Here it is - the seeping silence. I woke up this morning to my mom leaving, I assume, and so far no one has come home. I'm wondering where they are (dad and mum) but I know it's no big issue. Pretty much I'm left here to my own thoughts, and that's not so bad.
On one side I feel relieved - to capture these moments and use them to my advantage is very tempting. On the other, I feel restless. I know I should write, but my mind keeps distracting itself for the seemingly impossible task at hand.
I know the things I must do. I must complete this story, I have to. It doesn't matter if I fail now, because I will keep trying until it's complete. I want to keep working on it till I can safely say I've written all I have to write; but I don't think that'll ever happen.
Who are all those people I keep stored in my mind and heart? I think of them, now and again, their voices at the edge of my mind. They are a part of me, extensions of myself crafted by invisible words that are magical threads. Patterns weave where we can't see, but imagine. A whole universe of infinite possibilities and scenarios, all subject to our hearts' whims and minds' follies.
And even if I already grasp so many threads in my mind, I know with surety that more will come. I'll catch these words like butterflies caught in nets. And when I set them free they will paint a picture of colour across the sky, one everyone can enjoy.
Hahah...anyway. It's one thing to talk here about it and another to actually do it. I'm off; till another time.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Sunday, December 23, 2007
I'm so sick of this. I'm so sick of peoples' inability to understand me. It's so rare that I hear from someone words like, "I'm sorry" "I'm sorry for making you feel this way." I get this strong impression from everyone i meet that I am merely someone they can talk to but never really strongly appreciate. Every time I'm mad I find myself apologizing and trying to make amends, because I'm being "cranky" and "unreasonable". I don't understand why I can't be given the opportunity for people to understand me. I don't see why it's so hard for someone to apologize to me for hurting my feelings and so on. Why do I constantly feel used by people who are supposed to be my friends? Even my own mother always seems uninterested in what I say, and would never even begin to understand what I felt about certain things.
Why does everything feel like its draining away? My story, cold-blue, I feel everything about it is unraveling, falling apart. These words I sought so hard to construct now feel flimsy and easily broken.
Perhaps it's because I'm lazy, I want a short-cut to success. I don't know why I'm like this. I just want to be somewhere else, I just want to exist at a whole different level. Why are things so hard? Why am I so stagnant?
What is there to appreciate about myself? Once someone told me the most attractive thing about me was my personality. Why does that feel like such bs to me? What personality do I have to keep up in order for you to like me? And the moment I'm not what you expect me to be, suddenly I've gone astray. Why can't I find room for selfishness? Why can't I find room to cry in a world that doesn't seem to care what happens to me either way? Am I really so capable...am I really so independent?
Loneliness, bitter and strong. My whole life I feared being alone, I would even make up imaginary friends. I always felt so distant from everyone, as if the only things that would listen and bare my presence were the trees. But even they can be cruelly silent.
And then these strong feelings come rushing into me, things that could have never been. I sometimes wonder to myself that if Fotula were alive, maybe I could have had someone to confide in. Someone to show me what it meant to be a girl, to hold that certain grace and confidence I see so many females have that I don't. But then in my heart I feel like she would have probably been just like them...just like everyone else in my family. They would chatter and chatter, unaware of the little voices around them, only caring about what they have to say to the world. Even now, they seem to have taken her away from me, not even allowing me to say, "she was my sister, these are my memories of her." Because they hold all those strong memories, all those feelings of missing her and knowing her, and wanting all those things she used to give them. I don't have any of those things. All I have is what that tell me...and again, she is just a person, someone I will never know. Just this ghost whose pictures hang on the wall. None of her was for me. I merely live in her shadow.
In the end I feel empty. Unsure of what to do. In the past I was always so confident with the things I say, always so sure. Now I find myself unable to make decisions; unable to see clearly.
Phone call.
Why does everything feel like its draining away? My story, cold-blue, I feel everything about it is unraveling, falling apart. These words I sought so hard to construct now feel flimsy and easily broken.
Perhaps it's because I'm lazy, I want a short-cut to success. I don't know why I'm like this. I just want to be somewhere else, I just want to exist at a whole different level. Why are things so hard? Why am I so stagnant?
What is there to appreciate about myself? Once someone told me the most attractive thing about me was my personality. Why does that feel like such bs to me? What personality do I have to keep up in order for you to like me? And the moment I'm not what you expect me to be, suddenly I've gone astray. Why can't I find room for selfishness? Why can't I find room to cry in a world that doesn't seem to care what happens to me either way? Am I really so capable...am I really so independent?
Loneliness, bitter and strong. My whole life I feared being alone, I would even make up imaginary friends. I always felt so distant from everyone, as if the only things that would listen and bare my presence were the trees. But even they can be cruelly silent.
And then these strong feelings come rushing into me, things that could have never been. I sometimes wonder to myself that if Fotula were alive, maybe I could have had someone to confide in. Someone to show me what it meant to be a girl, to hold that certain grace and confidence I see so many females have that I don't. But then in my heart I feel like she would have probably been just like them...just like everyone else in my family. They would chatter and chatter, unaware of the little voices around them, only caring about what they have to say to the world. Even now, they seem to have taken her away from me, not even allowing me to say, "she was my sister, these are my memories of her." Because they hold all those strong memories, all those feelings of missing her and knowing her, and wanting all those things she used to give them. I don't have any of those things. All I have is what that tell me...and again, she is just a person, someone I will never know. Just this ghost whose pictures hang on the wall. None of her was for me. I merely live in her shadow.
In the end I feel empty. Unsure of what to do. In the past I was always so confident with the things I say, always so sure. Now I find myself unable to make decisions; unable to see clearly.
Phone call.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
I want to meet the Frog King.
Those bulging eyes and slimy legs must have a sort of regale, especially with a glimmering crown of rough gold on his head. Perhaps if I stand by the pond for a long enough time, I could see him emerge with an dignified awkwardness to enjoy some of the summer's sun.
And in seeing him, catching at the flies with his long, odd tongue, I would wonder to myself if mysteries still exist, here, at the edge of this quiet pond where the sun shines and the bugs buzz in chipped ambiance.
Those bulging eyes and slimy legs must have a sort of regale, especially with a glimmering crown of rough gold on his head. Perhaps if I stand by the pond for a long enough time, I could see him emerge with an dignified awkwardness to enjoy some of the summer's sun.
And in seeing him, catching at the flies with his long, odd tongue, I would wonder to myself if mysteries still exist, here, at the edge of this quiet pond where the sun shines and the bugs buzz in chipped ambiance.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
It's as if by turning twenty I have suddenly realized all my faults. No more can I say "at least I'm still a teen" and let myself linger in the past. I no longer belong in highschool, university is where I must go. And yet I avoided it, and told myself it was not the place for me.
I'm not sure what I've been running away from, but I understand now that by choosing to write my novel over going to school might have been a mistake. Without anything to feed me inspiration, I've been almost unable to write.
What am I saying, am I saying I regret taking a year off?
I think so.
I don't want to have any regrets, though, so maybe now I can say with surety... I know I made a mistake, and I must appreciate school as much as I can from now on. Before I felt like I didn't quite fit in, but now I feel like it is somewhere I need to be. It was a lonely place, but all in all I liked to learn. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I should transfer to York, just because I know more people there. But I guess it'd be too much trouble.
Somehow, more and more, I want to strive to do better. I don't like the situation I'm in. At least if I finish this year without school, I want to say, "I wrote a novel." In those words, I will feel proud. I know I will.
Also, I'm definitely taking summer school. For sure. Reminder: I must go to UTSC soon to ask them a few things. Get my student email fixed and whatever.
I'm out.
I'm not sure what I've been running away from, but I understand now that by choosing to write my novel over going to school might have been a mistake. Without anything to feed me inspiration, I've been almost unable to write.
What am I saying, am I saying I regret taking a year off?
I think so.
I don't want to have any regrets, though, so maybe now I can say with surety... I know I made a mistake, and I must appreciate school as much as I can from now on. Before I felt like I didn't quite fit in, but now I feel like it is somewhere I need to be. It was a lonely place, but all in all I liked to learn. Sometimes I wonder if maybe I should transfer to York, just because I know more people there. But I guess it'd be too much trouble.
Somehow, more and more, I want to strive to do better. I don't like the situation I'm in. At least if I finish this year without school, I want to say, "I wrote a novel." In those words, I will feel proud. I know I will.
Also, I'm definitely taking summer school. For sure. Reminder: I must go to UTSC soon to ask them a few things. Get my student email fixed and whatever.
I'm out.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
It's no longer "Chronicles of Faraday" now it is, "Chronicles of Rowan". Why does that disturb me? A tree named Rowan, a whole grand city named Fort Rowan, a crazy blue-eyed boy named Rowan...now it's not starting to sound so good. Not that I liked the name Faraday for him, but "Chronicles of Rowan" reminds me of something that's already been done...and it sounds so...like, oh it must be about Rowan. Maybe I should switch it to "Chronicles of Briar." A tree named Briar. A city named Fort Briar. A crazy-blue-eyed young man named Briar. Ok I like that much better.
Cider is no longer Cider, but Rowan. Faraday is now Briar.
The twins Briar and Rowan. One with sky-blue eyes, the other with emerald-green ones. Holding hands tightly, they will be thrust down a path that can only lead to separation. Buds stretching outwards from the tree, separating and blooming into different folding colours.
Of the two, who will be the one to sacrifice their life for the sake of the future. For the sake of Tory?
Cider is no longer Cider, but Rowan. Faraday is now Briar.
The twins Briar and Rowan. One with sky-blue eyes, the other with emerald-green ones. Holding hands tightly, they will be thrust down a path that can only lead to separation. Buds stretching outwards from the tree, separating and blooming into different folding colours.
Of the two, who will be the one to sacrifice their life for the sake of the future. For the sake of Tory?
Saturday, December 1, 2007
My secrets are yours.
My secrets are caught in dreams.
They are whispers that glide along the edges of thoughts, scattering, glistening, bursting into fruitful inspiration.
Eyes that see burning vision.
A heart that roars into life.
These secrets feed your flames.
I only want to tell you my secrets,
My secrets of pain.
My secrets are caught in dreams.
They are whispers that glide along the edges of thoughts, scattering, glistening, bursting into fruitful inspiration.
Eyes that see burning vision.
A heart that roars into life.
These secrets feed your flames.
I only want to tell you my secrets,
My secrets of pain.
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