I’m not sure what to think right now, but I know that I’m steaming. I’m boiling. I need to calm down. I haven’t been this angry in a while. I need to calm myself. I need to write while I’m shaking. I need to get this emotion down, and break it apart, piece by piece until I can see why and how I can get like this.
This is all so very interesting. I sit here, my heart beating, my hands shaking, my mind throbbing, breathing deeply, trying to take in calmness with each inhalation. System of a Down pumps in my ears, the scratchy sound of my headphones hurts with the greatest of delight. I miss the bass. I feel my blood pumping through my veins, feeding passion through every ventricle, making me mad with rage.
I try to keep my sanity, my cerebrality, my mind. I turn up my music. Only logic can help me here. I grip to every shred of calm I have, so as to not act on some superfluous emotion.
Only this can bring me closure, can give me resolution. A screen of grey, of sombre colours, of seriousness pointing to serenity.
I have learned.
I have a little friend now. I hope. Things are quite uncertain.
I once made an origami rose for a friend. Written inside was a poem I composed one night when I had an excess of forlorn emotions. One of my best pieces. In order to read the poem, she would have to destroy the rose, ruining the piece in itself, though satiating her curiosity. If she never opened it, she would never be able to see exactly what I wrote.
For me, art must have three attributes; it must be aesthetically pleasing in some way, it must carry a message, and I must be able to understand it or relate to it in some way. So many people seem so superficial to me when they put paintings in their house, or statuettes, about things they don’t understand. They own these pieces because “they like them”. They enjoy looking at them. Do they understand what the artist was thinking when he or she used a certain stroke of the brush? For all they know, the sculpture could be a message about anything they normally wouldn’t agree with. They don’t understand what the artist was trying to do. They can’t appreciate the piece. It saddens me.
So I made another piece, as a representation of the rose I made for my friend, because I enjoyed it so much, it is a symbol for something I created. It is a similar rose, but with the words “art for art for art for…” written all over it. When I look at it, it reminds me of my friend, what I was thinking when I gave away such a precious piece, and what she’s doing right now.
And to this day I don’t know if she opened it.
I intend on getting one, after a lot of careful consideration. I’ve always wanted one, but I wasn’t sure if I would have the resources to take care of it, time being the most important one. Another question I asked myself recently was whether I was mature enough or responsible enough to take care of one for over 10 years. I refuse to be one of those people who simply buy a cat because they want one, then grow tired of it, and give it away. I would definitely need to take care of my apartment better, which is a good thing. I was thinking of purchasing everything that I need this week, then going to the pet store that I’ve been checking out and looking for a cat on the week-end. I seem to have an affinity for anything in the feline or panthera genus. I love the way they move, they hunt, everything about them. One of the most beautiful animals created.
My workload is starting to get heavy. I seem to have neglected my assignments for the most part, so I have three due this week, and I’ve only looked at one so far. Fourth year seems to have gone well otherwise.
I’m not really sure what to say. I mean, I’m not completely sure what I’m feeling right now. Maybe a hint of jealously, a touch of dysthymia, and a sense of hopelessness. Everything is so light that I can’t tell what I’m feeling.
What should I be feeling? What can I feel? I feel so pathetic, yet complacent. Maybe writing has made things worse. Usually, I feel better, because there’s always something that I need to get off my chest. But lately, it just seems to be making me realize what my actual situation is. Well, I already know what my situation is, it has just given me a negative spin on it.
I wish I was very depressed. Being depressed is such a comfortable, and familiar feeling, that I would feel right at home. Yet I’m not, because of my complacency.
Have I been able to accept everything? I’m not quite sure yet. I compare myself to others, and nothing seems right. For me or for them. Everything just seems so fucked up, and it surprises me.
I shouldn’t be comparing myself to others. It’s not a healthy thing. After all, I’m very different from many people I know. Even the ones that I believe are comparable to me are very different, and lead very different lives.
God, it just makes me sad. I can’t seem to figure things out. Many things surprise me. And this just keeps happening again and again.
And I wonder, why not me?