i'm in a different place now than i used to be before and it makes me wonder how different i'll be next year. and the year after. i'm drifting away from everything and everybody that i thought were the constants in my life and i just don't have a sense of trust anymore. i don't know what will happen next.
old poetry i don't understand still seems to apply to the present day- "fearing the future, missing the past." is life wasted if all i ever do is look back? i digress. maybe someday i'll get over it.
change is something that, i think, i've already accepted. it's just harder to get back up on my feet once it's happened. and it's as if i'm on a stranded island with everything i once had, lost in the ocean.
at least i have you. you're the only thing keeping me together.
"is it weird that we only miss things when they're gone, or is that inherent in the meaning of the word?" - bryan lee o'malley, lost at sea
2nd floor lunch
may 20th, 2016
el gato gordo
tuesday on the couch
Piles upon piles of stapled booklets, the
highlighted print read so many times
he swears that they’re burned onto the inside of his eyelids.
for it’s his responsibility to shape his voice,
his character, until the puzzle piece fits perfectly with all the others,
locked into place, just what the director wants
it’s just a bit of a long process, that’s all
translating his lines from two-dimensional text on paper
into raw emotion, articulation, projection
from his eyes to his mouth.
A flawless performance doesn’t come from sitting and waiting.
She, too, has got piles, not
filled with colons and light cues but
of watercolours, of abandoned
shapes that she has given up on.
It’s tough, chasing the artworks you
envision in your mind’s eye, and then
making eye contact with the monstrosity that
greets you from the page.
Haphazardly she flings lines of grey on to white
sheets bound together as an exhibit of trial and error,
flipping through will show you that
fully completed works are few and far between
yet she doesn’t give up. She never drops the pencil.
She’s not simply waiting until she gets good at this.
And myself? Well, I’ve got piles, not
splattered with paint or purple highlighter but
adorned monochromatically with printer ink
with staffs, clefs, and, how’s that rhythm go again?
Not much variation at first glance, other than
weird jazz fonts that make me squint. But
I digress. Sometimes I wonder how my
flimsy little fingers have made it this far,
how my lungs haven’t caved in
and if, upon hearing me, the composer would
wince in sheer agony, or perhaps his skeletal remains
perpetually have his bony hands over his ear-holes
because of those just like me.
Sometimes I retreat to my room, hands
aching, bewildered by the sudden absence
of sun (was it dark out when I started?)
and I tire, but stress and injury aside,
I cannot wait to play those melodies again.
I cannot wait to grow and improve.
i didn't expect that spending 6 days away from my family would make me grow a fonder appreciation for them. in fact, i viewed the trip as a getaway from just that. an escape from those i share a home with. however, as soon as i felt the dull rumble of the plane as the ground fell farther beneath me, i knew i'd be coming home in a week with some souvenirs and a little more love.
i guess i should be more grateful. growing up the stoic indifference towards my parents and childish aggravation towards my brothers that just happened to be the default began to bloom into the frustration of wanting freedom and coveting the way my siblings were raised differently because of their gender. more so recently, being a (gagging noise) teenager and all. but coming to the realization that my parents really are not out to get me, they're just raising me the way that they were taught how, is sort of bittersweet.
am i still frustrated? yes. but do i have the same lack of empathy towards my parents as i used to? no. i understand a little more now. and i'll just have to sit tight and endure it in this weird stage of life.
...like a ghost misses tangibility, how it can only watch hopelessly as skin brushes against skin, fingers trace patterns on arms and backs, looks down at its own translucent wispy form and can think of just one word: incomplete.
...like a pet fish misses the sea, how its pathetic rectangular confinement and plastic plants cannot compare to the simultaneous thrill and comfort of home. torn miles away from the place it holds dearest.
...like a blind man misses sight, how he clings desperately onto the treasured remnants of colours, faces, moments that he'll never let go of, and how he replays them over and over in his mind's eye like a faulty dvd player.
come back. i promise i will try to be better company than anyone out there on that island could ever be.
have you ever made a new year's resolution that you kept?
no. i have commitment issues lol
also, isn't the name kind of funny? new year's "resolution", like you're trying to resolve an issue? to me, posing a resolution for yourself just seems like creating yet another issue, yet another hurdle, to tackle. like you're already just fine as you are, but you're just weeding out small discrepancies to fix. improving yourself just for the sake of improving yourself.
i don't have a problem with new year's resolutions, nor do i have a problem with those who decide to make them. i just have a problem understanding it all. it's one of those things that, at my age, i have the privilege to dismiss with a simple "maybe i'll get it when i'm older and more experienced." there are other things for a teenager to be worried about than using a new year as an excuse to fabricate life issues or resolve already existing ones.
this is the happiest christmas ive had in a while!! tbh i dont even care about what im getting, or any of that. im just happy that i can spend christmas with all my friends and all that gay shit ❤❤
ill write more later im so tired rn