I’m not sure where to start this blog. I know what I want to write about, but the order and the extent of content is what is still up for debate. I always hesitate to write when its another person or persons involved as I prefer to keep some parts of life private, but then again those seem to be the most driving and motivating topics to write about. They’re the ones that pitch you into highs and lows and keep you somewhere in between in the meantime.
That’s the problem.
Basing how you feel about yourself and life in general upon the interactions and opinions of another human being is asinine. I know this full well, and yet I seem to practice it daily. Looking back over the last few months I see moment after moment of evidential proof to back up this realization. Weather it be the one from the past, the one I held as dear for a short time, the one who could possibly still be, or any one of the ones who I had a moment or two’s memory with – they all have and have had some sort of influence on my state of mind. I hate it. I hate that another human being has any hold whatsoever over me. It hasn’t been a fun place to be in the past.
The past. That’s the strange part of my present, actually. It has so much to do with the past that part of me so desperately wants to leave behind. Not necissarily the person, if God deems it so, but more the consequences of that person. The aftermath, the aftertaste, the unknown that still lingers like the scent of smoke after a fire. The flames may have died down, but the residual warmth is still evident enough to ensure that awareness stays just on the periphery. Theres so much to say, and yet very little opening to do so. The door to this one may even have been closed – a bouquet of white to represent what; an apology, a surrender, hope, affection, or seemingly more likely as time passes – goodbye.
The one I will always have a place for in my heart. The one who so many advise me to forget. The mind forgets, but the heart remembers and is forever changed for your place in it.
This point in the blog marks a point where several paragraphs once followed. In deleting them, though on purpose, I find myself slightly more frustrated. Frustrated that the dramatic and angsty person I try to avoid being is indeed the person I personify at this particular moment. Once again, I feel the isolation. It’s the lack of one person, besides that of God Himself, who knows the details of everything and anyone who matters to me in this world at the moment. There really are so many fragments of stories, so many loose ends and frayed threads of the tapestry that I wouldn’t know where to begin if I tried to involve another person in this process. Too many characters, too many stories, too many worries and concerns, too many things on my plate. It’s not more than I can handle, but it certainly carries far more weight than I’m used to.
I feel like I’m being buried under a thousand pounds of blankets – dark and smothering, each one wrapping tighter than the one before it. The reality is, even though there are enough players in the story to boggle the mind, that particular aspect of my life is of little concern. Don’t get me wrong, it’s something that I would ideally see be different than its current state. It certainly is a subject I would like a few answers to, but at the same time it’s not something I see to be a pressing and demanding thing to exhaust at the moment. What bothers me more is the impending loss I fear I’m about to feel. My life revolves around the coastal region of Orange County, and in three short weeks I likely will lose all those I hold dear in this area. Moving means loss. Loss of security, friendships, relationships which may never get the chance to be. I sit here in the kitchen of my first place outside of my parents home and long for nothing more than to know that someday this reality will once again be mine.
This is becoming so disjointed. I’ve remarked lately on my tendancy to be bi-polar. I hate it. This proves it’s reality, however. God, help.
