March 18th, 2:41 | mess of thoughts
Wake up and talk to me, it's a long time since last night...
Feel bizarrely unappreciated, which is just stupid. I feel that I haven't written anything, I mean like really *written*?, in... way too ridiculously long. Seriously. The occasional update notes and birthday posties don't count, because, hey, my blog isn't really about what's going on in my life; it's about random thoughts. Part of it: I haven't really had any. Been too busy most of the time to think even about the stuff I'm supposed to be covering, let alone let myself wander-think about otherisms. Not to say that I don't. Because, hey, if I were ever that disciplined, I might actually do well in school. It's more that I think about it, figure I haven't time to document it properly, or explore the thought properly in thinkling, and then let it go.
(Ha! Me! Letting things go! Did you hear that RecentEx? Are you proud?)
I saw Caucasian Chalk Circle a little bit ago. I quietly wonder if I'm missing something, if Brecht had intended it to be staged differently. On its own, I must admit it was pretty trite and predictable. Our drama kids chose to do it as a musical, however, and totally engaged the audience. (I hear Brecht wasn't into that; the emotional engaging thing? But hey, I'm like Nerdy von NerdingtonPants, so what do I know about this stuff?) I'm thinking someone thought it'd be funner this way. It was perfect. I was worried it'd be serious and heavy and hard on the heart. It was light, and fun, joyous, raucous, and happy. It was a great play to see that night.
That night, this night, it's much the same these days. I feel equally drained and un-somethinged pretty much everyday. I'm still trying to figure out what the something is. I lack glow and shine. I feel underappreciated, or unspecial or unsomething. Insignificant? I have no idea. I can't figure out what's wrong, I can't make it better. And it's the end of the last year for essentially everyone I know, so no one's got the time to sit down and listen to me for an hour or two.
High-maintenance. I've always known I was, but I never really accepted it I guess. I'm coming to grips with it.
Blog. I've been wanting, for a couple weeks now, to write, to get something out, to sort out my thoughts on a topic. And I shy away from doing it here. Which is both ridiculous and reasonable. Reasonable because, hey, it *is* an online diary, people might/do read it and really, it's stupid to expect any form of pseudo-privacy in the medium. Ridiculous because the person I'm worried about should know better. I'm not even afraid of dealing with the questions which would inevitably arise. It's the hurt I don't want to deal with. The edgy quiet and hurt-muffled anger that I face because what's "written" (on a god-damned website no less) is instantly more true, more pertinent, more absolute than anything I might say, might have said for months, might mean. I don't understand that attitude at all. AT ALL. Seriously. It's a diary. A place to capture moods and moments and stray thoughts. So I felt that way at the time I wrote it. So I collected some of those stray thoughts and gave them a home. How does that make anything else I might say which might contrast those thoughts less real, less true? More importantly, why will it be trusted when I write it, but not when I say it? The argument that I'm more likely to be truthful if I don't think anyone's reading is bullshit, because I know this person does (if not particularly regularly). So what's up with that?
(Side-note: also drives me crazy? people who assume anything with negative emotion behind it (anger, frustration, mockery) is aimed at them. Hello? My diary == all about me. Let's at least get that straight.
So frustrated. I miss (already!) all the people I feel I'll never see again after this year. I miss, I miss I miss. And I'm tired-tired of living in res, not because of my floor, but because of what it is. I miss having my own place, my own life, not answering to anyone or anything. Somedays I lament not misspending my youth more. Or at least in a different way. Does that make sense?
I'm tired of feeling like all I ever do is work to mask the worry and... Something that I'm also tired of feeling. I can't spend my whole life by the lake making the feeling go away. More than that, though, I'm tired of feeling like I'm that person and that's it. That's all. That I'm always in that mood. Because this isn't me, it's not who I'm used to being. I was happy at one point, Happy. It was my defining trait. I was happy and bubbly and energetic and capable.
Sometime soon I'm going to hit my limit and just break. Hopefully it can wait till after this mess of assignments due tomorrow at midnight.
Bed for the tired. It's good to be back.
Last book read:
Last we checked,
++ "recent" ++
Wednesday, January 21st, 2009
Photos (200): 130
Kitty Photos (30): 40
Scrapbook (20): 1
Books (just for fun): 16