Sometimes I get into these moments... where I feel like screaming at someone "You're asking me for too much. JUST too much. Stop asking for so much!" but really. what if they aren't asking me for anything at all? What if what they have requested is so simple and so mundane that it feels earthshatteringly heavy to me because of how PLAIN it absolutely feels. I guess I never considered just how much I am always asking of everyone else. I wonder how they feel. I wonder what it's like to be inside them and see the world through their eyes. I wonder for example, what my best friend feels like when he wakes up in the morning. I wonder what my mother falls asleep worrying about. I wonder why my father finds refuge in television and food.
At times I even venture past that. I end up considering how it is that I appear to others. My Art History professor for example. I adored her. But a lot of times I wondered if I was a nuisance to her. I wonder if my employers really genuinely have faith in my ability to work well at my job, or if they keep me around because I'm willing to trudge through it and still come out ok. I wonder if they even like me. I don't really care whether people like me at the end of the day but it would be nice to know if they did or didn't. I like knowing what to expect from people.
I love my cousin, Carmen, and I think she loves me too. I wonder how I affect her though. I wonder if once I'm not around anymore, she'll still feel the same affection or if it will slowly turn into that distant "oh that memory is great" affection. I wonder if my best friend will be around in 20 or 30 years. I tell myself that giving eachother space is healthy, but I feel guilty not being able to cheer him on all of the time. I wonder if my habit to hurt myself unpredictably scares him or makes him sad. I wonder if I'm memorable, rather than just imposing myself on peoples existences.
I know I'm exhausting. I exhaust myself.
I wonder if they feel exhausted by themselves too. I'd love to have those indepth "where is the world going now?" conversations with quite a lot of my friends but I think they're afraid to consider it. I think talking about it tires them out, so they shrug it off. It's understandable. If I were anyone but me I'd like to shrug it off. I probably DO want to shrug it off, but the reality is intense and frightening now, and sure, when you compare it to the past struggles of others, what we are going through now as people probably isn't anywhere near as bad. But it doesn't make it any less scary.
I keep trying to write in my novels but I find myself writing a sentence and getting tired, or losing whatever drive I originally had to write at that moment. I can't even enjoy the films I used to love. I haven't read a decent book in a while. I keep picking up this book that is riveting but unlike the past me, I can't seem to read it for more than half an hour. I don't paint or really actually draw anymore. Most of my time is spent wondering what my next step in ANYTHING should be. I don't sleep anymore. I sleep if I get so exhausted that it hurts to breathe and my eyes almost always feel sore and like someone punched me. my lips hurt from biting them. My cuticles are disasters from constantly biting them.
This is reality. Life is really hard. Life is about struggling and pushing forward and finding the happiness. It isn't handed on a silver platter. As for those who say that money is the root of all evil? They say it just because they've never had to live without it. Would I take wealth over fame? In a fraction of an instant. I'd finally like some financial stability. Does it mean I'll do anything to get it? Heh, nothing stupid, thats for sure. Will I work hard to get there? If I have enough energy in the morning, and probably even if I don't.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Belated entries and a bottle of whipped cream
So, we've entered 2010. This year is now a month and 15 days old.
I don't celebrate new years. It's never been my thing to sit around and applaud a year gone by and a year closer to being dead. It's morbid. Why don't people EVER realize how morbid it is?
On a lighter note. I have a job I love. I have coworkers I actually like being around (I did at my last job too but this job is also more active and I get to move around.). Peaches right? Not really. Due to things that aren't anyones fault, hours have been scaled back dramatically until a new system begins rolling. It's not necessarily something that we can control so I have to be tuff stuff and hold on tight until things get better.
One of the things swimming around my head is that, while I've progressed greatly with my novels, lately I haven't been writing very much. My head feels tired and swollen from thinking too much and I haven't had any creative juices flowing. Topping off this feeling is the desperation of wondering whether or not I will ever be a published writer. That is a very hefty thought when you consider how easy it is to be rejected and how difficult it is to be accepted in anything.
Sometimes it feels like my writing is so far out of left field that if I were to try and get it published I would probably end up like the kid in gym who always gets picked last for basketball. It's not a good feeling and the idea of rejection is probably causing me to slow down a lot on my writing. I know the advice "just write and deal with the rest later" but when I can't see the excitement in someones face while reading, or hear it in their voice, I get disillusioned easily. What can I say? There are still some new things I'm growing into, like self confidence in my work.
So, as a way to motivate myself I wrote something recently. A short short story per se. Hopefully just having it on here might make me feel motivated enough to continue writing my OTHER stories.
So here it is:
All the pretty things will hurt
copyrighted 2010
Laying my hot tired body on the cold black marbled floor, I stare at the shattered glass around me. Like some disarrayed formation of glittering broken stars glowing with moonlight surrounding me they beg me to touch them. My finger glides across the nearest one and my eyes feel sore at the sight of the intense red blood now flowing down the length of my fingers. I part my lips to whisper "it's warm" in surprise, but my lungs have collapsed and there is no air to push out the words. They die in my throat. 'So this is what it feels like to be truly alone. Even the pretty things can hurt." Tearing a soft white sheet of silk from my skirt, I wrap my finger and attempt to get up. The pain in my stomach forces me to collapse again, and I can already feel the bruising spread. The only thing left to do is lie there and wait. The cold floor is inviting, the pain is numbing, and my lungs are barely letting me breathe. 'Wouldn't it be simpler to just die here?' I wonder as I stare up at the wires sparking electricity from the ceiling. 'No one is waiting for me anyway.' My hand reaches for the golden shell shaped purse I had saved for this particular occasion, a party celebrating myself. Once it's inside my grasp I pry it open and take out the pocket watch with the black birds on it. The time is 3:10 in the morning. The sky is pitch black outside the windows, and the sound of the violins floats upward, hinting that no one has even missed the hostess. 'All that's pretty will hurt.. what have I even done to deserve such a party? I can't even remember the last time I did something kind just for the sake of being kind.' My lipstick is smeared from so much nervous tugging at my lips. It's a horrible habit. When I get nervous and cry, I rub my lips with my fingers until it hurts. I never knew why. The blood on the silk is now blended in with the crimson lipstick and I stare at the mirror across from me. The glass shards of the now broken chandelier reflect against its smooth surface, like diamonds surrounding me. I wonder if the accident is a form of karma. Getting killed by a beautiful thing after spending so many years pursuing beauty myself. 'Have I disregarded... everything? Have I forgotten what it was like to feel insecure and without power?' Even after accomplishing so much, I kept doing nice things for others but somewhere along the way it stopped being out of generosity. I began to do it for the pictures, for the smile and nod of approval from others, and I began resenting doing those nice things. 'Why didn't I think to turn on a light when I came in here. Surely someone would have noticed then... I think.' I lie there silently and wait for my lungs to stop hurting. Events from the past come flooding in front of my eyelids and I understand why so many people say they see their life flash before them when they are close to dying... but I'm not dying. 'Someone will find me.' My head tilts to the side and I feel like I'm asleep, but I see myself. I'm not sleeping. I see myself and I try to touch my face but the amount of space between me and myself seems endless. I hear laughter in the distance and watch so anxiously for my breathing. The lungs have stopped. The glass around me all over the floor sparkles from the moonlight, winking in little beats. I wonder why I focused so much on my lungs and forgot all about my heart. What was it doing all this time, I can't remember.
_________________________________________________________
I hope everyone enjoys it and that it sparks something in my readers.
Always,
Plutonia
I don't celebrate new years. It's never been my thing to sit around and applaud a year gone by and a year closer to being dead. It's morbid. Why don't people EVER realize how morbid it is?
On a lighter note. I have a job I love. I have coworkers I actually like being around (I did at my last job too but this job is also more active and I get to move around.). Peaches right? Not really. Due to things that aren't anyones fault, hours have been scaled back dramatically until a new system begins rolling. It's not necessarily something that we can control so I have to be tuff stuff and hold on tight until things get better.
One of the things swimming around my head is that, while I've progressed greatly with my novels, lately I haven't been writing very much. My head feels tired and swollen from thinking too much and I haven't had any creative juices flowing. Topping off this feeling is the desperation of wondering whether or not I will ever be a published writer. That is a very hefty thought when you consider how easy it is to be rejected and how difficult it is to be accepted in anything.
Sometimes it feels like my writing is so far out of left field that if I were to try and get it published I would probably end up like the kid in gym who always gets picked last for basketball. It's not a good feeling and the idea of rejection is probably causing me to slow down a lot on my writing. I know the advice "just write and deal with the rest later" but when I can't see the excitement in someones face while reading, or hear it in their voice, I get disillusioned easily. What can I say? There are still some new things I'm growing into, like self confidence in my work.
So, as a way to motivate myself I wrote something recently. A short short story per se. Hopefully just having it on here might make me feel motivated enough to continue writing my OTHER stories.
So here it is:
All the pretty things will hurt
copyrighted 2010
Laying my hot tired body on the cold black marbled floor, I stare at the shattered glass around me. Like some disarrayed formation of glittering broken stars glowing with moonlight surrounding me they beg me to touch them. My finger glides across the nearest one and my eyes feel sore at the sight of the intense red blood now flowing down the length of my fingers. I part my lips to whisper "it's warm" in surprise, but my lungs have collapsed and there is no air to push out the words. They die in my throat. 'So this is what it feels like to be truly alone. Even the pretty things can hurt." Tearing a soft white sheet of silk from my skirt, I wrap my finger and attempt to get up. The pain in my stomach forces me to collapse again, and I can already feel the bruising spread. The only thing left to do is lie there and wait. The cold floor is inviting, the pain is numbing, and my lungs are barely letting me breathe. 'Wouldn't it be simpler to just die here?' I wonder as I stare up at the wires sparking electricity from the ceiling. 'No one is waiting for me anyway.' My hand reaches for the golden shell shaped purse I had saved for this particular occasion, a party celebrating myself. Once it's inside my grasp I pry it open and take out the pocket watch with the black birds on it. The time is 3:10 in the morning. The sky is pitch black outside the windows, and the sound of the violins floats upward, hinting that no one has even missed the hostess. 'All that's pretty will hurt.. what have I even done to deserve such a party? I can't even remember the last time I did something kind just for the sake of being kind.' My lipstick is smeared from so much nervous tugging at my lips. It's a horrible habit. When I get nervous and cry, I rub my lips with my fingers until it hurts. I never knew why. The blood on the silk is now blended in with the crimson lipstick and I stare at the mirror across from me. The glass shards of the now broken chandelier reflect against its smooth surface, like diamonds surrounding me. I wonder if the accident is a form of karma. Getting killed by a beautiful thing after spending so many years pursuing beauty myself. 'Have I disregarded... everything? Have I forgotten what it was like to feel insecure and without power?' Even after accomplishing so much, I kept doing nice things for others but somewhere along the way it stopped being out of generosity. I began to do it for the pictures, for the smile and nod of approval from others, and I began resenting doing those nice things. 'Why didn't I think to turn on a light when I came in here. Surely someone would have noticed then... I think.' I lie there silently and wait for my lungs to stop hurting. Events from the past come flooding in front of my eyelids and I understand why so many people say they see their life flash before them when they are close to dying... but I'm not dying. 'Someone will find me.' My head tilts to the side and I feel like I'm asleep, but I see myself. I'm not sleeping. I see myself and I try to touch my face but the amount of space between me and myself seems endless. I hear laughter in the distance and watch so anxiously for my breathing. The lungs have stopped. The glass around me all over the floor sparkles from the moonlight, winking in little beats. I wonder why I focused so much on my lungs and forgot all about my heart. What was it doing all this time, I can't remember.
_________________________________________________________
I hope everyone enjoys it and that it sparks something in my readers.
Always,
Plutonia
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