Tuesday, September 30, 2008

What You Ask For...

This entry started off as a reflective assignment for my Composition Theory class. After finishing it, I realized that it was really meant for here. I turned it in anyway...

* * *

I’ve started to sleep with the light on again. I concluded a while ago that my fear of the dark is directly proportional to the amount of stress in my life. At this point, I’m apprehensive about getting up and going to the bathroom because of the five seconds of insufferable blackness that separates my room and the light switch. I’m not quite sure if that constitutes as some form of social commentary; I’m completely comfortable in my skin, but at times, I fee like it hinders other’s ability to be naturally comfortable with me. So, most of the time, I feel like a beached whale, surrounded by an ocean of well-intentioned individuals. The glaring differences make it hard to see much else, and I can’t help but feel sorry for them. I know that that’s an ironic concept; it both is and isn’t their fault that I grew up in a subdivision of their discursive existence. The similarities are atrociously intriguing, but the differences have a way of putting everything into perpetual perspective. Here I am, creating the beginnings of what might prove to be a ritualistic purging of the non-sequential, expressive, deceitfully telling writing that has marked the communicative growth I have experienced over the years, and all I can think about is the idea that this soul-letting will work to foster a base disconnectedness that will enable me to write more like an academic. I can’t think of anything more classically pathetic.

* * *

I miss the days when I was certain about things; the days when I was secure. Now I seem to exist in a continual state of intellectual disarray. I don’t trust the viability of my own thoughts, and I can’t help but think that this path is one big conspiracy to make me a functioning alcoholic. I never drank as much as I have since I’ve been here, and it’s only been about a month. Talk about your gateway drugs. I’m convinced that the desire to pursue a life in academia is the most significant social anathema in existence. I was already a recluse, and even I have my reservations. (As a side note, that was not initially meant to be a punny reference to the current state of Native-American sovereign territories.) All this leaves me wondering if my tangential, markedly interconnect trains of though will, at some point, come barreling toward each other in what is sure to be the final reckoning of my intellectual existential being. I mean, will I ever be able to avoid the cerebral overload that comes with the assimilation of massive amounts of (oft- disparaging) case studies on human exigency (know, more affectionately, as literature)? For—to hijack, resituate and ironize an oft quoted scripture—my cup runneth over as it is.

* * *

The other day, I genuinely wept while reading Harper Lee’s To Kill a Monkingbird, and I’ve not been alright sense. Looking the way I do, being the way I am, feeling the way I feel, I can’t help but hurt when humanity trades in its individually inspired brilliance for a work-bee like reliance on mob mentality. We possess tools that both damn and save us, and I am torn to pieces by the price we each have to pay for misguided, oft-violent, centralization of human intellectual capital. We chant, “I am legion” as we slaughter each other by the millions, all for a frustrated desire to connect with ourselves and, by extension, each other. It hurts, and the books only serve to concretize the inner turmoil that breeds such contemptible behavior. They give me hope; they leave me in despair. Still, I profess literature, and I must press on. I’m just at a loss for what I’m supposed to do with these feelings. “I could stand a little help.”

Sunday, September 07, 2008

Another Day...

Today is Sunday and I, willfully, did not go to church. There. I said it. I'm a creature of habit that has lost any connection to the routine that has marked its life for so long. Where is life alert when you need it? I'm tired of pretending, of being the knight in gilded armor in little, unimportant, ways. Few know how draining it is to smile and nod and grin when everything within you wants to be frank and honest. Why must I be stuck with caring, picking up where others have dropped anything they could stand to gesticulate? I have so much stored inside that my dreams have become an inadequate release valve; they've given up, and apparently convinced sleep to follow suit. I wish to God they'd return.

For so long I've been the go to guy for things. My life has been made up perpetual layers of falsities; my personality has become malleable to the point that it always lacks any definite shape, and that disturbs me to no end. I can befriend anyone; make people smile; be attractive; be seductive; seem clueless; seem helpless. But, when it all comes down to it, I have a hard time being me, for I am all and none of these things.

Why can I not just be me anymore? I want to make love just as much as the next person does. Why is that so bad? It's gotten to the point where refraining from swearing is something that I do more so out of habit than reverence. I don't sleep with random people because I'm picky not because I'm fearful of some precipitous decent into the nether regions of post-humus existence.

Still, there are always people to worry about. I know when they're lying to me; I know when they're insecure. I can tell from the tone of their voice how their day has been, and I know when their hiding the screaming, raging, daemons inside. People never expect you to be perceptive, though they secretly wish you would be. It's taken me twenty-two years to realize that. Now, I know why I'm always so socially awkward: I get glimpses of emotions and can't shake them quick enough. I guess it's always been that way.

I need a vacation.

Monday, September 01, 2008

Silent Scream...

So, it seems that I've fallen back into old habits. I've been MIA, and I apologize to whoever cares. Things have been interesting for the last few weeks. As I hinted in the previous post, I've been on a path of self discovery, and it's led me to uncharted territory. I've met new people who may turn out to be just insane enough to carry me along with them. Somehow, it doesn't feel like the blind leading the blind.

Orientation started last week and ended Friday. It's amazing how much of a sense of camaraderie can develop between like minded individuals who just happen to be strangers. All in all, things have been going smoothly. I really missed writing here and I didn't realize how much it helps until my fingers started composing what you see now. My sleep has been fitful, and rest has been elusive. I think it has something to do with the change in locale--however cerebral. I'm hoping that I'll find some stability before classes start and I'm forced to operate with a helter-skelter sense of balance. It's bad enough that I'm already intellectually insecure; I really don't need to add emotional instability to the, already complicated, equation.

Maybe I need music to re-appear in my life, or maybe I need someone to come along and hold me and tell me that everything will be alright. Despite the crowd, I feel as lonely as I've ever felt, and I can't help but think that I'll learn to be numb to it before any relief will come. I'm so picky, so skeptical, so vulnerable that trust never enters the picture--neither for myself nor another. It's insanity; I know. Still I can't help but feel the silence and shiver at the thought of how cold it gets.

Music, why so soft? Hope, why so quiet? Time, why so still? Help, why so far? I read somewhere that "courage doesn't always roar", that "sometimes courage is the quiet voice a the end of the day saying 'I will try again tomorrow'"

...I apologize for being so personal...