As you may have noticed, I have a bit of a deep, dark streak in me. Generally I suppress it, hide it, and try to play happy-fun-light girl instead. It comes out mostly in my writing. I've tried to write funny, entertaining things, but it doesn't work very well. People don't get my sense of humor. So I think sticking with the dramatic, serious, emotional, sensitive, etc. is probably better for me...except no one wants to read that. Therefore, I think that maybe I should stop writing all together for a while. No one really gets me at all...writing, speaking, or silent. My voice is not one people want to hear/read. I'm going to try to accept that fact and find something else for my whole life to be about. My heart just isn't in it anymore.
So where does one find new passion when old passion has died?
01 July 2011
Ay, there's the rub
if i went away, would you search heaven and hell to find me? and if you found me, lost in the dark abyss of hell, completely out of my mind, would you try to convince me it's not where i belong? would you try to get me out, carry me back to the light? and if you couldn't, if i still didn't understand, if i still wouldn't trust you, wouldn't leave, would you sit down beside me, and lose yourself in my darkness just so you wouldn't have to be for eternity without me?
I think about that sometimes. Will anyone ever love me and need me that much that they would be willing to give up everything rather than living without me? I just got done reading the Hunger Games and this idea was sort of brought back to the forefront of my mind. Peeta was willing to go through hell and give up everything to save Katniss. Some friends recently read What Dreams May Come and have been talking about it, which is where this idea sort of originated in me in the first place. Now don't go jumping to conclusions, I'm not lost in the darkness, not on the verge of hell; just lazing in the shade a little too much these days I suppose. I can think of a few people in my life right now that I would sacrifice everything (including my sanity) for. There are maybe two or three that I would search heaven and hell to try to save. I don't think any of them would do so for me though. So it's good that I'm not in any real need of such drastic displays of love and loyalty.
Sorry, this is sort of a morbid and depressing post. I guess it's the hangover from the morbid and depressing books I just read.
In happier news, the boy I recently referred to as Will is actually sort of living up to the name these days. Not quite to the extent I would like, but enough that I think I'll let the name stay. Last night I asked for a moment of his time. When we were alone he asked what was on my mind. I told him I just wanted to sit with him for a few minutes. I was unsettled and he has a calming affect on me. So he sat by me and we talked about books; nothing significant, nothing important, just books we've read or books we want to read. Then he hugged me and I went on my way.
This morning he sent me a text asking how I was doing. That was a Will thing to do, be there in the moment (even though he was so tired), and then check up on me the next day, make sure I was better. I wasn't better until I got his text. Knowing he was there, knowing he cared enough to think of me, to check up on me, made it better, made another day bearable.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
(Hamlet) William Shakespeare
"For in that sleep of death what dreams may come"
I have Will, and The Artist, and they help me hold on to the dream that one day, someone will love me entirely and allow me to love him...through heaven and hell.
I think about that sometimes. Will anyone ever love me and need me that much that they would be willing to give up everything rather than living without me? I just got done reading the Hunger Games and this idea was sort of brought back to the forefront of my mind. Peeta was willing to go through hell and give up everything to save Katniss. Some friends recently read What Dreams May Come and have been talking about it, which is where this idea sort of originated in me in the first place. Now don't go jumping to conclusions, I'm not lost in the darkness, not on the verge of hell; just lazing in the shade a little too much these days I suppose. I can think of a few people in my life right now that I would sacrifice everything (including my sanity) for. There are maybe two or three that I would search heaven and hell to try to save. I don't think any of them would do so for me though. So it's good that I'm not in any real need of such drastic displays of love and loyalty.
Sorry, this is sort of a morbid and depressing post. I guess it's the hangover from the morbid and depressing books I just read.
In happier news, the boy I recently referred to as Will is actually sort of living up to the name these days. Not quite to the extent I would like, but enough that I think I'll let the name stay. Last night I asked for a moment of his time. When we were alone he asked what was on my mind. I told him I just wanted to sit with him for a few minutes. I was unsettled and he has a calming affect on me. So he sat by me and we talked about books; nothing significant, nothing important, just books we've read or books we want to read. Then he hugged me and I went on my way.
This morning he sent me a text asking how I was doing. That was a Will thing to do, be there in the moment (even though he was so tired), and then check up on me the next day, make sure I was better. I wasn't better until I got his text. Knowing he was there, knowing he cared enough to think of me, to check up on me, made it better, made another day bearable.
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
(Hamlet) William Shakespeare
"For in that sleep of death what dreams may come"
I have Will, and The Artist, and they help me hold on to the dream that one day, someone will love me entirely and allow me to love him...through heaven and hell.
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