(no subject)

[zana16]

I wasn't sure I should post this. It's personal and doesn't make a whole lot of sense.


I want.
I want a rose garden and peace on earth. I want a book published that will inspire people to see the world in a new light. I want a cottage on the shore where it's sunny and rainy and green and beautiful. I want music and laughter and for people to understand each other.
Paris in springtime hurts as much as it soothes. I feel that Plato's Idea of Beauty is almost within reach, if I could just stretch my hand, my mind, a little farther. The roses are blooming and I want to weep. Why is it left to me to grieve for the world? The budding trees were killed by the frost this year; life goes on, but towards what? I read my stories as if I'd never seen them before, dispassionately analyzing. This one isn't good; that one's not bad but will hurt to share; this one is me at fourteen and I can't give it to anyone to read, too personal.
I want to trust with my whole heart. I want the black inkiness binding my soul to ease so that I may have one perfect moment without pain. I don't think it's just a women's burden to carry; I see my father and my uncle grieving as well, but mostly the images and tears I get are feminine. I was raised by a man who was also a feminist and I don't know what gender is anymore. When I was little, I was obsessed with being pretty, my parents never let me have Barbies but I needed to be pretty. I am older and can no longer fool myself. My mind, my soul: all jagged edges. Carl Jung says my personality type should marry a caregiver cause otherwise I will give too much of myself. My mother had the same abandonment issues she tried not to pass on to me; she honestly thought my father would eventually leave her, believed it up until a few weeks before her death, she was dying and he never abandoned her. I wish I could trust that I could have that too. Will I ever be able to trust enough again? The world has left me with edges and hurt those who try to reach for me; my soul is protected by glass shards, fragile yet deadly. In my story, the black twine of pain was the only thing keeping Jennie's soul from spinning out of control and into the oblivion of death; Alec tried to unwind the oily strands constricting her heart, but it would have killed her. I know I have to be the one to unwind those strands on my own, but I don't know how. Why is there no how-to book on this? Everything else, I can look up in my books who touch me deeper than some people do. Once I looked up "what is the meaning of life?" online. I don't know why I am obsessed with meaning. I can't see the trees for the forest; the day-to-day things leave me behind, when I know that perhaps I could find some meaning in them. I love the ocean, love the beauty of the creatures in it, but aquariums make me sad; it's all that beauty reduced to a food chain. I have an existential crisis watching the school of bass. God but the mundane is bizarre. I want to reach out to strangers, know I never will. Ideas touch me the way I won't let people touch me. I can get horny reading social theory yet when Patrick was fucking me on the carpet I didn't feel anything. Anything. The vague memories of the man who raped me are too dangerous; I had to flirt with going insane to even realize where the dreams were coming from. He took away something I still haven't experienced, I don't know yet whether he's won. I still can't form a face in my mind. I want to hate him and know I can't. It's not him, it's the world, that raped me. Everyone else, it happened earlier, when they were babies, they can't remember so that's okay. I was left innocent too long, never learned the lessons of life that most kids do, so I was old enough to remember when it happened. I hurt Sarah because I was too afraid to trust my body to men, I thought trusting a girl would be easier, but I couldn't, I'm not gay, I was taking the safe way and even the safe way didn't work.
Some days I can grieve. Some days I can ignore it and find some semblance of happiness. I love fictional people I don't know. I can trust my soul to them, cause they don't exist.
I want.
I love.
I grieve.
Somehow they are all the same word.

Comments

[sylvanstargazer.livejournal.com]

::Beth wakes up, comes over, takes you to the couch and holds you. Then she reads you picture books::

[zana16.livejournal.com]

Thank you, love. I need someone to hold me and read me picture books these days.

[beefive.livejournal.com]

I remember when it happened too. I even saw it coming. For me it wasn't any one thing, my fall was slow and subtle, for which I retain a spark of real gratitude; but it happened anyway. And the world still tries to take what I've managed to hold on to, every single day.

[zana16.livejournal.com]

I didn't see it coming cause nobody had ever taught me that the world could be cruel, I didn't know not to trust. You're right; in a way, I still see it happening. I'm still the idealist, but I believe in the ideals, not the people anymore.