Saturday, November 14, 2009

Conglomeration : You've reached Chris' voicemailbox, Iiii'm unable to answer the phone

(The original tradition of my conglomerations: These were spawned over Christmas break last year, when I was very, very, very alone. I needed to talk to people about what was going on in my heart and head [which was a LOT, that Christmas] and nobody was around. So I started writing Facebook notes where I would just dump all my thoughts out, some of them stupid, some of them funny, a lot of them kinda emo... most of their meaning was lost to anyone but me... there is often a lot of symbolism, a lot of rambling... I think there's a kind of art and poetry to it, and EVERY time, I come back months later and learn so much more about myself than I did even while writing it. They're more for me, than for you. And while I HATE people writing emo crap for the sake of writing emo crap... well, I guess that's not really what this is. This is more, like... I dunno what it's called. Where you just write everything that comes into your head. Mweh. Moving on. My point is that, these were "conglomerations" of thoughts - pieces that had no real connection to each other, they just were. Every time there's a line break, it means it's a different thought. Sometimes several line breaks will occur and all the thoughts be connected... sometimes I'll go from quoting a movie to talking about cookies to defining words... and it really has nothing to do with anything.)

If their music is to be believed, emo-ish rocker boys only date girls with awesome names (off the top of my head - Adelaide, Constantine, and Delilah).

I want to make up words.

I wish I could carry like a wagon of stuff with me at all times. I always want to hand someone a brightly coloured helium balloon, but never have one handy. Also in this wagon would be a large box of delicate, glass things for SMASHING against walls when I feel the need. >:(

Leftovers are cruel. In life, there are no clean cuts. Nothing ever breaks in a straight line. There's always that ragged, straggly mess that you have to deal with.

My literature teacher is obsessed with this idea that if everyone just read lots of books, they would know exactly how to live their life. Epic fail. Fiction either describes accurately, or paints life with a gilded sheen. Neither of which is really that helpful, I have found. One is depressing, and the other is more so.

I have a broken sword in my room and anytime I see it, I am torn between staring at it for hours, working up the courage to touch it... or throwing it out my window and screaming until security comes and yells at me.

I don't know how I feel about living in a world where some "indy" company tailoring to "organic" loving people can sell a chandelier made out of old spoons for $700. -.-' !!!!!!!!!!!!!

The tension created in me when I'm trying to pick a side is greater than any of the passion I feel after I've picked my side. I like the tension. I love it when I can feel myself GROWING. I think I'm happier when I'm "depressed" if it means I'm learning, I'm stretching, I'm changing (even though it's painful)... it's most honestly depressing when days, weeks, go by and I'm the same. I'd rather be hurt and start moving on than to just be floating there... waiting.

That sword again. It made me slam my fridge door a little too hard.

The sword is the leftovers. Obligations to people I want to shove off a cliff and forget about. But no. I have to return this grrdamn effing SWORD.

Grrdamn. I've decided I like this word. Decided it earlier. It's like ... g... damn but without using the Lord's name in vain... which, despite how far from my Christian moral center I deviate... this is the ONE thing I CANNOT do. I think besides murder, it's the only commandment I have never broken.... that is, if you consider emotional infidelity to be adultery, or lust, for that matter... and if you think you can commit adultery against a boyfriend. :P

I think I like listening to loud rock-ish music because seriously, anything sounds cooler if you're yelling it with a powerful guitar and drums behind you... this guy is singing "Does anybody care at all" and it almost sounds like a battlecry the way he's singing it. I dunno how he pulls it off. But it makes me want to say EVERYTHING with guitar and drums behind me...

Imagine this entire entry written with guitar and drums behind it. And I'm yelling. :P

Sword sword sword sword.... what do you think would happen if I set it in the hall... OH!

I hid the sword mess in my closet. Under my sheets and up on a shelf. No more shocking me with the sight of it and its stupid memory and its stupid handholding and its kisses and its faces and the way it makes noises when it wants you to pay attention to it and the way it keeps texting me and stupid coke and stupid trying to be my friend and I will never say "keetty!" like that and I will never ever ever ever as long as I live say "Meow?" as a question!

Skank.

If he read this, he'd hate me. And I care. I effing care.

Emo emo emo emo emo emo asdfomsadf...

Asimov is awesome.

"There's more to living than being alive."

I think there's got to be some sort of method for counseling YOURSELF. It's really not that hard, once you take the class and read the book and realize basically they're conning you into seeing stuff you WOULD see if you just calmed down long enough to view your world objectively... and they're charging you inordinate amounts of money for this. Unless you're one of those people who just needs someone to "care" and to "hear you" .... counselling oneself is easy. Story - Goal - Restory.

What's my story?

I have lots of goals... and lots of failed attempts at restory. Hmm.

Death has a daughter and her name is Katarina. When she was five, she hoped to be a ballerina. But now she's sixteen. Oh, poor, poor, Proserpina.

The name I was given means "Gift from God." The name I chose means "God exists." His name means "Christ-Bearer."

Katarina means "Pure," apparently. Death's daugher is purity? If that's not warped, I dunno what is. How can death even have a child anyway? Blerg.

If he is the Christ-bearer... who is his Christ? Metaphorically, of course. Somehow I think this is me, unsure of how it got that way, but there it stands? If.... He must BEAR me. The Christ... omagwsh. aslkfdjasldfkjsadlfjasdlkfjsadlkfj!!!!!! Revelation! Shock shock horror horror ... I used to call him Chris. I was the only one who ever did. Everyone else called him Chuck -.-' Well they still do but anyway. Now I'm the only one who calls him Christopher. He is his full name to me now... I dunno when that happened but he commented on it the other day, that he is Christopher instead of Chris now ... and I don't know when that happened. But if the Christ-half is "Chris" and I used to call him that, used to view him as my salvation, my hope, the thing that would make me whole, blah blah... all those unhealthy "romantic" things you grow up and realize are why you hate your life... what has he become now, recently? If I am the Christ-figure in his life, if I am the one who is always saving him. If I am constantly complaining that I'm holding him, that I'm the leader, that I solve his problems.... I sent a very angry email a few hours ago to this exact effect... But... His name. I need to remember my own name sometimes. It's true, no one who was truly deep in the trenches of God's soul stops following God because they have an honest intellectual disagreement with him, but because they get busy, they get distracted, and they fade away. Once you've tasted, once you've touched, you can't recant your own experience. You can't argue with you. It's not that. You just give up. >.< I've given up, at least, if there is no universality in the statement. It's true in my universe.

I hate how I've gone on this giant intellectual journey tonight and the damnable boy is SLEEPING. Bullocks. :P I like this word.

There's still the issue of the sword.

Apparently sometime in July I thought I didn't know what arduous meant and found it necessary to put on a notecard. -.-'

I want to write him, but I figure I'd publish it in like 30 years and then he would think of me ... that thing I'm always mocking some singers for... "You know, I bet all these songs are about like the SAME chick, and everytime one comes on the radio she screams at the speakers 'IT WAS FIFTEEN YEARS AGO, GET OVER IT!!!' " or as someone used to say, at the end of this rant, "Dude, it was ONE DATE!!!"

I ran from the joust to Burgess without stopping because of that boy (didn't need to - was too happy). I had the one and only panic attack I've ever had because of that boy (didn't need to ... and I still think about it almost weekly). All HE has ever done is cause me to stare at the ceiling, lying awake, not moving to the point where I can't tell where my arms are anymore and my lips glue together..... I guess I did say God's name in vain once when yelling at him. That's something? Why am I valuing relationships based on what horrible things they could make me do when they piss me off.

Emo emo emo emo emo...

I have a rosary (I'm not Catholic) and a... hindu version of the Rosary (I'm not Hindu either) hanging above my bed, several inches from each other... they seem to be quite happy together, next to Hello Kitty and someone's jacket tag.

I would not like to meet ANY of my favourite literary characters. They're all a little too much to handle, honestly.

My music is too much like me. Sometimes I wish I could just like whatever's on the radio.

"Homeless people can never enjoy camping."

I'm a little too tied to objects, to physical places. I think that's why my love language is gifts. I dunno why... the objects I use to represent people are often more important to me than the people themselves. I can deal with them better, I guess.

Need to sleep. Can't sleep. Need to sleep. Can't sleep. I have to do tons of homework this weekend. If I'm not gonna sleep now, I should do homework now so that later, when I should be doing homework, I can sleep instead. Good plan.

The end.

-Jesse

2 comments:

  1. Wow! There are some days I have thoughts like these too...:S

    ReplyDelete