Peeled Peaches

obscure thoughts and sentiments

learning

I was an honest child. Or am I idealizing? I know that, in my current condition, my perception of life is so far from what it is – I can tell at least that much from this haze of fiction that overwhelms my senses. My sense of self has become so perverted since high school. I do not even know how I used to be before that. I remember concerns regarding girls and sight and athleticism. I was secure in my academics. Not anymore, so everything else has been brushed aside. The problem is, I’m not perfect, and there is no way for me to become so. Eventually, I’ll have furbished everything about myself that I can, and in my wont of self-improvement, will feel the urge to change something about myself that I cannot, not merely something holding potential for growth, but something that is intrinsic to my identity. I won’t be able to, it’s best I realize that now. There are so many truths in this universe, many contradictory, that even if I take the time to examine each one and apply them to my life, I won’t make sense of anything. I can spend all of my time self examining, but I’m still who I am, and life just won’t be as surprising, and less educational. 

go.

Too often do I find myself sympathizing with the antagonist of any fictional work. I might need professional help, but that won’t be available until I can pay for it on my own. But reluctance remains because I would be deliberately ridding myself of a very important my identity. Could it be that my self cannot blossom without the removal of some obstructions? I still do not think it is right to reject who I am. My identity is important to me. I should be able to accept myself but I cannot do so cheerfully.

I find strength in the hope that this might be the worst time of my life. If things are only going to get better, maybe, I can continue. I’m already mourning the future of loss of plums. And tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. I do not like thinking about this, but the thought oes not go away. She’s a really cool person. I like her a lot. I hope she remembers me, and that she’ll be proud of me. Maybe someday. It’s easier for me to write for someone else, than for myself. I find joy in other’s joy in me. Like God. But unlike God, there is no joy in myself. And I only find that joy because of my insecurity, not my selflessness. Words aren’t coming out of me well. Do they come out of anybody well? Perhaps it is just because I have nothing to say. Or too much.

Beginning towards the Self

Some people, like me, lose themselves in their work. People have praised me for acting the same or eccentrically, but that makes me wonder, if anyone really knows who they are. Is there more to a person than the person’s experiences and opinions? I suppose I’m referring to a soul, but I do not want to cop out and claim my identity in something so intangible and abstract.

I live in the past, and in the future, but never in the present. The things I do are because of the past, for the future. I suffer in the past and rejoice in the future. I am not alive. I will never be alive. This is the source of my identity crisis – I do not ever know who I presently am. I know who I was, and who I want to be, but even these, vaguely. There is a tragedy in my existence, in that I will never be satisfied, in that the allure of death will never disappear, in that in life becomes worse, in that I will always be alone, in that it is likely I will never become a writer. All of these are obstacles I can overcome, but it is not likely. It would no longer be me. However, that is mere speculation for I do not ever change too drastically. Although I may be conscious of my mannerisms and try to adjust them, they will always be there. I suppose there is some comfort in the constancy of my self. But also, entrapment. Now I’m just rediscovering my freedom paper. I will never change as much as I desire, nor will I ever be as constant as I desire because I do not have the strength for it.

 

Quoting Fitz

I’m not ready to begin my day yet. I haven’t journaled my feelings in a while because I’ve been so busy working on my philosophy essay, but it’s due time I do. After having finished my paper, relief did not overcome me. The stream of energy continued, but now without an outlet. I woke up weary, and saddened that this chapter was over, and did not complete as I hoped.

I want to repeat the past but do it right this time, taking the opportunities I didn’t before, behaving with more charm. But I fully realize that, like Gatsby, I’m playing a game I cannot win. It seems the best I can hope for is a memorable and satisfying destruction. 

“He took what he could get, ravenously and unscrupulously – eventually he took Daisy one still October night, took her because he had no real right to touch her hand.”

that hardened character who is oh so afraid to open herself up to others again

I’ve discovered a lot about myself lately, one of which is that not everything I’ve “discover” is true due to how much I’ve been discovering. One realization, however, I fear might be true. It is that I am afraid to form relationships. I never thought I’d be that type of person. And if I attach this label to myself, which I would if I believe it is true, then I’ll begin to act like it. I’m always like this – I act in accordance to how others, myself included, views me. At chapel today, it clicked that the reason I refuse to pray if because I can’t go through the disappointment of not believing in God anymore. It’s not entirely pride – I realize that would prevent me from seeing God. It is because I don’t trust him to take care of me, which is foolish. I don’t know if the Judea-Christian God is the true god. Anyways, if God exists, I should be praying, whether he responds or not. If he doesn’t, it wouldn’t hurt to pray, but I’d become a person I don’t like too much – weak and alone. But I don’t like the person who doesn’t pray either – afraid and proud.

Schools hasn’t been so great because for some reason, my friends aren’t interested in me anymore. I don’t talk. I don’t do anything spontaneous or interesting. And it makes me so much more alone. Dependency is a virtue, believe it or not. Otherwise, I’d be alone. I just finished writing about that in my free will essay. I’m really hoping plums is impressed with that essay. I don’t even try with girls anymore. It’s just painful and distracting.

But I might have found a remedy. Apparently, “As external conditions change, it becomes tougher to meet the three conditions that sociologists since the 1950s have considered crucial to making close friends: proximity; repeated, unplanned interactions; and a setting that encourages people to let their guard down and confide in each other”. Proximity is covered. I have to be more random and spontaneous, and not so nervous, and stop planning to cover the second requirement. And I have to stop being douchey and judgmental to cover the third requirement. However, I’m not looking to be friends with girls, but it’s a start I suppose. And here’s another thing – I get so goddamn excited over solutions or epiphanies until I give up.

Further than Fiction

I’m browsing my facebook for the last time before I delete it. The first person’s profile I clicked was Makayla’s. It’s saddening to see how much I’ve lost. I want to talk to her again, to be with her, to be her friend. I can finally appreciate how different worlds separate people. I used to think that love could overcome it all, but not love weakened by such distance. I’m not in love with Makayla, not anymore, but I could be wrong – I’ve never been perceptive, not even of my own sentiments.

I appreciated her in the way we appreciate fictional characters. I adored who she was, and everything she did was beautiful and only enriched my life. Her flaws did not detract from who she was, just as the flaws of fictional characters make them more perfect. Looking back, I realize I’ve developed a “type” of girl I’d be attracted to, and would hold certain characteristics, arbitrary and worthless characteristics now that I examine it more closely, as some undeniable mandate. When I fell for Makayla, I didn’t believe I’d ever have a “type”. It just happened as I spent more time with her. So this is how normal people fall in love. She’s so special to me, but not the world. I think it was that she was honest to her feelings, and honest to mine. She accepted me, and put up with me, and found worth in me. I pushed her away. Characters that did this never seemed realistic to me. Things between Makayla and I are irreparably broken. I can only hope, someday somewhere, we could start over and hopefully I won’t be too late. No, hopefully, I’ll be just in time, for when our relationship might blossom in the direction it is intended to. Although I don’t admit it, I live my life as though I believe in fate.

I don’t know why Makayla tries so hard to mend things between us. She’s a better person than me, and I don’t add anything to her life. I was some jerk in her past. I’m that jerk, the one who is left in the dust to be pitied. All of my relationships crumble. It’s just who I am. I ruin beautiful things. What happened with her will remain one of the greatest tragedies in my life and becomes increasingly so by our pathetic attempt to recover what was, knowing fully well that can never be. Now, let the dreams that are to come torture my soul.

dark

I don’t know where my life is headed. Given that it’s been determined, it really doesn’t feel like anything can be helped, and who I am cannot be helped. I only have myself to blame and that makes everything so much darker. Things may go well, and that may please me temporarily, but I can’t imagine ever feeling satisfied with myself. I’m not apt to live the life I desire. It’s dark, and I feel so tired.

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