Loneliness Is A Dangerous Thing

05/28/2021

Fear and excitement.

Greatest oxymoron to have ever lived inside of me.

There is such a lack of balance in my soul,emotions seem to be extending their roots further and further in that which is my tangible existence.

A grandiose future awaits me,every cell in my body and every sliver of my being seems to be propelling themselves so as to reach the right spot in time.

It feels preternatural,as if what life made me go through is not anywhere near describable as pain,it is no more than the path i had to go down to in order to achieve my current standing.

I am no more than myself,thus I am all there is to live.

I wonder what kind of girl I would be if the patriarchy didn’t exist. If gender roles and stereotypes didn’t stain my entire being. If I didn’t suffer at the hands of misogyny that molded the clay that was me. I wonder what I would do, what I would say, what I would like, what I would crave, what I would be. The likelihood of us being anything close to similar seems slim considering how many things could be different. I just wonder what type of woman I would be if I hadn’t been told from the day I was born how and who I should become. Would I still enjoy wearing makeup if I hadn’t been conditioned to feel better about myself with it on? Would my favorite color still be orange if pink hadn’t been forced on me and I didn’t care to make a point of rejecting it? Would I stand up for myself more if I hadn’t been taught to cater to the comfort of others before prioritizing my own? Would my natural instinct still be to feel wary of those around me if abuse and harassment and assault were not normalized in our society? Would I still want long hair if I hadn't been brainwashed into believing that my beauty is rooted in being feminine, and that my value is rooted in being beautiful? Would I be the same? How much, or how little, would that impossible girl resemble me as I am now? And are my interests and passions genuine—truly mine—or can they all be linked to some expectation to accommodate, some predetermined role to serve, some juxtaposing desire to please a system I don’t even like. Do I actually love video games as much as I think I do, or do I only like them because I think it makes me appear cooler to men? Do I actually want to get married as much as I think I do, or do I only want to because historically that was where the female fit in? Do I actually find solace in journaling as much as I think I do, or do I only find solace in it because it is the only time I can share my traumatic experiences without being called a crazy attention seeker? There is so much I wonder about, which parts of me are real and which have been tinkered with. Which is just pure me, and which is because of something else. A factor of the patriarch. Of course I’ll never know, but that truth does not keep me from being curious about the girl who does not suffer from the wrath of an internalized male gaze and the burden of internalized misogyny. I bet she is lovely—free of the shackles—and I hope she feels at peace.

— alhwrites

"I had a room to myself as a kid, but my mother was always quick to point out that it wasn't my room, it was her room and I was merely permitted to occupy it. Her point, of course, was that my parents had earned everything and I was merely borrowing the space, and while this is technically true I cannot help but marvel at the singular damage of this dark idea: That my existence as a child was a kind of debt and nothing, no matter how small, was mine. That no space was truly private; anything of mine could be forfeited at someone else's whim."

Carmen Maria Machado, from In the Dream House

~Some Thoughts on Fantasy, Music, and Resonation~

I was recently listening to a friend talk about why philosophy was pointless, the idea that it was just discussion and no real change came of it. Unreal, impractical, useless. Overall, his reasons were undeveloped, underthought, and devoid of any real conviction and it seemed to me that he was far more confused as to why it was a source of study and the purpose it served than he was actually critical of the practice as a whole. But it got me thinking about the "unreal" and the impossible.

And it caused 2 thoughts to spring into my mind. First, fantasy at its core is the unreal. It is so magnificent because it simply cannot be. We explore the worlds made of a different yarn than our world. There are similarities, some things that are shared, but the rules of nature itself is the difference. A new world is made by using the mysterious pieces of our own world. Yet, the interesting thing about this phenomenon isn't the created thing, but rather the reaction to it. People love it, obsess over it, delve deeper into the lore and history of these unreal worlds. The feeling of exploration and the other feelings that those worlds inspire, the auras, the "vibes" are what pull people in.

Which brings me to my second thought, which is what those vibes invoke in me from other forms and mediums. Music, for instance.

Most people who I have spoken to listening to music are far more drawn to the lyrics of the song, than its ambiance, or its emotion in the music. Music draws forth an emotion in it's own right, which the lyrics add voice and thought to. Both are of immense importance to a song's creation, and neither can be of lesser value. Yet, those emotions which are incited by the music still exist, even if unrecognized. Thus, the musical vibe and the lyrical emotions are not only separate, but also shift how we resonate with the songs themselves.

All of this brings me to 2 unanswerable questions.

1. Does fantasy invoke the emotional response of a uniquely philosophical need for limitless potential?

And by that, I mean that as fantasy is outside of the realm of possibility, is it due to our natural inclination of creation? Or our need to explore the unknowns? The exploration of a new limitless-ness, rather than the confines of our universe?

2. Does our individual resonation with music reflect our adherence or non-adherence to artistic intentions? (In other words, is the way we enjoy the song predicated on how the author wanted us to interpret the song?)

In a world

it all came to a halt.

Unbreathing,

disrupted time,

it can no longer flow.

In this world

we are alone,

grasping,

pushing,

climbing—

falling—

Or are we?

Thus we wonder

“what is life?”

In my world

I begin clutching at my chest,

sheltering my heart,

wishing to live

one more day.

Here I hide,

running from what,

you say?

All.

All that breathes

while I cannot.

All that feels,

while I bear its weight.

All that smiles,

for I do not know how.

Welcome Me

Lately I’ve found myself… lost.

I mean everyone has been in their own way over the past year and half. Been there, said that. 

But when I feel stuck…or lost..or wandering…it’s not good. Not that it’s great for anyone. I just tend to spiral.

I’m losing touch of what makes me happy and honestly maybe what’s even scarier to me is that I’m losing a sense of what I want. And I don’t mean in life. I’ve never had any answers to that question. But rather whenever I make a decision lately, no matter how small or large, it’s like I’m looking at myself from outside my body. It’s a stranger making that decision. 

Maybe thats imposter syndrome. I’ve heard the term thrown about a few times here and there. But I’m trying to walk away from labeling myself, those around me, and behaviors. I feel like we as a society are teetering on the edge of the toxic thought process: “If we label it, we understand it.” Right now, I’m not caring too much about the diagnosis and more about the symptoms. 

Interestingly enough, I just remembered a take on relationship communication that connects nicely to that thought process. They (@kyleleejenner on tiktok) said that “more often than not, when your girlfriend is sharing a problem with you she’s probably talking about an emotional one….what she is feeling about the problem is actually more important to her than the problem itself. Therefore listening to her feelings will solve the problem. She doesn’t want your practical solutions right now.”

I don’t necessarily care about the label or maybe even to the solutions right now. But I do care that I feel this way. I care that it feels like I’m someone I’m not. I care that I’m worrying about regretting decisions. I care that what I think I’m feeling is not really how I’m feeling. 

I’m hoping writing my feelings will help to acknowledge how I’m feeling or even to discover how I’m truly feeling. Next steps will come later.

You’re smiling at me like the gate is closed and there’s nowhere for me to go.

You’re smiling like I still want you

through all the slurring, the blurring of your addiction and the cold, long winter of your silence.

You’re smiling like we’re living a party, baby and my eyes aren’t on that neon exit.

You’re smiling like I’m a boomerang, destined to circle back right into your hand

to relive that experience.

Your biggest insult to me.

— s. lee { x }

I think it’s one thing to be born a pessimist and have heartbreaking experiences that confirm your doubts.

I think it’s a second thing to be born a realist and have heartbreaking experiences that hurt, but not in ways that aren’t foreseen.

I think the it’s a much different thing to be born an optimist and to have heartbreaking experiences that tear down your hope and alter your expectations.

I think the pessimist comes out, not much different, but with better understanding of the world and its cruel sentences.

I think the realist comes out a little different, with cosmic changes in strength and compassion.

I think the optimist, most of the time, is broken into an entirely new human being.

Sometimes I feel like I am in a bathtub filling up faster than I can drain it. And lately, the drain is clogged and I am drowning and drowning and drowning.

I am losing air faster than I can handle; killing me slowly, suffocating me with black spots filtering over my eyes, decorating my room’s walls.

It’s a strange sensation, that of time running out. Who chained me to the bottom of this bathtub in the first place? Who is turning on the water, was it me?

I am the hand of ruin; the catalyst to my own destruction. Salvation seems beyond reason and unfathomable beneath the water.

Writing was my drain.

It breathes fire into my lungs and ice into veins. It’s the only time I feel in control, powerful… alive.

Now, the doubt, guilt and shame ties me to the silence. It weighs me down and binds my hands below. I don’t think I can tell which way is up anymore.

Words are losing meaning and the space between them is an abyss.

I am told to have hope. To write of the sun after rainy days. But what do you write about when the sun burns you charred and the rain soaks you to the bone?

God, I need five more minutes of peace.

I know it’s too much to ask, I haven’t been your favorite for years.

I am drowning, lost and fearful.

My heart has turned to solid as my body sinks further. Is floating up even worth it at this point? Or should I let the darkness continue its course? After all, who am I but a hollow vessel to tell it to stop.

girl you look like you drop common loot when defeated