You know, I've almost had this blog for two years. I started it on November 28th, 2010. I'm only lacking four days from my anniversery. I think maybe in the start I planned on blogging a lot. I talked about Anne Frank, my writing inspiration in nearly anything personal. But I really haven't, I've never been consistent with the blog. And I would promise now, but I can't. Why make promises when they're so fragile, I know I won't be in here all the time. This blog is here for me when it is needed. And that's good, good for me and for the people who read it. Though, honestly, over the past two years I only think there are about maybe eight or nine people who have read my blog. And if you're not in that group, let me know. Who are you? Why are you out there? And it seems to me there would be no reason for someone to read my blog, unless they really wanted to know. That doesn't seem to fit in the pattern of my life, I want to know people, I really do. If I was find out if anyone in my life kept a blog I would actively read it, but you know, they don't. And somehow in turn no one really wants to know about me. I mean, maybe there is someone who does, but really there seems to not be. I don't know. And how self-centered is that, I want people to really want to know me. It's like I'm waving a flaming flag in the air and saying, 'Here! Look at me! I'm right here!", but no one ever looks. And if people do look they don't see, not really, they see the outside. Here I am, here is your perception of me. Would you like that on a silver platter? Because I know, I just know, that you won't make the effort to see beyond. And really, why would you.
Let me tell you this, loneliness, she is a sneaky little bitch. She's like this. Imagine me, perfectly content and happy, and then there's my loneliness, living in the back of my mind, waiting to pounce. And she does, all the time. I know she's there too, hiding in the back of me at all times, but yet every time she attacks I am surprised. And it's that surprise, the surprise that hurts me the most. Shouldn't I know I am a lonely person? I know myself, right, or at least part of it. That loneliness, it should be part of the things I know. But I don't. I really don't, and it scares me. There's so much dimension too it than just meets the eye too, because it's substance comes from the moments that the loneliness chooses to appear. Hear me out , okay? I feel less lonely when I'm physically alone than I would when I am surrounded by a group of people. At least when I'm alone, I mean really alone, I have my music, and books, and writing. And they, they are such good friends to me, they keep the loneliness at bay. But with others, with people, it's so ahrd not to feel it. It's like I with them and I know. I can tell from their attitudes, their gestures, their everything. My presence in their lives is fleeting, without me there would no difference, and even if I was to leave than perhaps it would even be better. And I try to be normal, I really do. Normalcy is the hardest thing to grasp. I mean, I speak and I amke jokes and I smile but I can't help but thinking in my mind if they even hear me. Can they really see me? And they can't, they can't understand me. And I'm screaming in my head, it's a torture. Can't you see me!?! Can't you hear!?!
I just want so badly to truly be seen that I don't even no how to handle myself. I don't even know if I can function around people anymore. I mean I can. I am the best actress in the world when it comes to pretending things are okay. I really am. But I'm not, because it hurts. It hurts a lot that no one cares to really no.
And this, this is the worst part. My loneliness it something that has become part of me. I just know it's there. I just know no one will understand me. That's a such a teenager move, I know. But people don't, they really don't. And it's not the lack of understanding that causes the hurt. It's something else. It's the fact that no one even wants to understand. No one even tries to care.
I don't even know if I want someone to understand, because I really think they never will. But I do wish that they would try. Do you know how great it feels for someone to really, really care? Even if they don't care, but they care enough to try. I don't have that. I don't even know if I have friends at all. And the uncertaintity of it hurts me so much. I just, I want to know that someone really cares.
A lot of people say they care but they don't. But really, most of them, most of them just ignore it, ignore me. They walk around pretending they know me or maybe not and they don't see. They don't want to see.
I know I need to stop thinking about this but I really can't. I don't need someone to understand, I need someone to try to. Because no one is.
Fin.
-Keshia
Saturday, November 24, 2012
Tuesday, November 20, 2012
You know.
I've always wanted to imagine this, that I'm like Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice. You see, Elizabeth really has no remarkable quailty about her appearence, only that she has fine eyes. And I know people are more then just appearences I'd like to think I have fine eyes, or at least eyes that like to see. But really, I'm not here to talk about appearences.
Let me let you know what is happening right now. I am in Orange Beach, in a cozy little house that belongs to John's family. It's half past midnight and in the twin bed beside my bed John is trying to sleep. I am trying to type lightly as not to wake him. And I could sleep, I really could, but I have these feels, all these feels. And I don't know what to do with them other than write. It seems that there is no other option. At least not for me. And I wish it was like that way for the rest of the world. Because really, I admire anyone who can quantify their feelings in the written world. And because it helps me understand myself, and surely if other people wrote then I could obtain a better understanding of them.
Okay, concentrate. There is this. When I was younger and in elementry school we had this kind of festival every year. It was a thing were the playground was turned into something spectacular, filled with little games that gave you prizes and stands that fed you hotdogs and snowcones. Of course, though, you had to buy tickets to do these things, four tickets per dollar. I remember so clearly the raw, unadulterated jealousy I felt for kids who would bring in twenty dollar bills like it was no big deal and walk away with a handful of tickets. I always had five dollars, twenty tickets to spare. I was an organized kid, just like I am an organized person now (okay, I admit, not exactly organized, just OCD to an extreme level) and I tried to balance my tickets. I spent about 75% of them on games (where I could earn back their value in prizes) and about 25% on food (a corndog, snowcone, and drink.) But I always saved three tickets for one particular thing. Something I did for the first time in kindegarten, and something that became a tradition for my next five years of gradeschool. I got a balloon. The balloon stand was near this little red shed we kept on the playground. A red shed which at anytime in the year could be opened by a magical set of keys owned by the P.E. teacher, hidden in it jumprops, hulahoops, basketballs, scooters, and other toys that told us we had a free day in PE. But the balloon, getting back on subject. Every year, I got a different color, and I can only remember the color the first year, it was a bright emarald green. I remember loving the helium tanks, how they were like big, tube shaped, silver robots who could fill the balloon until it could fly. But its flight was stopped by a ribbon attatched to it that was then given to the secure hold of your hand.
That first year I got my green balloon and went out to this little field beside our playground. It was the place where we would sometimes have kickball matches. And when I was in the field, I let go of the balloon and I watched it rise, it's greenness bright amoung the pale blue sky and fluffy white clouds. And I watched it, as it floated further and further. I watched it until my eyes watered from looking so hard and it became a tiny black dot on the skyline that dissapeared suddenly, sucked up by the vaccumm that was the sky and my vision which couldn't hold out longer. And somehow I did this again next year, and the year after that, and so on and so forth.
I remember the feels I had when I let the balloon release. How it wad the immiediate sense of loss, how for one scrambling moment I wanted to jump out and grab the string just so the balloon would be mine again. And then the wonder, wonder as the balloon dance and and bobbed in the wind as it carried on higher. This was followed shortly after by jealousy, jealousy because I wanted to float away like the balloon. And then there was a peaceful happiness, happiness because I had set the balloon free to the world. And finaly just the desperate looking, the struggle just to keep the balloon in my sight. I never wanted it to dissappear. But it did.
You know, I really have no idea what I'm saying with this. Don't pay attention to me.
Fin.
Keshia
Currently Reading: Holes by Louis Sacher
Let me let you know what is happening right now. I am in Orange Beach, in a cozy little house that belongs to John's family. It's half past midnight and in the twin bed beside my bed John is trying to sleep. I am trying to type lightly as not to wake him. And I could sleep, I really could, but I have these feels, all these feels. And I don't know what to do with them other than write. It seems that there is no other option. At least not for me. And I wish it was like that way for the rest of the world. Because really, I admire anyone who can quantify their feelings in the written world. And because it helps me understand myself, and surely if other people wrote then I could obtain a better understanding of them.
Okay, concentrate. There is this. When I was younger and in elementry school we had this kind of festival every year. It was a thing were the playground was turned into something spectacular, filled with little games that gave you prizes and stands that fed you hotdogs and snowcones. Of course, though, you had to buy tickets to do these things, four tickets per dollar. I remember so clearly the raw, unadulterated jealousy I felt for kids who would bring in twenty dollar bills like it was no big deal and walk away with a handful of tickets. I always had five dollars, twenty tickets to spare. I was an organized kid, just like I am an organized person now (okay, I admit, not exactly organized, just OCD to an extreme level) and I tried to balance my tickets. I spent about 75% of them on games (where I could earn back their value in prizes) and about 25% on food (a corndog, snowcone, and drink.) But I always saved three tickets for one particular thing. Something I did for the first time in kindegarten, and something that became a tradition for my next five years of gradeschool. I got a balloon. The balloon stand was near this little red shed we kept on the playground. A red shed which at anytime in the year could be opened by a magical set of keys owned by the P.E. teacher, hidden in it jumprops, hulahoops, basketballs, scooters, and other toys that told us we had a free day in PE. But the balloon, getting back on subject. Every year, I got a different color, and I can only remember the color the first year, it was a bright emarald green. I remember loving the helium tanks, how they were like big, tube shaped, silver robots who could fill the balloon until it could fly. But its flight was stopped by a ribbon attatched to it that was then given to the secure hold of your hand.
That first year I got my green balloon and went out to this little field beside our playground. It was the place where we would sometimes have kickball matches. And when I was in the field, I let go of the balloon and I watched it rise, it's greenness bright amoung the pale blue sky and fluffy white clouds. And I watched it, as it floated further and further. I watched it until my eyes watered from looking so hard and it became a tiny black dot on the skyline that dissapeared suddenly, sucked up by the vaccumm that was the sky and my vision which couldn't hold out longer. And somehow I did this again next year, and the year after that, and so on and so forth.
I remember the feels I had when I let the balloon release. How it wad the immiediate sense of loss, how for one scrambling moment I wanted to jump out and grab the string just so the balloon would be mine again. And then the wonder, wonder as the balloon dance and and bobbed in the wind as it carried on higher. This was followed shortly after by jealousy, jealousy because I wanted to float away like the balloon. And then there was a peaceful happiness, happiness because I had set the balloon free to the world. And finaly just the desperate looking, the struggle just to keep the balloon in my sight. I never wanted it to dissappear. But it did.
You know, I really have no idea what I'm saying with this. Don't pay attention to me.
Fin.
Keshia
Currently Reading: Holes by Louis Sacher
Saturday, November 10, 2012
Impetus
There's a thing that is very upsetting to me about other human beings. It's not nesscarily something that would upset they, themselves, but to me it seems too horrible. And I know I've talked about this before. I just have to revisit it, because I really feel like it something that drives into my brain day in and day out. And I just can't understand it. I can't understand the fundamentals in other human beings.
Everthing in my life is driven by my passions. I'm really not a person who does things in my life that I'm passionate for. And I don't understand that, how people can do things in life that they're not passionate for. How can you do something when you know you don't want to? And the whole time there is a pulling in you, a pulling to do something else, something that you're really passionate about. Is it because people are scared? I can understand the fear, I really can. Sometimes passions in life are overwhelming, particuarly in the ones that it seems to shape your lives. Since I'm in college, i'm surrounded by the shaping on lives everyday. There are so many of us, all bright and merry. We are preparing for our future careers. But really, how many of us will actually get our careers? And I think, really, that is what instills the fear the most. One phrase I hate more than anything, because pehaps it's the saddest thing to hear, is when people say they want to do something but they can't because they can't make a career out of it, they can't make any money. And I understand that so well, I really do. Humans have to have material things, it's an impossibility not to. But it seems so terribly sad to me that people can't follow thier passions for fear that they will not make anything off of them. And I think we're all born with passions, and because of that we were meant to follow them. The way of our life should not shape our passions, they are an essential part of us that just are us. Like me, I want to be a writer, and where can I find a career in that? I really can't, there is no value unless I sell books really well. And I know I can teach too, but really it's one of my smaller passions. It can be put off, but my passion in writing can't. I just have to write, and it seems to me if I was in a world where I couldn't write, because I did not follow my passions, then I would go insane.
It's like this. My dream life would be sitting in library all day, full of wonderful books to read and lots of empty notebooks for me to fill up with my thoughts. And in this dream, I have no need for money. I just need my passions.
Fin.
Keshia
Currently Reading: Like the Red Panda by Andrea Siegal
Everthing in my life is driven by my passions. I'm really not a person who does things in my life that I'm passionate for. And I don't understand that, how people can do things in life that they're not passionate for. How can you do something when you know you don't want to? And the whole time there is a pulling in you, a pulling to do something else, something that you're really passionate about. Is it because people are scared? I can understand the fear, I really can. Sometimes passions in life are overwhelming, particuarly in the ones that it seems to shape your lives. Since I'm in college, i'm surrounded by the shaping on lives everyday. There are so many of us, all bright and merry. We are preparing for our future careers. But really, how many of us will actually get our careers? And I think, really, that is what instills the fear the most. One phrase I hate more than anything, because pehaps it's the saddest thing to hear, is when people say they want to do something but they can't because they can't make a career out of it, they can't make any money. And I understand that so well, I really do. Humans have to have material things, it's an impossibility not to. But it seems so terribly sad to me that people can't follow thier passions for fear that they will not make anything off of them. And I think we're all born with passions, and because of that we were meant to follow them. The way of our life should not shape our passions, they are an essential part of us that just are us. Like me, I want to be a writer, and where can I find a career in that? I really can't, there is no value unless I sell books really well. And I know I can teach too, but really it's one of my smaller passions. It can be put off, but my passion in writing can't. I just have to write, and it seems to me if I was in a world where I couldn't write, because I did not follow my passions, then I would go insane.
It's like this. My dream life would be sitting in library all day, full of wonderful books to read and lots of empty notebooks for me to fill up with my thoughts. And in this dream, I have no need for money. I just need my passions.
Fin.
Keshia
Currently Reading: Like the Red Panda by Andrea Siegal
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