***Just a note: Be prepared for written confusion.***
I
think it is time I realized that the fairy tales have all ended. There isn’t
any point in looking back at the time of magic and wonderment, for those things
have been shattered into a million little pieces. I don’t know why I held on
for so many years, death grip on the illusion. Maybe I haven’t completely let
go—it is my biggest security blanket, but I’ve definitely lived through the
lifting of the fog. It has been too long with too much heartbreak to think that
magic and wonderment don’t come without a heavy price.
It
all comes down to how much you’re willing to pay. I think, for me, I would give
everything I am to feel that security again, and I think that is exactly what
you have to give. You have to hand over your entire being, allow it to be
formed and molded and twisted, and then it will eventually be handed
back—broken.
I
think I speak in too many metaphors, especially when I haven’t explained myself
properly. Though, in all actuality, I’m never going to really explain
myself—that would be going too far. I just need to understand when and why I
stopped believing in the magical moments of the world. Why have I become…not so
much hopeless…but more of a cynic—a realist verging on pessimism. This seems a
large evolution from the quiet optimism that I often experienced in the past.
* * *
The
above portion was written some weeks previously. It didn’t seem like a topic
that I could pursue, mostly because it is kind of depressing. Though after
further evaluation, most of my posts are depressing. I guess that comes from
the lack of people to talk to about the serious things in life (more like the
lack of willingness to talk to the people in my life about the serious things).
I
still believe in the quiet optimism. It is constantly there, but some days the
small flame flickers in the breath of an overwhelming ache. Such an anchor, a
soul smothering veil that does not want to lift, no matter how hard I tug at
the threads.
Again
with the metaphors—but doesn’t it make reading this much more interesting? I
think that writing should be read with enthusiasm, and the only way you can
read with enthusiasm is if the piece has been written with enthusiasm, no
matter the topic.
Some
days, when the flame grows pale and the remnants of my soul deflate and escape
to the dark places of reality, I realize how truly alone you can make yourself.
Not that I try to decrease contact with other people: more that I surround
myself with people, and then I internally push myself away. A bad habit, I
know. How does that solve the problem? How does that make me feel better? Trust
me, it doesn’t. That ache gnaws away at me, clawing its way—shredding the
happiness into ribbons of their previous glory.
Maybe
the fact of the matter is that I was raised with such a bipolarity: the utter obsession
for any shred of attention and the autonomy to take care of one’s self. Such a
combination has proved to be the ruin of me. Where I thirst for a way to
interact, but I know that it isn’t possible due to my awkward nature—that
anti-social attitude of autonomy that does not understand social interactions.
I’m
not making any sense anymore, am I?
Okay.
Time to start making sense. First of all, I apologize for anyone who reads
these horrible posts: they are stretched and confusing at best, I’m sure.
In
the end, I need to find a way to create a cohesive self. I need to find a way
of combining these two separate parts into a well-oiled mechanism. I must find
a way to mesh the two, or else I fear that the problem will never be resolved.
I’m
not sure whom I should talk with about creating a solid, confident person—that person
that I used to be. I feel like I have been deflated, and each time I find a way
to inflate the balloon—another hole appears releasing all of the confidence
into the abyss.
I
need to find a way to overcome the fairytale and create a reality that is more
than just acceptable—a reality that is beyond the boundaries of perfection; a
reality filled with imperfections that create a wondrous condition of being. I
know that one day I will realize that I am living in that reality, but for now
I will keep tugging at that stubborn veil, the mist in the valley of my soul.
For now, I will hold on to my shattered fairytales, stitching them back
together piece by piece—only to realize the pieces I have now aren’t the pieces
I started with.
