| Moments of Loneliness |
| I'm not quite sure what to call this. Perhaps things will make sense after I'm done. I've written an awful lot to you guys out there. I've written stories, essays, bizarre moments in my life, and just about anything that comes to my mind. Including this web page, I should add. I have always enjoyed writing. I enjoy making other people happy, and I really appreciate other people's thoughts and insights. That is all good and peachy, but I have become aware of a...call it an emptiness inside. I have already told one or two of my friends about a constant emptiness, a certain desire for bigger and better things. And Neil, no, I have not seen the light. Didn't want to give anybody the wrong idea. It has come to my attention that I have been using my writings as a sort of escapism. I used to do that when I was younger, where I would make myself the hero and create a vivid and totally imaginairy world. I do like those stories, but I write them because I try to forget about my real problems. Exhibit A: Driving. I hate driving. I mean I really HATE driving. Yes, I use hate in the fullest and most negative meaning I can muster. I am a good driver. I obey the rules. I do my best to avoid squirrels and baby carriages. But do you know what? It doesn't make a difference whether or not I hit the lady or the person behind me does, her life is over. Blame, scapegoats, alibis, none of it makes a difference to the dead grandmother; who was on her way to see her youngest daughter get married. I don't want to hit her. Nobody does. But some things are out of my control. It isn't fate, at least I hope it isn't. We all like to imagine that we have control over our own lives, that we can willfully choose our destiny. Makes sense to me, as I sit alone in my bedroom. However, it doesn't to the dead grandmother who is lying on the side of the road. Is fate something that happens beyond anyone's control or foresight? I try not to think about it. In fact, I go so far as to flatly ignore it. Exhibit B: My Life. What is my problem? This wasted life isn't worth the food to keep me alive. My brain whispers these thoughts to me as I sleep, and I have a hard time disagreeing. Sometimes I hate my life. This isn't after a test, as I've never cared about grades. It is deeper, more real than just a letter on a piece of paper. To me, the moment happened when the girl I have always loved makes a harmless comment to my best friend. I was seeping with jealousy, even if it is towards my most trusted friend in the world. I knew she was just being friendly, but I felt disgusted with myself. I felt disgusted for being so jealous of a friend, and for not being what she wanted. It is illogical; it is entirely emotional, and it is also an incredibly painful memory for me. And a single, solitary, line comes to mind: "Why oh why didn't I take the blue pill!" Is the truth so painful? Hanging around friends will make the heaviest worries feel like feathers, but the truth has not changed. I feel the same way after writing. Like the world is different, but it is only different because I wrote a sheet of paper that probably nobody is going to read. It feels good, but I also feel guilty. Guilt for not being who I want to be in this world. Who am I, the oldest question of the universe. I want to be more masculine, more confident, more entertaining, but also more compassionate, more wise, and even more hard-working. I want to be those things, and many others, because I feel guilty whenever I see somebody who can do something I can not. I can not play an instrument; I can not play sports; I can not sing or write in rhythm. I feel so weak, so useless, so much like a burden on all those around me. So why don't I learn how to play the piano, how to sing, and exercise to strenthen my body? The answer is: I already have. Do you know what? I don't like to sing, play the piano, or even exercise. I learned those skills because other people already have them. It is so sad, so despicable, yet I feel more adrift and hopeless because of it. Why do I so selfishly want to become an expert at everything? Is it to impress my friends, the rivals who constantly taunt me with their existence, is it, can it be... Demon spawned, the darkness ensues. When the flickers of hope die, the swarms of depression wreak havoc upon my innocent Eden. My source of happiness and contentedness, the one bringer of entertainment in my lonely and melancholic life. I feel all the more guilty for saying it...school. Without this forced attendance, without this damned system of hierarchy and pseudo-competetiveness I would be entirely insane right now. Jacqui called it the "social feeling", but I don't know if we feel the same way. I enjoy sitting through my day, just listening to all of the gossip and conversation. Some days I do not want to talk, but I don't say so. I can be overwhelmingly polite at times, it sickens me. But, that isn't the reason I want to fall asleep. To find that, you will have to find an even bigger mystery about me. I don't like mysteries, but I don't want to entangle you in a journey that will make you as insane as I feel now. It isn't for the faint of heart, thats for sure. Until then, good day, and pleasant dreams. Your host, A Tortured Soul |