All we are is a collection of what we've seen, tasted, heard, and felt. We are storage spaces for experience. We collect these minutes and days without ever analyzing how they're shaping us in our entirety. Our whole selves are hardly whole at all. Our whole selves are created by piecing together moments, of ripping apart days and gluing together the parts that stick out to us. Sadly we don't choose which moments create us.
Imagine how strange the world would be if we consciously created our personality.
I wonder if people would be easier or harder to get along with. My bet is that they would be harder, they would grasp onto the idea of self so much more strongly, because they know that they created the self. It's easy to dislike yourself now, we don't have to take the blame for who we are. We are shaped by outside forces. So if I don't like myself, I just don't like the things that made me this way.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Friday, August 26, 2011
locomotive
I have to type something, but I don't really have to.
I wish that I could live my life through a screen, the backlight would give my existence a well needed lift. Not to be so dreary and down trodden as all that, my life is wonderful, and would be moreso if I would allow myself to really experience it all, but social situations scare the shit out of me unless I have something to be proud of. I am horrified of the questions,
"Where do you work?"
"What are you doing?"
"You going to school?"
Why in the world does it all matter so very much? I really don't care, and if I were honest with people the answer to the first question would be, I'm trying, but not very hard to find work, it's hard to put all of your effort into pursuing something that you know you'll soon enough wish that you had never found.
The answers to the second question are so terrible and vague, but at the risk of seeming like a pseudo-intellectual bum; what am I doing? I'm talking to you, I'm getting older and if you don't provide me with more stimulus I am sitting here bored. I honestly have no clue as to what I am doing with my life. I hate that question and I hate when people ask me to tell them about myself, I am so much more than my arbitrary goals in life.
No school yet, and I don't like wasting my breath on explanations as to why not or when I will start.
Anyway, instead of answering those questions with real answers, I sugar-coat everything and say what people want to hear and I hate that I do, but I don't like talking about myself very much. That's a lie, I talk way too much about myself to some people, but I guess I don't like talking about myself in so bare-bones and surface scratching a way as all that, and not to people that I just met.
I'm in a crummy mood tonight and I already scribbled enough in my journal, this is just a practice of self-motivation.
I wish that I could live my life through a screen, the backlight would give my existence a well needed lift. Not to be so dreary and down trodden as all that, my life is wonderful, and would be moreso if I would allow myself to really experience it all, but social situations scare the shit out of me unless I have something to be proud of. I am horrified of the questions,
"Where do you work?"
"What are you doing?"
"You going to school?"
Why in the world does it all matter so very much? I really don't care, and if I were honest with people the answer to the first question would be, I'm trying, but not very hard to find work, it's hard to put all of your effort into pursuing something that you know you'll soon enough wish that you had never found.
The answers to the second question are so terrible and vague, but at the risk of seeming like a pseudo-intellectual bum; what am I doing? I'm talking to you, I'm getting older and if you don't provide me with more stimulus I am sitting here bored. I honestly have no clue as to what I am doing with my life. I hate that question and I hate when people ask me to tell them about myself, I am so much more than my arbitrary goals in life.
No school yet, and I don't like wasting my breath on explanations as to why not or when I will start.
Anyway, instead of answering those questions with real answers, I sugar-coat everything and say what people want to hear and I hate that I do, but I don't like talking about myself very much. That's a lie, I talk way too much about myself to some people, but I guess I don't like talking about myself in so bare-bones and surface scratching a way as all that, and not to people that I just met.
I'm in a crummy mood tonight and I already scribbled enough in my journal, this is just a practice of self-motivation.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
rising
I want the grass to always stay green so I close my eyes. I shut the door on daylight and drink another beer. I want to be wrong all alone so I can criticize myself.
I want people to miss me, and create a me that I can admire, I want people to only know the bare bones of who I am so that they can project a persona onto me that I can feel inspired to live up to, or conspire to break it down.
I feel nice in this corner. I live between two pages, the binding is my home,and this story is better than my own. I forget that my body exists, survival is easy in the buzz of my mind. Dancing in the shadows of leaves and reaching toward the sky, ignoring the gray keeps reality at bay, blindness keeps my spirits high and my insanity sharp. My happiness depends on a constant running from reality, a constant escape from what has turned everyone else so hard and cold.
As long as I stare at the sun so long that I'm blind to the dark, as long as I stay laughing so long that I am drunk from lack of oxygen and incapable of breathing a bad word against anybody, as long as I stay vague and unreal, as long as I stay down here, happy to bask in the mud, as long as I stay hurt, I won't know the constant struggle to heal.
I want people to miss me, and create a me that I can admire, I want people to only know the bare bones of who I am so that they can project a persona onto me that I can feel inspired to live up to, or conspire to break it down.
I feel nice in this corner. I live between two pages, the binding is my home,and this story is better than my own. I forget that my body exists, survival is easy in the buzz of my mind. Dancing in the shadows of leaves and reaching toward the sky, ignoring the gray keeps reality at bay, blindness keeps my spirits high and my insanity sharp. My happiness depends on a constant running from reality, a constant escape from what has turned everyone else so hard and cold.
As long as I stare at the sun so long that I'm blind to the dark, as long as I stay laughing so long that I am drunk from lack of oxygen and incapable of breathing a bad word against anybody, as long as I stay vague and unreal, as long as I stay down here, happy to bask in the mud, as long as I stay hurt, I won't know the constant struggle to heal.
Twenty-Four August, Two Thousand and Eleven
I saw a man running to meet his drug dealers (I'm assuming meth, considering the fact that he was literally running) /he ran past me and said hello, commented on how damned hot it was today all while keeping a brisk jog, I caught up with him in a parking lot and saw a different face. I saw a group of people and some sort of exchange all around a beat up old car.
I guess I'm making assumptions, but the gaunt look of the four people around the car and the hungry look in the man's eyes told me a story.
I always create stories for people. I create a background excusing and glorifying their present condition, an inner monologue thanking me for my compassion and a future changed by my kindness.
Selfish patronization is what it is.
I walked by three homeless men today, one asked for a dollar, I gave it to him, and I felt good. I felt like I was making a difference, I just recalled this, I had completely forgotten about that until just now.I guarantee that they forgot about it too, but they probably got a little bit of liquid comfort thanks to my spare paper. There I go again, creating a history, thanks, and a future. I place myself in such an important role in those peoples' lives whose eyes I make contact with.
I saw a girl sitting on the sidewalk at the bus stop today, she looked like me, but blonde and she was wearing the exact opposite of what I was wearing, all dark, in contrast with my light flowery outfit. I imagined that she would be good conversation, I sat on the ground next to her, then I got up and walked away to get some coffee, I suck at social situations involving women. I could have made a friend, but I just made myself seem insane and stand-offish. when I got back to the bus stop I sat on the wall behind her and said nothing. I never made eye contact, and saw hardly anything of her but the back of her head. I bet I seemed like a judgmental jerk, I bet I made her so uncomfortable. I bet I made no impact at all and I'm just self-centered and silly.
I guess I'm making assumptions, but the gaunt look of the four people around the car and the hungry look in the man's eyes told me a story.
I always create stories for people. I create a background excusing and glorifying their present condition, an inner monologue thanking me for my compassion and a future changed by my kindness.
Selfish patronization is what it is.
I walked by three homeless men today, one asked for a dollar, I gave it to him, and I felt good. I felt like I was making a difference, I just recalled this, I had completely forgotten about that until just now.I guarantee that they forgot about it too, but they probably got a little bit of liquid comfort thanks to my spare paper. There I go again, creating a history, thanks, and a future. I place myself in such an important role in those peoples' lives whose eyes I make contact with.
I saw a girl sitting on the sidewalk at the bus stop today, she looked like me, but blonde and she was wearing the exact opposite of what I was wearing, all dark, in contrast with my light flowery outfit. I imagined that she would be good conversation, I sat on the ground next to her, then I got up and walked away to get some coffee, I suck at social situations involving women. I could have made a friend, but I just made myself seem insane and stand-offish. when I got back to the bus stop I sat on the wall behind her and said nothing. I never made eye contact, and saw hardly anything of her but the back of her head. I bet I seemed like a judgmental jerk, I bet I made her so uncomfortable. I bet I made no impact at all and I'm just self-centered and silly.
a practice in selfishness
I never realize that I've wasted the day while I'm busy wasting it. Only once the minutes are spent and irretrievable do I take inventory of how I used them. Am I enjoying these wasted days or am I just content in the knowledge that doing nothing is less terrible than doing something and failing at it? I don't allow myself to enjoy the moment, I only enjoy memories, photographs and conversations basking in reminiscence.
Hedonism is my new goal. I will enjoy my moments as they happen and worry less about whether I am doing it right. I believe that I already have a far more carefree and present-centered existence than most people and somehow I still face these troubles. Such is life, I guess.
I also am unsure of whether to be more selfish or more empathetic, whether I should practice making myself happy regardless of how many toes I step on or if I should make my shoulders broader in order to lift other people up. Which would make me more happy? I believe that bearing the burden of other people will make me happier now, but what about ten years from now? Will I feel like I stole my own chance at success by putting all of my strength toward helping other people? Will I want for more material possessions, and have no means of achieving them while watching the people I helped and placed idealistic good faith in succeed? Will I be "successful" and look back at the people that I stepped on and abused and feel that all of this success is for naught? I believe that I pick the first path, at least for now. I hope that I never become the kind of person that envies another for material possessions. I hope that nobody ever envies me for my material possessions, I would sooner give everything away than make someone else feel less than me for want of what I have.
I'm blabbering, but I have nobody to talk to at this moment, and typing feels better than pen to paper right now. I build emotional challenges like mazes, I don't give myself the reprieve of cheese at the end though. I keep creating messes in my mind, I keep seeing lies in peoples' eyes, I keep hearing humor in emotional replies. I'm rusty, I'm not used to reciprocating emotions, I'm used to having the upper hand in that I am the one being pined over. When I do feel for someone I am incapable of pursuit, I can't allow myself to feel so vulnerable and needy. This is hard and private so I should shut up my face, fingers, whatever the hell.
Hedonism is my new goal. I will enjoy my moments as they happen and worry less about whether I am doing it right. I believe that I already have a far more carefree and present-centered existence than most people and somehow I still face these troubles. Such is life, I guess.
I also am unsure of whether to be more selfish or more empathetic, whether I should practice making myself happy regardless of how many toes I step on or if I should make my shoulders broader in order to lift other people up. Which would make me more happy? I believe that bearing the burden of other people will make me happier now, but what about ten years from now? Will I feel like I stole my own chance at success by putting all of my strength toward helping other people? Will I want for more material possessions, and have no means of achieving them while watching the people I helped and placed idealistic good faith in succeed? Will I be "successful" and look back at the people that I stepped on and abused and feel that all of this success is for naught? I believe that I pick the first path, at least for now. I hope that I never become the kind of person that envies another for material possessions. I hope that nobody ever envies me for my material possessions, I would sooner give everything away than make someone else feel less than me for want of what I have.
I'm blabbering, but I have nobody to talk to at this moment, and typing feels better than pen to paper right now. I build emotional challenges like mazes, I don't give myself the reprieve of cheese at the end though. I keep creating messes in my mind, I keep seeing lies in peoples' eyes, I keep hearing humor in emotional replies. I'm rusty, I'm not used to reciprocating emotions, I'm used to having the upper hand in that I am the one being pined over. When I do feel for someone I am incapable of pursuit, I can't allow myself to feel so vulnerable and needy. This is hard and private so I should shut up my face, fingers, whatever the hell.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
eye have
I have always marvelled at the strength of the wounded and the broken, the deaf and the blind.
How do they live in the prison of their mind? Isn't the lack of something that I think of as basic and necessary oppressive? Maybe I am the oppressed, I am as unable to experience their reality as they are to experience mine. I am just as possessed by the need for these sensory organs, and convenient limbs.
Every person is trapped in a prison of self. We all have an ego that causes sympathy, but hinders our ability to empathize with one another. We compare every human prison to our own, we will never be free from apathy until we can realize that every life has validity and the fact that the body is still chugging along, means that the brain is still chomping down and digesting stimuli, and inferring things about the world around them. We need to listen when people talk in order to piece together a less subjective and selfish view of this third dimension.
How do they live in the prison of their mind? Isn't the lack of something that I think of as basic and necessary oppressive? Maybe I am the oppressed, I am as unable to experience their reality as they are to experience mine. I am just as possessed by the need for these sensory organs, and convenient limbs.
Every person is trapped in a prison of self. We all have an ego that causes sympathy, but hinders our ability to empathize with one another. We compare every human prison to our own, we will never be free from apathy until we can realize that every life has validity and the fact that the body is still chugging along, means that the brain is still chomping down and digesting stimuli, and inferring things about the world around them. We need to listen when people talk in order to piece together a less subjective and selfish view of this third dimension.
A cat in a frying pan
There is something new about me. Some new acceptance of a piece of Tabitha that has always been there. I've always seen acceptance of self as lazy, there is always something to change, but I'm learning that changing the self while unhappy with the basic fundamental pieces of personality that make me Tabitha will never end well. I need to see my self as a person, from as un-biased a view as humanly possible, accepting the things that make me different, and using those things to work on changing the parts of me that are truly detrimental.
What am I, but all of reality as I know it trapped inside of a body? I am the creator of my world, this self is my world. I have the power to change it as I see fit.
No longer do I feel like a fraud, my emotions aren't a tool, my emotions are my world, and I am allowed to share them with whosoever I choose. I no longer have to sit and wait because I know it isn't going to happen, and I don't think I want it to. I'm happy now, I'm mature, smart and beautiful, and I can accept and embrace that without feeling like an egotistical tool. I'm going to start my life, and no longer will I wait for someone else to tell me that I am worth anything, because as far as I can prove, I am everything.
What am I, but all of reality as I know it trapped inside of a body? I am the creator of my world, this self is my world. I have the power to change it as I see fit.
No longer do I feel like a fraud, my emotions aren't a tool, my emotions are my world, and I am allowed to share them with whosoever I choose. I no longer have to sit and wait because I know it isn't going to happen, and I don't think I want it to. I'm happy now, I'm mature, smart and beautiful, and I can accept and embrace that without feeling like an egotistical tool. I'm going to start my life, and no longer will I wait for someone else to tell me that I am worth anything, because as far as I can prove, I am everything.
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