Selfishness of the Highest Order
So this is me taking an 8-minute break from studying for my SL Anthropology IB Exam on Friday, which will likely turn into more than an 8-minute break, but I need the caffiene to kick in before I continue or I will likely fall asleep. I haven’t written on here for a while. In fact, I haven’t truly written in a while, period. My diary has probably gathered cobwebs and dust from sitting there untouched for months, but, the reluctance to face every feeling that I can’t exorcise coupled with the severe time shortage courtesy of the IB programme, make a dry spell in my usual musings quite logical and obvious. It’s pretty terrible, actually, because who else do I have to vent to? I have friends, I do, but it seems that lately I have retreated from most of my relationships. I feel that, as time passed these past few years, my terrestrial connection to the continent of society has become subject to a corrosive sort of erosion that wore it away to the point where I’m hanging on by a thin, thin land bridge, dangerously close to becoming an island. Self-sufficiency and independence are ideal for a person of my temperament on paper, but in practice the mere attempt detracts from relationships so much that they can lead beautiful, honest, fulfilling friendships to become shells of what they once were, and the people who were engaged of them, just as empty. But I can’t help it. I keep on looking inwardly, more and more, and I’ve been reprimanded quite a few times by many of my friends for doing so but it’s become so natural. The physicality of it persists because my physical presence has not been withdrawn, meaning that I still go out and hang out with people, but my emotions are no longer there. They’re become shut-ins, recluses, vague whispers that were once uttered but now faded into faint echoes and ebbed into oblivion. They’re there, oh God, they’re fucking there, underneath it all, but they no longer show. I don’t know if they ever did, but I do know that I have never felt more closed up than I do now. I know that I used to be more transparent. It must be true. But, I don’t know, I suppose I wouldn’t know who to confide in even if I wanted to. It’s not that I don’t trust anyone, because I do have a few friends who I know would get it and do get it, and I love them for it, but, it’s not even that I feel burdensome unloading the weight of my world not their shoulders, but it’s this selfish impulse to keep it all inside with the hopes that someone will seek to elicit it. Selfishness of the highest order, I suppose, wanting someone to want you to spill your secrets like shiny pearls into their palms so that they could marvel at your complexity, cherish it, cherish you for everything that you are. I guess I’m bored, tried, sick of all of the monotony, of all of the perfunctory mundanity of life and how it has become this perpetual ritual of striving punctuated by the culmination of that striving in the form of examination. Funny, that’s my way of saying it’s become studying for one test after another, climbing one mountain only to be faced with another. So I need the excitement of bundling up only to unravel later. Or, or, it’s a product of my insecurity. Maybe I need someone to want it all to come to light as a source of validation for myself, for my value, worth, interesting nature. Ugh, how horribly self-deprecating. Anyway, must return to the machine, will engage in further exploration of this later, if time allows.
To the Walls I Built:
The mortar is caked between my fingernails. I cannot dislodge it from the bed of my nail. I wash and I wash, scrubbing my skin raw with a metal sponge, but it remains like the bloodstains on the lily-white hands of Lady Macbeth. The tears flow along my breathing pores, gingerly tracing the bend of my cheeks, and my eyes are bloodshot, every vein pulsating and poised to burst. I can see the blood pool around my cuticles. It is quite hypnotic, how the scarlet spring oozes, uncoils and coils, around the whorls of my fingerprint. The pain is lovely. And you give me no choice but to revel in it.
Anonymous asked: I can honestly say that I admire your intellect and how you transfer your thoughts into your writing. Your excerpts are deep and inspiring. don't let anybody bring you down or tell you that you'll never make it, because there's at least one person who believes in you.
Aw, one of the nicest things I’ve ever heard :’)
