Pandora and Sylvia Plath

I feel contrite, to some degree, tonight. I think Sylvia Plath was part of the problem, although calling it a problem is a mistake in itself. Sylvia tortured herself with her own philosophies and the reasoning behind her pains and concerns. She came from a kushy upbringing, brazed with golden looks and a sharp mind that could outscore the fastest of women and men. Here I sit, jealous of her words that seemed to mimic each thought I ever have pursued. I've craved some grain of inner peace for months, antagonizing over the fact that my days are either too mellow and beige, or just so outrageous that every breath I take wears down my troubled heart. I substitute melody for sadness which is the only way to spark the water ducts in my eyes. I feel as though I have been trying to "be", a place that is far from the future and more closely steps on the heels of the past. I try not to reach too far to the future because I know that is never promised nor ever accurate. Some people have this uncanny ability to organize and plot each stepping point in their life, as cliche as a calender on a leap year. Then there are those mad, mad minds like my own. Our minds decide the best way to find happiness is to torture ourselves with the unknown. We realize in so many less words, dates, and events that our lives are forever an unplanned cycle of peaks and terrible pits.

My wish more than anything is to assimilate my soul to another soul that is in exact step with my own. I want more than anything to be burdened by the thoughts from a person who equally challenges and keeps up with my own feisty and wanderlust-filled mind. Never have I purposely detached myself from people with the hope that I could reattach myself to someone like me, without sounding too self-centered. I actually have this conscience recognition to become more selfless, even if it makes me appear as a fool or a person who allows others to waltz over their skin. Knowing that I can take a few decent steps to help with humanity's brazen horizon would be a good thing for everyone, especially myself. I'd love to be the person who can wear a smile for days on end, knowing that bad times are just little stumbles backwards. But we all know that when we trip, picking ourselves back up is the most self-assuring and proud moments we have.

My dad always relishes in my drama filled absurdities. He thinks all of my problems are bullshit. . . he's right. Nothing in my padded life has ever been that terrible. I have always had a set of walls around a place I can call home. I've always had a set of solid heads in my corner, fighting for me in the most awkward and baffling situations. I've never had money problems where I wasn't sure what was going to be for dinner, even though my dad lived through this exact grievance as a child, eating boiled potatoes with tomato sauce on Wednesdays, spaghetti Tuesdays, and no-meat any days - not because they were vegetarians, but because they were the discarded poor. It's actually so disturbing the stories I hear from his side of the family. The idea that my two aunts and Grandmother slept in a full sized bed, with the youngest at the foot of the bed like a sleeping dog for the sole reason to escape the drunken "father" in the house frankly just departs me even more from actual "problems". None of the shit I go through is actually a severe concern, just petty nonsense in an even more nonsense filled hometown. I am in shame of myself that I take part.

Recently I suppose I was worked into a tangled web of boys and girls (and I use these terms because that's what these people are, just kids who thrive off of demoralizing others and fighting maliciously, even if they aren't of concern). I went through the motions where I was in disbelief, followed by an attack of fitting humor where all I did was laugh, and then reality sat in. None of us are anything. None of us are better than one another. None of us are important. We all just fall victim to immediate gratification of our own wants, other people's desires, and our mutual attraction to be part of it all. We all are shit. Nothing but shit. Those who aren't complete shit? Yes, they exist, but they are so few and far between that it looks as if they also do not exist. Any many times, the only way they ever seem like the real ones can be found posthumously, when they are rotting in the ground.

Listen. I am not attempting to be morbid and utterly depressing, but sometimes I need to fall deep into it. When I do this, I learn to appreciate the big picture much more than the meticulous monotony of the ticking clock. Sitting at a bar, reclining in my bar stool, people watching quietly, I learn quickly that there are some people who do this as well. And when I meet there stare and our eyes connect, for that split second I have looked into their soul. Recently, one other soul who actually is a tangible human being struck this very feeling in my heart. He made me feel complete for a brief second of humanity. I thank him. He wasn't the first, or even the only, but he was recent, he was ready, and he felt it too. He also perplexed my brain and challenged me to keep up with him. How can we not appreciate this notion in people? Seriously. . . it's so fucking celebrated.