Ghosts
Well, being as it is, few people get to read these entries, and therefor perhaps now, this day before the day, what the topic migth refer to. Yes...
The theme was ghosts, and my mother was ready with a white sheet in no time. What to do with it though, was beyond me, for I felt silly just cutting two holes in it and looking like a ghost in childrens pictures. And the wieght of the sheet drove my neck into my back (for as it is, my head is also sensitive this week). No, that would not do, I decided, and then went infront of the mirror to see what could be done. Ridicoulusly standing there, turning the sheet about and around me, I suddenly instead fixed my eyes on my face, and instantly hid it behind the sheets. I looked miserable and weak, like on the brink of death. I could go there as I am, and still look ghost-like. And putting the sheets around my head so most of it was hidden made me look like a child, and that made me feel even more silly. Having no ideas and no wish to think of it futher, I retired from the mirror-image's gaze on me, and sat here, contemplating.
Truth is, I'm missing all the joy that life was supposed to hold, and even though people around me see no reason for me to be sad and cynical, yet there it is. I even myself wonder why I cannot acknowledge the true joy in my life, and instead seek faults in it. And I find them, more often than not, in myself. In the end I come to the dark conclusion that I am not worthy of any life, least of all one with friends and love. On the other hand I come to the conclusion that there is nothing worth wasting my breath on, and I would be better of as ashes. After that though I feel guilty, and think that I could never do that to those around me, no matter how mcuh I feel that life has nothing in it for me. I see no future for me that I want or need, others seem to do that perfectly well for me, and I instead live following their dreams of me, rather than making my own. Sometimes I wonder what would have been if I had not found love. Had I been oblivious of it, finding myself insane? And the I wonder that if love is what ancors me to reality, than perhaps I would have wished it away, rather being insane, and not caring at all.
Then I feel guilty again, like my mind is betreaying my heart, and the other way around. Like feeling and mind could never be one. Like dream and reality, they are kept appart and seem not to want to mix and mingle. Instead the keep coming to different decisions.
My mind is my weapon. A weapon mainley used against myself.
Rules and laws of subjects that have them, and need not thinking far, stick to my mind like my morning routine. Given a choice, I would not like subjects where I had to think in more than an hour for myself, least of all writing a paper about it. No I'd rather draw numbers and pictures, seeing that connection on my paper, instead of making one in my mind. Watching others accomplish tasks I was not made for makes me envy them, and think them as more independent than me, more clever. I cannot come with new ideas, I instead follow the ones othes thought of. I'm not the brilliant one, born to greatness, rather a mediocre follower. Yet there is some indepentent thought in my mind, come with the logic I do possess. It's my curse. Constantly watching those around me, I compare myself to them, and them to eachother, and then I look at the world at large. The image is as ever grey as concrete. None of it is worth having, none of it is worth living long for, and none if it I want. Yet the side of me that accepts praise and feels I have to live up to other's view of me, want all that people around me have, and that I'm missing. I look at my own failure, constantly cause by myself and my lack of judgement or laziness, and wish I could be someone else, wish I had the strenght to change my evil ways. Then I wonder, what good would that do, when I have no goals of my own to achieve? Why struggle so hard, and put myself down for every false step, when it's still all for nothing?
And one constant thought, feeling, puts it's foot through my door, without even knocking, and reminds me of something that doesn't quite fit.
Oh I do love you, and don't ever doubt it for a second. You're the light in my dark, grey world, where I hate everything and everything hates me, and near you I feel better about myself. I just hate the world around me so much that I wish not to live in it, so when I'm with you I rather think of us being outside the world for a while. But with the hate for myself and all that I am, I still feel unworthy. So far, nothing in the image of myself has changed; instead I seem to get worse by the day.
It's hard to express myself in words, hard to put through how I feel and how I see everything.
It's like a puzzle almost finished, and then I find a piece that belongs to another puzzle, just a tiny piece, and I realize that I started working on the wrong puzzle, and now it's far to late to turn back, but I still try to put that precious lonley piece into the puzzle, but it's just so out of place. I want it there.
The theme was ghosts, and my mother was ready with a white sheet in no time. What to do with it though, was beyond me, for I felt silly just cutting two holes in it and looking like a ghost in childrens pictures. And the wieght of the sheet drove my neck into my back (for as it is, my head is also sensitive this week). No, that would not do, I decided, and then went infront of the mirror to see what could be done. Ridicoulusly standing there, turning the sheet about and around me, I suddenly instead fixed my eyes on my face, and instantly hid it behind the sheets. I looked miserable and weak, like on the brink of death. I could go there as I am, and still look ghost-like. And putting the sheets around my head so most of it was hidden made me look like a child, and that made me feel even more silly. Having no ideas and no wish to think of it futher, I retired from the mirror-image's gaze on me, and sat here, contemplating.
Truth is, I'm missing all the joy that life was supposed to hold, and even though people around me see no reason for me to be sad and cynical, yet there it is. I even myself wonder why I cannot acknowledge the true joy in my life, and instead seek faults in it. And I find them, more often than not, in myself. In the end I come to the dark conclusion that I am not worthy of any life, least of all one with friends and love. On the other hand I come to the conclusion that there is nothing worth wasting my breath on, and I would be better of as ashes. After that though I feel guilty, and think that I could never do that to those around me, no matter how mcuh I feel that life has nothing in it for me. I see no future for me that I want or need, others seem to do that perfectly well for me, and I instead live following their dreams of me, rather than making my own. Sometimes I wonder what would have been if I had not found love. Had I been oblivious of it, finding myself insane? And the I wonder that if love is what ancors me to reality, than perhaps I would have wished it away, rather being insane, and not caring at all.
Then I feel guilty again, like my mind is betreaying my heart, and the other way around. Like feeling and mind could never be one. Like dream and reality, they are kept appart and seem not to want to mix and mingle. Instead the keep coming to different decisions.
My mind is my weapon. A weapon mainley used against myself.
Rules and laws of subjects that have them, and need not thinking far, stick to my mind like my morning routine. Given a choice, I would not like subjects where I had to think in more than an hour for myself, least of all writing a paper about it. No I'd rather draw numbers and pictures, seeing that connection on my paper, instead of making one in my mind. Watching others accomplish tasks I was not made for makes me envy them, and think them as more independent than me, more clever. I cannot come with new ideas, I instead follow the ones othes thought of. I'm not the brilliant one, born to greatness, rather a mediocre follower. Yet there is some indepentent thought in my mind, come with the logic I do possess. It's my curse. Constantly watching those around me, I compare myself to them, and them to eachother, and then I look at the world at large. The image is as ever grey as concrete. None of it is worth having, none of it is worth living long for, and none if it I want. Yet the side of me that accepts praise and feels I have to live up to other's view of me, want all that people around me have, and that I'm missing. I look at my own failure, constantly cause by myself and my lack of judgement or laziness, and wish I could be someone else, wish I had the strenght to change my evil ways. Then I wonder, what good would that do, when I have no goals of my own to achieve? Why struggle so hard, and put myself down for every false step, when it's still all for nothing?
And one constant thought, feeling, puts it's foot through my door, without even knocking, and reminds me of something that doesn't quite fit.
Oh I do love you, and don't ever doubt it for a second. You're the light in my dark, grey world, where I hate everything and everything hates me, and near you I feel better about myself. I just hate the world around me so much that I wish not to live in it, so when I'm with you I rather think of us being outside the world for a while. But with the hate for myself and all that I am, I still feel unworthy. So far, nothing in the image of myself has changed; instead I seem to get worse by the day.
It's hard to express myself in words, hard to put through how I feel and how I see everything.
It's like a puzzle almost finished, and then I find a piece that belongs to another puzzle, just a tiny piece, and I realize that I started working on the wrong puzzle, and now it's far to late to turn back, but I still try to put that precious lonley piece into the puzzle, but it's just so out of place. I want it there.
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