draw your breast without retraction. But to wander is not all bad, you could bump into your pot of gold. Maybe it can be a pot of flowers, depending on who gives them to you they could be more valuable than gold itself. To wander perchance to find your place of peace and rest; to wander, to wait, no more.
I got a bottle of Bailey’s from my grandfather the other day. Grandmother was horrified, said I’m not old enough to drink and my mother said it was a nice gift. In my mind it was the best present he could get me. Generation’s shock never got so clear to me as it did then. I remember grandmother always telling stories of how she grew up in a boarding school and had never kissed a boy before grandfather. I remember mother saying she wasn’t allowed too go out when she was my age. Then there’s me, staying out until 4 AM, going to concerts, travelling alone. And both my mother’s parents complain about how she raised me and how she raises my siblings. My sister is barely 16 and has gone to more parties than I have. My brother is 14 and has a better phone than all of my family put together. I always got a bit angry at my mother that she never let me have these things when I was their age, I always thought it was unfair. But just the same as grandmother barely saw her family and mother could only go out if my aunt covered for her, of course they are going to be allowed things that I was not. They are a different generation from me after all. It’s still funny how protective my mother was of me though, given how untidly she raises them. Now I see the best thing for me was to get out of her house and take care of my own stuff instead of living forever in angst and grudge in there.
To the top, to the bottom, repeat.
Concrete town, sultriness taking over every building and plaza, the sunlight hitting windows and coming back hot against your skin, unpleasant to your eyes, the heat insulting all living things and draining their energy. The nicest thing that can happen in this arid town is the rain. When the next day’s dawn breaks in the horizon the grass is no longer brown, the trees are in bloom and the air is easy to breathe, every nuance noticeable in the smell the waterdrops brought. Lightness and laughter and joy and smiles fill the air, the town is alive with bliss. Those tiny drops when saw separetely are nothing but a drizzle but when they unite and wash away the abundant mix of grey and brown, they make our lives easier by just doing what they are supposed to; and when they go back to the clouds and fall again and it’s the same water with renewed energies, with an everlasting power to purify everything it touches, it’s not only washing the city but our souls as well.
Claustrophobic (do not hold too tight).
The strangest feeling it is, to feel immured by a person you cherish, held in a sort of quixotic bastille; an amalgam of impressions that can only be described as appalling. All of us need our personal space at some point. I shan’t tell tales of independency and self-reliance; nor shall I compare freedom to the spreading of a hawk’s wings just before it dives into its enduring flight. The truth about it is it cannot be worded, it is over and beyond definition or mesurement, it is to be felt. Freedom is what you make of it, whatever can make you feel unstringed is good enough. It is essential to be the ruler of your own life, to be in control and to know you can manage every aspect of it. Priving people you love from their own time and personal space causes them to push you back and mostly, causes you to grow highly dependent on them when both should be free to make decisions and choose paths that concern your own private lives. It is your idependence that keeps you together.
It comes a time when one needs to start separating obligation from pleasure. You can’t only do the things you want to do, you’ve also got to do things you need to. Understanding what you need to do in order to keep your life on track and performing in order to achieve that. All decisions you make will affect someone else’s life, sometimes someone you don’t even know; where you’re at and how far you’ve come are both due to every interaction and conversation and choice that you have made so far. It is a good thing to think ahead, to plan your moves and to foresee other people’s moves that could affect you, much like a chess game. You can’t play it by yourself and neither can you play it recklessly. That’s what life’s about, analising situations and knowing what will be best for you instead of going for something you want but won’t add anything to you.