Broken promises waiting to happen. Here goes.
1.) Get my body into better shape (number one on every female's New Year's resolution list)
2.) Write every day
3.) Take more pictures, to improve my photography and capture more memories
4.) Take risks
5.) Step out of my comfort zones
6.) Get a job and don't blow every paycheck on clothes
7.) Learn how to cook more foods (This will matter one day!)
8.) Spend more time with my friends
9.) Be more outgoing
10.) Be more honest with people
11.) Learn how to do something new
12.) Try to improve my self-confidence (Worth a try, right?)
13.) Get more sleep. (Says the girl writing a blog post at 1:47 AM)
Thirteen resolutions for 2013.
Happy New Year!
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
Misery
Just like the curse, just like the stray
You feed it once, and now it stays
-Metallica, "Until It Sleeps"
….
I lay in my bed, wrapped up in the dark cocoon of sheets and blankets. I let the warmth of my own breath thaw my body out, curl up like a sleepy cat. I listen to my music, changing the volume depending on the song. Angry ones louder, screaming with me in agreement. Gentle ones quiet, comforting me, sometimes coaxing tears from my eyes. And deliriously, I dissect every song. Listen to specific parts. Violins. Bass parts. Strumming patterns. The rise and fall of the singers' voices. And I wallow.
How do other people feel sadness?
Do they cry? Do they eat? Do they write? Do they scream? Do they disguise it as anger and blame the world for everything? Do they get quiet? Do they simply hide it and pretend nothing is wrong?
How often do other people feel sad?
Every day? Or just every once in a while? When bad things happen? When they hear bad news? When they see other people being happier than they are? When it rains? When their plans are ruined? When they watch a sad movie or hear a sad song? When they remember something that they wish was more than a memory?
All that I know is that there is something not quite right about my sadness.
For me, sadness is an ocean that I sail on, swim in, drink from, drown in.
It's not really an emotion. It's constant, like a heartbeat. It flows through my veins. It is the backdrop of my thoughts. It is the electricity that fuels my brainwaves. I breathe in oxygen, breathe out sorrow.
Sometimes it sleeps, curls up in the back of my mind and drifts away. It dulls in comparison to the here and now, when my thoughts are needed elsewhere. It unwraps its cold fingers from my throat, and patiently waits, all the while watching how long I can forget about it.
But then it attacks. Jumps from the shadows and strangles me from behind, pulling me to the floor. Then, it holds me like a child, comforting me as it feeds off of me, sucking the life from me like a vampire. And I succumb. Misery loves company. And I open the door and welcome it across the threshold. Why would I leave it there on my doorstep? Why would I leave it to its loneliness when I know how it feels to be lonely?
And who else could I run to?
The phone rings. January. She wants to complain. I'm not in the mood to be the open ears and the shoulder to cry on. But it seems to be my fate, doesn't it? Mom answers. I shake my head. Yuuki takes the call. Her patience astounds me. Not shortly after answering, I hear Yuuki's voice trailing down the steps as she ascends them. "What happened?"
And I'm suddenly so grateful that it isn't me this time, being the director for the production of someone else's life. Designing sets, writing scripts, fixing problems, setting the stage. It's something I can be very talented at, when I'm in the mood for playing Miss Fix-It. But I'm not. I usually don't mind helping them. How would I be able to sleep at night knowing that someone could feel the things that I feel? No one deserves to feel that way. Except maybe for me, it seems.
How was your day? How was your weekend? How is your relationship? Want to know what I think? Do you want me to tell you what to say? What to do? Want me to cheer you up?
All questions I never ask, but get answers for anyway. No one ever asked me if I cared. I don't anymore. The tables never turn.
But let's face the question: what would I do if they actually did? Someone else shedding some light on my problems for a change? I'd wither. I'd scramble to clean up the mess my mind has become, and claim that nothing was wrong. And they'd believe me.
And the Facebook messages, popping up like unwanted visitors. Alexandria's boyfriend, gushing over how happy he is that she's spending a few days at his house. Whoop-dee-do. January, with her bad grammar and predicaments that her brain can't handle, so she dumps them off on me. I give her advice that she doesn't even take. Symphony, the only friend I wholeheartedly trust, and I'm reluctant to open up to her about anything because I know that her ignoring my problems will be just another problem I have no one to bitch to about.
Maybe I'll stop using Facebook. Maybe I'll never answer the phone. (I already refuse to) Maybe I'll keep to myself in school and watch my friends drift away like dandelion seeds in the wind. And smile because every seed detached itself from the stem without that much effort. A puff of air. A simple sigh of exasperation. And there it is, my wish coming true.
I am more than just ears. Why doesn't anyone see that?
After keeping your honesty and your problems inside for so long, the place where you store them becomes congested. So they have no choice but to spill out and eat away at your brain, your feelings, your life, your soul.
And there is my sadness, holding me when no one else does.
You feed it once, and now it stays
-Metallica, "Until It Sleeps"
….
I lay in my bed, wrapped up in the dark cocoon of sheets and blankets. I let the warmth of my own breath thaw my body out, curl up like a sleepy cat. I listen to my music, changing the volume depending on the song. Angry ones louder, screaming with me in agreement. Gentle ones quiet, comforting me, sometimes coaxing tears from my eyes. And deliriously, I dissect every song. Listen to specific parts. Violins. Bass parts. Strumming patterns. The rise and fall of the singers' voices. And I wallow.
How do other people feel sadness?
Do they cry? Do they eat? Do they write? Do they scream? Do they disguise it as anger and blame the world for everything? Do they get quiet? Do they simply hide it and pretend nothing is wrong?
How often do other people feel sad?
Every day? Or just every once in a while? When bad things happen? When they hear bad news? When they see other people being happier than they are? When it rains? When their plans are ruined? When they watch a sad movie or hear a sad song? When they remember something that they wish was more than a memory?
All that I know is that there is something not quite right about my sadness.
For me, sadness is an ocean that I sail on, swim in, drink from, drown in.
It's not really an emotion. It's constant, like a heartbeat. It flows through my veins. It is the backdrop of my thoughts. It is the electricity that fuels my brainwaves. I breathe in oxygen, breathe out sorrow.
Sometimes it sleeps, curls up in the back of my mind and drifts away. It dulls in comparison to the here and now, when my thoughts are needed elsewhere. It unwraps its cold fingers from my throat, and patiently waits, all the while watching how long I can forget about it.
But then it attacks. Jumps from the shadows and strangles me from behind, pulling me to the floor. Then, it holds me like a child, comforting me as it feeds off of me, sucking the life from me like a vampire. And I succumb. Misery loves company. And I open the door and welcome it across the threshold. Why would I leave it there on my doorstep? Why would I leave it to its loneliness when I know how it feels to be lonely?
And who else could I run to?
The phone rings. January. She wants to complain. I'm not in the mood to be the open ears and the shoulder to cry on. But it seems to be my fate, doesn't it? Mom answers. I shake my head. Yuuki takes the call. Her patience astounds me. Not shortly after answering, I hear Yuuki's voice trailing down the steps as she ascends them. "What happened?"
And I'm suddenly so grateful that it isn't me this time, being the director for the production of someone else's life. Designing sets, writing scripts, fixing problems, setting the stage. It's something I can be very talented at, when I'm in the mood for playing Miss Fix-It. But I'm not. I usually don't mind helping them. How would I be able to sleep at night knowing that someone could feel the things that I feel? No one deserves to feel that way. Except maybe for me, it seems.
How was your day? How was your weekend? How is your relationship? Want to know what I think? Do you want me to tell you what to say? What to do? Want me to cheer you up?
All questions I never ask, but get answers for anyway. No one ever asked me if I cared. I don't anymore. The tables never turn.
But let's face the question: what would I do if they actually did? Someone else shedding some light on my problems for a change? I'd wither. I'd scramble to clean up the mess my mind has become, and claim that nothing was wrong. And they'd believe me.
And the Facebook messages, popping up like unwanted visitors. Alexandria's boyfriend, gushing over how happy he is that she's spending a few days at his house. Whoop-dee-do. January, with her bad grammar and predicaments that her brain can't handle, so she dumps them off on me. I give her advice that she doesn't even take. Symphony, the only friend I wholeheartedly trust, and I'm reluctant to open up to her about anything because I know that her ignoring my problems will be just another problem I have no one to bitch to about.
Maybe I'll stop using Facebook. Maybe I'll never answer the phone. (I already refuse to) Maybe I'll keep to myself in school and watch my friends drift away like dandelion seeds in the wind. And smile because every seed detached itself from the stem without that much effort. A puff of air. A simple sigh of exasperation. And there it is, my wish coming true.
I am more than just ears. Why doesn't anyone see that?
After keeping your honesty and your problems inside for so long, the place where you store them becomes congested. So they have no choice but to spill out and eat away at your brain, your feelings, your life, your soul.
And there is my sadness, holding me when no one else does.
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