Old but Still Me

I found a piece of writing in my attic. Probably written in a moment of desparation some five or six years ago. I kinda like it, so I figured I would stick it here where it wouldn't crumble.

Lost and not found...Sure I am on meds that help me be happy, but I'm still lost. I am nowhere nearer to my dreams than when I conceived them. I have all these ideas that I wish to carry out, but probably will never get to. It makes me wish that there was another version of me. As if I had a double or dissociative disorder, another personality that I could have. A stronger one, a personality that would cut all this shit and accomplish what I need to do. Right now I choose to live in my imagination.

I dream of castles and pretty things...of a time long ago. It reminds me of something I heard in a conversation with my lovely Magnet kids, probably Alex, Blair or Derek. We were born during the wrong period to which I fully agree. My head is filled with romantic views of castles, long velvet dresses and chivalry. It lives only in my imagination because, as we can see in the present, chivalry is dead. I might have managed to capture one of the best guys out there, but he knows nothing of chivalry. He does not "court" me by impressions. I must be too good for that now. It makes me ponder as to whether or not I have made a mistake in my choice. Then again, who knows? Only time will tell as to what is right.
Back into my imaginative realm...
I should write my own books about these ideas that flow into my head, but I doubt that words will do these ideas any justice. How sad that I have no the talent to write, paint or compose a film to capture the beauty that flows through my head. Many things in my life will never transpire to word.

Most of this is true even still today. I see the beginnings of some interesting points, but like I wrote, it will probably never transpire to word.

Everyone Knows Someone

So more Children of Bodom this weekend. Usually this enough for a whole workings of a post, but it wasn't this weekend. Yes, talking with Henkka was golden, it always is. The guy is super sweet. He is probably the only person I will ever talk to about soccer EVER. Cindy touched Henkka's fly which was pure hilarity, but even bringing them a cake and going backstage the next night was nothing compared to the weekend in total.

I found myself. Granted I found myself and then proceeded to crumble into a thousand shards, I found myself at the bottom. Where have I been hiding all this time? I crawl into these bubbles, my therapist and I nicknamed them apathy bubbles. I just settle. I don't strive, I just sink to where I think its ok for me to be. It is very much not ok. Though I love Dark Tranquillity's song Lost to Apathy, it is not a way to live.

I LOVE music. It is a huge part of my being. I love going to shows. I like meeting people and being social. I am a social being. Just talking to music industry people all weekend was fascinating. I met two people that made impacts, though one knows it and not the other. I forgot the joy of talking to new people, to be that brave. It takes a lot for me to talk to strangers, but I'm so glad I did.

As much as I failed in some aspects this weekend with getting work done and what not, I accomplished so much more. For months I felt lost, but I'm here. Covered in mess, but I'm alive. Thank you for the people I went with and to whomever controls fate or destiny, thank you for everything else. Now I'm going to stop being cryptic and finally sleep.

Across the Universe

I love this movie. I love everything about it. It is just so special. It is everything I wish I could have made in a movie. It is artsy, takes a few views to get a hold of, but it is simply beautiful.

Blackbird singing in the dead of night...

These are but the melodies that haunt my dreams. My artistic vision is slowly seeping back, too slowly for my liking. Even then, it is still much more than a month ago. By the beginning of May I should feel better, more like myself, less like an impostor.

I want to write what I feel, not what people think I should write, but I have no choice about it. For now I'm a cog in the machine. Hah, if my professors only realized how much I understood about what they teach. I get criticism, I just don't care for it. I'm creative, not studious.

I vow to write. I need to write for myself. It is one of the simple pleasures of my life. I need to do what I love in order to feel like myself, it is the only way I will survive.