Wednesday, May 25, 2011

Why should I dream...

Even as I cringe, and crawl
to the pit of despair,
I know it is wrong
and yet, I do not care.
The horror awaits me,
and I am left to face me.

How can I hope to understand. First, how can I hope? And why should I? It is but a night, and tomorrow the sun will spring up and wash away all the sorrows that drench the earth this very night.
Why does one sit in the darkness? To wait, and wait. A red eye piercing my heart from across the room. When I turn on the light, it is only the light from my tv. Turn off the light, and it begins to frighten me. The wind tears through the trees outside, and a slight tap tap tap as the rain smacks the pavement. And yet I still wait for the darkness...frozen. is cold, and soft. Awakening from someone else's dream, in to my very own. Forever.
There is no difference, only the transition between life and death. And then life starts all over again.
Why must I be insightful, and knowledgeable. If life is really so desperate and destructive why do we fight it? Because we hate the pain. Or do we?
I come off a high sometimes. Not a drug high, not an emotional high, but a high of getting the tasks appointed to me done on time and in time. Then I crash and question myself. Who am I? Why am I?
Compassion? Mercy? Kindness? Where do they exist in this world? Anywhere? If I can not even give them to the person I love, than to who? And who will give them to me? I'm TIRED of being strong. I'm tired...
It's been raining a long time now...

Wednesday, May 18, 2011

I never want to speak again.

I never write anything worth reading. Everything I write is what's inside my head, my opinion of things, my thoughts, my feelings. I didn't sit at the computer and carefully think and plan what I was going to say. I just...write it. I can make up stories. I used to write all kinds of stories when I was little. Some that were true and some that I made up.
I don't really remember having really awesome aspirations when i was younger. I wanted to be a veterinarian, I still kind of do actually. I always thought I'd make a good writer...but there are much better writers out there than I will ever be.
I played a lot of pretend when I was little. Constantly. It was like an escape. Probably an escape from wondering if my dad will come back to visit me. Or why he always went away. I was too little to understand any of what I was feeling. To this day I still feel too immature to handle what I feel sometimes.
I'd write notes on facebook, or on xanga(if we wanna go wayyyy back). People would never really say much. If anything. Oh gosh, I'm not looking for a pat on the back or admiration or "Wow Rachael, you are such an elegant writer. Keep it up!". I mean really, why would I want people to do that. Anyway, it just seemed it wasn't for me. Yet sometimes I would read others notes and people are commenting crazy hardcore about how amazing they are and I'm reading this note and thinking, "Um. Whats the big deal?". Everyone has an opinion I guess. Seems like the more you talk about God in a note the more comments you get? Just a guess.
I like poetry. Deep, dark, passionate poetry. I also like a good story. Something encouraging and a none 'the Bible says this and that kind of way and however you're feeling is wrong and you need to choose to not feel that way' kind of thing. Can you tell I'm speaking from experience?
Perhaps I'm too blunt, and too real.
It's just hard to be the bad guy all the time. To be the oddball of the group. To get the blame because you look like you can take crap. I'm sure you can guess I am not the type of person people look up to and admire in a social group. I always wanted to be though. I always wanted to be a great many things...

Want to know where I'm at tonight? I'm sitting on my bed, typing, a blanket wrapped around me, watery eyes, looking at my phone every minute, knowing I am nothing significant, and afraid to go to sleep. No list of things I want to accomplish, no great plans for tomorrow, no good feeling I'm doing anything right. No, no. It's just me sitting here wanting to never speak again. I know I have a voice, it just feels like no one wants to hear it.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

To understand.

Is it so hard to understand someone? Sometimes...sometimes I just don't. Sometimes I am not understood. When both things happen simultaneously, I feel like throwing my hands in the air and repeating the word 'cuss' over and over.
It's the night before my last two finals. Its the night after a long fun day outside. Its the night where I lay here wondering if I got hit by a train because my body hurts so bad. Its the night where I don't understand and am not understood.
Do I analyze too much? Maybe some things are better off not being looked at too closely. Maybe some things we should look at closely, but have never really given it a thought.
Most of the time I find things don't make sense. Not to me anyway. I feel like a child sometimes going about life thinking I need to get my act together. Sometimes I feel I have the weight of the world on my shoulders. Like somehow I'm not fit to live anymore, or be anything.
Why are people so quick to tell you exactly what you've done to them, but in return don't want to talk about what they did to you. Leaving everything to be your fault and them blameless. What if we first asked what we had done to hurt them? What if we were willing to give second chances and trust someone again completely? What if little unimportant things didn't bother us and we left more things up to God instead of to ourselves? What if we just waited to see what happened? What if...
To understand and to say you understand to someone and really mean it is like...taking a huge rock off someones back. Like by understanding, they now feel able to breath again.
To be understood, is like someone telling you they love you and picking you up on your feet, and walking hand in hand with you.
It feels good to understand, and to be understood. I wish I could feel that right now.