In Sharing Our Lot

I’ll often read something quite private out here and understand the feeling that the author feels safe to do so. So many people pour out their troubles and discontent, alongside their secret desires and frankly strange obsessions; posted and updated to their blogosphere, vulnerable for the next person to see. I try to wrap my head around this phenomenon. How safe can one feel exposed and yet secured between the two of us.

Who am I precisely to the next person who may stumble upon my blog? Do I care to revise and edit my current post so that it will undeniably burst in figurative terms trying to embody all of me, just so that it may per chance captivate you, so that I may appear significant and sophisticated in some way.

Who do we blog for?

Sometimes during the day an excellent phrase might flow through my mind and I would think to myself what, “what a great phrase” and entertain the idea of the next masterpiece I will post. On my worse days, I feel the need to share with you all how truly revolting my experiences may be. I try to find words that will take on the bluntness of my emotions while trying not to think about any specific individual who may read them, but just another anonymous figure who have taken a few intimate moments to share with me.

Recently, I find that I am truly the lowest in being lonesome.

I believe this emptiness is not one of pure physical senses, though that may play a large part, but as well for once I am touching the fringe of what people may call their salvated completion with something Holy. Though I don’t count myself to be an overtly religious person, I feel that we may all just want to be a part of something greater than ourselves, and as I speak those thoughts I am mindful that I have never truly submitted myself to be a person of faith. I may even go as far to say that I am not faithful, perfectly aware of the ambiguous meaning behind it. I don’t really understand it, but if what I had said earlier in this post were to be true, then why would we not put our best foot forward for all these anonymous figures to be impressed? Wasn’t that my goal?

I share with you guys words that I would not say aloud. They are so private and despicable, in want for the purely selfish reason of sharing something. I recall standing in the shower, greasy wet hair because I have not showered for the last two days, a slant body, quite starved of proper nutrition, dry weathered lips, just holding myself and pissing in the rain; I feel it may somewhat summarize the feeling of being here. I am naked.

I think alas I may begin to know how it feels for other bloggers to share their life. In the strangest of ways you wish to let other people know who you are so that they may pay their respects(?) They may even like your work; commend you. At the same time I still slightly shrink away from any comments though I would love the feedback. Some days I would check voraciously for a sign of life – somebody who read this and liked it, but could I ever stand the thought of someone reading this in front of me? I want you to read it, but I also want this to be all my own. I want you to expose me.

What am I aiming for when I share with you my thoughts? Does it truly matter whatever it may be that I am wallowing in. I just wish to write forever, trying to disclaim my conscience. A purge of provocation. A whole another world I want to hide in forever, even with all these people I love around me, ‘I cannot cater to you, I am so sorry’.I cringe because I am lonely. Maybe it is something as simple as wanting sex – though I cannot let myself loose that far – I am just trying to figure out what I want, versus what I really need, since sometimes they truly could be two different things.

I feel I am missing something in life, and in sharing our lot maybe we can try to find out what that is.

Happy Endings

Sometimes, well a lot of the times, I feel so scared of losing my purpose.

After reading a story, what exactly do we do by ourselves? Our limbs are numb and shocked back into reality, the day has passed and the story is over, but you aren’t satisfied. Why can’t it be selfishly sufficient to just have a happy ending? Naive and childish as that may be, can’t we all derive a sense of self-pity to just want a brief longevity of a happy ending?

Sometimes I ask these ridiculous questions because good authors almost never make happy endings, and I wonder if I could satisfy myself with the delusion that perhaps all our lives are a heroically written tragedy. What may the reader, the third party, reading our story feel? Do they wish for a better ending for each one of us as well?

I think some time ago in the early days of high school a teacher told me that a strategy to write good stories is more or less to have terrible things happen to great people. There is however a skill in that concept, to have those incidents happen in such a gut wrenching way you still reserve dignity as a writer. It made me think how sinful we are that we would like to read such stories, all these sad endings, and praise them indefinitely. Most likely wishing deep in our hearts that maybe there is always a further story than the one we know. Whomsoever these characters may be, they have become so real to us that we dream of a better future knowing full well that was not the intention of the story. So we just keep falling in love with stories, one after another. I keep looking to satiate myself with another story, another adventure, another life. I’d even look at one shot stories; let me fall in love quickly, quickly. I’d turn away from the clock when I glance at it, curious to see how much time has been wasted, at the same time hoping it will escape my notice. That at one point it will be too late for me to do anything for the day and I’ll feel a slight dull thud in my chest of spite, as well a repressing caress, where a part of me reveres in my incompetence.

I just don’t want to face the person in the mirror. That greasy hair and face. Those cold feet.

I still think though, for all the characters that I have come to know, I would just want to selfishly grant them a happy ending, more for myself than out of some altruistic motive. It’ll be somewhat decent, something improbable in their situation but alas something we can peacefully close the cover on. Have them live forever in that bliss, it’s a closure that we may from time to time peek into when we don’t want to look at the rest of the world.

As I lay awake on the weekend, I look around me and I do not want to get up. I always hated this lethargic feeling, it is an escape; I do not look at my phone, I do not remove myself from the same spot I had sat on for the past 6 hours. I do not change my clothes, or wash the dishes from two days ago, or turn away from the dream like state of the dim light in my small kitchen. I hardly get up to pee. It’s certainly not really respectable. I simply do not want to fight for a future. Too many times, as melodramatic as it may seem, I feel I live in such a haze. That there is no real existence. That all those people who believe I am strong – I still feel so cowardly. I have not truly known real fear in this society, to suffer from financial stress, to feel lonesome, to endure the daily grind. I feel as though I wish to delay this gratification of a better life as a punishment of sorts. So I escape into stories, hoping against hope that they will turn out better. Let it be cheesy and impossible, let that need be satiated, the want of something simply transient and beautiful.

Perhaps we’ve been secretly only wishing all these happy endings so that they may happen to us also. I wonder if it keeps us alive, fully human, to have this feeble hope. I guess I’m a bit of a hopeless romantic, or simply incredibly naive and lazy, indecent even despite the drama of destruction, I wish for a happy ending. In this case, I suppose we were never meant to forget those stories then.

Isn’t it funny that I used to criticize my sister for being so naive? That 12 year old girl trying too hard to be a grown up.

Vanity

Have you ever looked into a mirror
A tad longer than you should have
And made love with the stranger
Through your eyes

I reckon
You might just fancy yourself
A slight – just a tad;
I think you’re rather beautiful too.

As if you have never taken a look at a photo
Whomsoever it may be,
And admired their aesthetic beauty
Noting the eyes, the nose, the arms, the face…

Similar to drowning
It’s such an exquisite expensive place
Bold madness, we can’t help ourselves!
Not so much a desire to be the same; just coexist

I note myself everyday, this perverse trait.

Montana

Look, and be unapologetic.

When in Focus

The title should be more appropriately renamed to ‘Being Lonely.’

We all hear of these romantic endeavors from famous athletes, to singers, to poets, to dancers who pour their life into their calling. It has always sounded like such a storyline, like being a hero in your own life. So much gripe and passion, so much conviction that all of this currently endless seam is ultimately going to lead you somewhere.

I find when you are focused on something, a goal, to polish yourself, to build something, to change something, life becomes really lonely. All of your usual old hobbies are no longer within acceptance under the self-imposed stanza of excellence. All your familiar pals and buddies no longer challenge you in such a way to move forward. There are none of those tantalizing intelligent conversations that aid each other in uncovering one epiphany to another in life. They’re still great people though. But then there is just you. Then there is only the comfort of this one discipline – to do the work and keep moving forward.

All of a sudden though, the rest of life’s perspective seems to be absorbed into focus too quickly. Much too abruptly for you to realize what has just happened. It’s too much and you begin to question what you’re doing all this for. Everyone else questions you as well.

You found out that you had ultimately changed, for better or worse. Different than the last time your friends and family have last seen you, though it really did not seem like that long ago. But wait, let me count this, last Christmas…really?

Take a look around yourself and you find that you no longer talk to the entirety of your phone list. You find that because you removed yourself away from social media outside of the blogosphere you feel like a fish on land. Where else do you quietly and discreetly find out about someone else’ life. What, to actually meet up and talk to them? Well, we’ve never quite done that before, and quite honestly you don’t really care enough to. It’s just the intimacy of a presence. Anything.

At the end of the day, you find you can’t even fully indulge in this fleeting sense of neediness because you know spending time with these people – great as they are – are still ultimately a conscience in the back of your mind to move on.

Focus, you say. Well, it’s pretty darn lonely.

It never is as romantic as we thought it would be. Not getting in shape. Not getting out of bad habits/addictions, not moving out on our own (though that has been in more ways than not, plenty great), not in developing yourself and trying to be a better person everyday. You are personally moving forward and it feels great. You’re pulling all the right stops and telling your friends what a ride this has been – but hey, hey guys, come on, let’s gooo…

They’re not coming. They say people sometimes come into our lives for a season, and they leave or are left behind for a specific reason too. We all know that nobody is your best friend when you’re focused. We know as well that they will love you, if they really had meant to care for at the end of the day when you come through. And you’d probably readily love them back, not for the generosity factor, but because you know that’s the better way. You can’t help it though, you’re lonely right now and you wish they would tag along. I can’t help it either.

Many a times I would wish for the console of a selfish relationship. The parent/child strategy, the soft caressing escape route. The one where you’ll take care of me and I’ll be as carefree as I please. I’ll be weak and you’ll be strong. I’ll be your opposite and your biggest fan. I’ll depend on you. And I know everyday I am being tested, I am weary and human and tempted. It all sounds pretty self-defeating, so because you knew that already you mentally wear yourself down weather thin.

Focus.

Trying. Trying to be stronger everyday, to understand yourself. Trying to grow up, just the little bit. Inches to make up miles. They say we are all lights in this world, but if you are laser focus you can cut glass, because you are great. You have so much unmapped potential it would blow your mind. You have the capacity to love more than you think you can handle. You are capable of vulnerability but also to hold steadfast. You just might not know that yet. Or believe it.

Either or, we focus, quietly, watch, patiently, it’s happening all around us. You are charting unexplored territory. Don’t forget to have fun with it. I’m needful to remind myself sometimes too.

It’s just bound to be a little lonely sometimes.

Baby, Look At You: The Challenge

The Laughing Duck:

Thankful Friday – you all deserve to be praised

Originally posted on The SisterWives:

Yesterday, I wrote a post about self worth and how we are our own worst critics. The responses really weighed on me and I felt as though I ‘opened a can of worms’ as it was so aptly put by one of my fellow Sisterwives.

I know we are a group that writes on the more sensitive subjects and sometimes that may bring forth negative feelings, not only from us but from our readers as well. Yesterday’s post did just that. Don’t get me wrong, the message was well received and everyone was very gracious; it was just hard to see so many of you with so little self worth.

It is never easy to look at yourself, especially if you have had difficulties in your life or have never been shown how to love yourself. However, I believe we can all find the good in ourselves and we can…

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The Lessons of the Courtyard

Originally posted on TIPSY LIT:

Photo Credit: fusion-of-horizons via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: fusion-of-horizons via Compfight cc

I am no longer allowed to speak to my own child.

No longer allowed to stroke his cheek or run my fingers through his hair. As far as he is concerned, I no longer exist. This is my punishment.

I knew he was a cruel man when I married him, but I was not given a choice. My father was cursed with an abundance of daughters, and Henry Rothschild needed a wife to dispel rumours that he preferred the company of men.

He did, in fact, and I only made the mistake of protesting once when I found him in bed with another man. My punishment then had been severe, and I had not been able to walk for days, nor empty my bowels properly or without blood for twice as long.

Once I burned his dinner, and he held my hand over…

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Help! I’m In Love With a Nurse!

The Laughing Duck:

One of the sweetest.

Originally posted on boy with a hat:

Painting of a nurse

Being sick has it’s advantages, you know, like seeing every week a playful twenty-six-year-old blue-eyed nurse. Lately I’ve made a habit of visiting the little clinic in my town to do blood tests, to exclude all infections before the doctors will let me do a lymph node biopsy. The idea was to do all tests – about eleven of them, including Epstein-Barr, Cytomegalovirus, Toxoplasmosis, Hepatitis, and the like – on the same day (about a month ago) but enter the aforesaid nurse into the waiting room, and my medical strategy underwent a radical change, so much so that I’ve been returning to the clinic for tests once or twice a week, doing only two or three at a time, under the pretext of waiting for the results first before doing the remaining tests.

I’m excited when she pricks me and I must admit that one Tuesday when she was not…

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