It has been such a long time since I’ve posted anything. It feels almost foreign to be typing a post, but here we are! I can’t even remember the last time I posted anything but I am hoping to return to writing (about what, I’ve no clue) soon. Anyways, I was just wondering if my account had even been deleted and it hasn’t (obviously). Write again soon.
I’ve been absent for a long while but I hope to return as fall returns. Here’s to hoping. Also, while nobody reads these, I feel it should be documented that this mobile version kind of is awful.
“You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be?”
I was recently asked this extremely thought provoking question and, to be honest, loads of instances came to mind. Ultimately, I’d go back and erase the moment I started doubting myself, causing my self esteem to go straight down the gutter. I know I’d be happier if I could just love myself.
I can hear it calling to me, its deafening whisper weighing all the corners of my mind with longing thoughts. Its call howling to me like the wind through an old window. Only to me. The unformed, unspoken words tugging at my heart like a small child demanding attention. Its call coming from miles away, centuries away, it seems. It happens all at once, the storm that appears, flooding my very being with a sense of longing and lostness. The storm then disappears, leaving in its quake a flooded mind and a tattered heart. One of these days, perhaps, I will be able to answer ever single, spur of the moment calls. But maybe I’ll be stuck dreaming forever.
It’s a howling wind that rattles the house, tossing tree branches carelessly, like enormous brooms sweeping away the imperfections of the land. It’s a horrifying wind. An abrupt winds that quickly begins and doesn’t let up. A terrifying wind. A cleansing wind. The raging wind you’ve been waiting for, the kind you need that will blow all your problems away. it’s the kind of wind that terrifies you, like it could pick you up and drop you off thousands of miles away, but the most terrifying part is that you’d let it. You want to be a part of the screaming wind, to feel its breath wrap around you like the arms of an old lover, the one you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get over, the one you don’t want to let go. Feel the wind wrap around you in a crushing embrace, because you know that at any moment, you could all be over.
It’s the kind of wind that talks to you. It starts as barely a whisper, the sort that a lover uses to whisper in your ear during a movie, telling you know they love you and they can’t get enough of you. The wind turns up, to the volume of a heated discussion. The kind of discussion that drives a wedge between two people, changing them forever. In a flash, you’re facing the heart piercing scream of the wind. Its a scream that shatters your heart and sends you blowing away, like you’re nothing more than a speck of dirt. Its the scream of a friend telling you not what you want to hear, but rather what you need to. It’s a soothing fear that lets you know you’re not dead inside, that you can still feel. The howling wind is a friend when you are friendless. Its a friend speaking to you in a different language that you don’t understand, but you listen anyways because it’s beautiful, but mostly because you don’t want to feel alone anymore.
I long for places I’ve never been. Sights I’ve never seen. People I’ve never met.I’m homesick for a home I’ve never lived in. I have this seemingly insatiable need to be inspired by places and things I’ll likely never get the chance to see. I need to feel a love that I know I’ll never experience. I want to make memories out of the dreams I have, not think about the dreams I want to make memories out of. I want to see every little thing I’ve ever found beautiful. I want to see and Indian wedding and be moved by the strength of feminists across the globe. But mostly, I want to feel something. Something powerful and profound. Something heartbreakingly beautiful. Something that will move me to the tears I need to shed for something beautiful. I need to feel the love of somebody willing to make these memories with me. I just need to go home to the place that is calling my name. The place I don’t know about.
People really piss me off. I don’t understand how people can be such assholes but claim to be fair and treat everybody equally. Today’s chapped khakis are brought to you by a post I saw on Facebook ( I don’t even know why I have one anymore, it’s a breeding ground for stupid). Anyways, long story short, the post said women that think there are no gentlemen in the world are sluts because there are gentlemen but they prefer ladies. That just really fucking pisses me off, for a couple reasons, actually. First off, no. Just don’t. It upsets me when I see/hear women calling other women sluts because it’s just fucking ridiculous. By calling another woman a slut, you’re basically giving other people permission to use the term to describe her, and eventually, most likely they’ll call you a slut, too. Why? Because they can. Because it is a nonsense term used to describe a woman that somebody doesn’t like. Because, if a woman supposedly has had sex with more than two guys, oh holy shit she must be a slut and we’d better hate her and shame her for it even though we’re either super jealous or we have had sex with more men than that and we need to point a finger at somebody else to throw people off our trail. Secondly, I’m going to make an example of myself. I’m single. I’ve had boyfriends. I am a virgin (gasp! A young woman that is still a virgin?!) Most of the guys I meet are not gentlemanly at all. At. All. They’re sexist jerks who call their ex-girlfriends sluts. So by the logic that gentlemen are only interested in ladies, and that since all I meet are jerks, does that mean that I am a slut? I’ve never had sex. I’ve also never met a “gentleman”. So I must be a slut, right? So be it. Also, why is virginity more valuable in a woman that her brain or her personality? For real, that’s just fucked up. So ladies, lets get our shit together and love one another for the human beings that we are, not shame each other based off ridiculous standards created for us by men like a million years ago.
Also, while I’m ranting, if I hear “You’re in America, speak English” one more time, I will probably kill a man. Ignorance. Ugh. I’d bet my left arm on the fact that your ancestors probably came to America from a different, non-English speaking country, so shut your fucking pie hole. America is supposed to be this wonderful melting pot of a country that accepts everybody, yet you’re going to sit there, like an asshole, and bitch because you only speak English and you can’t understand what somebody else isn’t even saying to you. Quite honestly, that is probably one of the better things about America, that you’ll hear so many different languages being used as communication by so many different families. If you don’t think that is beautiful, then fuck you buddy.
Yes, I realize that my rant is a jumble of words fueled by anger and if I read it back, it probably won’t make sense, but hey, I don’t care. It’s my blog. I also understand that there are probably holes in my argument but hey, again, I don’t care. It’s my blog.
I fear all the beautiful sentences have been taken. All the brilliant writers of generations before me have threaded all of the lovely words together to leave the world with beautiful thoughts that will continue to impact people for generations to come. Everything that has ever needed to be heard by the world has been recorded for the population to see. My seemingly insatiable desire to touch the lives of people, whether it be many or few, through written word seems to be in vein, but I keep hoping that one day, my brain will transmit a though to my pen so profound, so meaningful, that some beautiful soul will commit it to memory because it changed the way they will think forever. Perhaps it is pointless to continue this charade, but I’ll probably continue to write because, just maybe, something phenomenal might bleed out of my pen.
I suppose that, in a sense, I am extraordinary. I don’t have any remarkable skills. I can’t draw, I can’t sing, I can’t write. I can’t dance or figure skate or sculpted lumps of clay into weirder shaped lumps of clay. I’m not super great at math and I don’t have the patience to be an angel when dealing with children. And I am a long shot from being classically beautiful.
I am plain. I am boring. I am ordinary and damn good at it. If you want to spend the evening plopped on the couch in pyjamas, watching horror movies, I would be thrilled to oblige. I am simply extra ordinary, and I could be yours.
I don’t want to fall in love. Call me selfish, but I don’t want to go through the struggle of love and the pain that comes with losing the person you’ve given your heart to. Or maybe I’m just trying out reverse psychology on myself.
I’ve been extremely neglectful of my writings lately, and for that, I apologize. I haven’t even been busy, I’m just pretty lazy when it comes to writing lately. Woops.
I recently read a beautiful quote about how, when an individual dies, it isn’t just the body that dies, but their brain, their imagination. When somebody dies, their own personal world dies with them, trapped inside their mind. That is both beautiful and terrifying, which is why I find writing so intriguing and lovely.
I want to write so my world doesn’t die with me. I want to write so my thoughts and feelings, my characters and settings, live on after me. They may not be beautiful or profound and they may not interest anybody, but I want my mind to be on paper for the better part of forever. Perhaps, one day, after I’m dead and gone, my mind, my world inhabited with my thoughts and creations will inspire somebody to do something wonderful. Maybe, one day, even if I’m rotting in the ground somewhere, I will encourage and inspire somebody to do something spectacular.
Also, I tend to use the words “beautiful” and “inspire” quite often. Perhaps it’s because I lack creativity, maybe it’s because I think they’re lovely, I’m not really sure.
You make everything lovely.
Recently, a friend of mine had a loved one pass away. At the ripe, old age of nineteen, she had to say goodbye to her mother. Sadly, she is not the first of my friends to lose their mother this year; an even younger friend recently lost her mom to brain cancer. Naturally, whether I like it or not, these events have had me thinking of love and death. I wonder, after a while, can your love fade for somebody you loved so deeply before?
Now not everybody is the same. I understand that. People love differently. But can love you hold for somebody so close to you, a parent, a grandparent, begin to face after they have passed? I am lucky enough to only have lost a great-grandmother that I have very fond memories of, and sometimes I wonder if my love for her will fade. I like to believe that I deeply, strongly, loved my grandma while she was alive, and I still love her with the same ferocity even after her passing, but I hear so many people say that they loved an individual before they died. “I loved my grandma” or “I loved my mom”. Do these little remarks indicate that their love has faded, or just that they’ve accepted the fact that their loved ones have gone forever. I like to think that it’s just a saying and that the love they felt for the deceased individual is still strong and burning, but quite frankly, a part of me wonders if people let their love for somebody disappear after the other has died because they cannot handle not having the love verbally affirmed and reciprocated.
All in all, I just do not know. I hope that when the time comes for me to say goodbye to a loved one forever, I allow myself to love them with the same intensity I did when they were alive to feel it.
Today, I bought a sketch pad. No, I do not draw. I can’t, actually. Not even stick people. But I like the thought of writing freely on blank pages. It’s probably cliche, but oh well. I like scribbling words on the snow white paper. I like being free of the lines that clutter a piece of notebook paper. They make me feel confined. Claustrophobic. Blank paper, sketch pads, plain white walls. I enjoy the feeling of the freedom. Of spilling my thoughts on the vast emptiness that begs to have my ideas spilled like blood on the battle field. I like the thought of my pen being the first mark on the page. I like leaving my mark. It certainly is not a big mark, or the mark most people would think of leaving, but I enjoy it. And it’s mine.
Also, I bought new sparkle pens to and some sassy shimmer to my ideas, so they’re rad. But also a different story.
Yours truly, Me.