I remember what is was like, reading and writing and playing music just for myself.
I remember procrastinating, but always pulling things off anyway.
I'm unsure where that went. I have an idea of when, but not where. Not why.
It wasn't senior year. That's when the impact started, but the cause had been festering already.
I think I like to blame external factors that -should- have influenced me in that way.
I don't think it's really their fault, though. More excuse than reason.
Reason seems to be in somewhat short supply, these days.
Why am I writing, and not finishing the math I've been effectively half-doing for the past two weeks?
Why didn't I finish it in the four hours it would take me, if I actually set out to -do- instead of pretend?
Lots of questions, and few answers. Definitely none that satisfy me.
Which means, of course, that they'll satisfy everyone else. Excuses that look like reasons, and who can tell the difference?
After all, I lie better than most people can tell the truth.
It was the lesson of the moth. The poem about wanting to want, even if it's self-destructive.
I feel like that often, lately. Wanting to want to do the things I know make me happy.
People who should know better than me, but don't, call this depression.
I disagree. It smells like depression, but it feels like lethargy.
This kind of callous failure to really care, coupled with enough ability to pretend that no one catches it.
No one. Not even me, some days. Are those all fake, too?
But that's almost a lie too. There's truth to it, but it can't be.
I do care. I feel like a miserable wretch, sitting here with all of my work unfinished.
I like finishing things, I like doing things. I care, all while I don't care.
It's a lack of symmettry. I think that sums up the problem.
My mind works, when it works, based on balance. Good and evil, math and art, all moving in dynamic symmettry.
There's a kind of beauty in it, until it breaks.
For a long time, it couldn't break. It would work, even when I wanted it to stop.
I think maybe I wanted it to break, just to know it could. Maybe I wanted it too much.
Because somewhere along the way, it did. Here I am.
I remember what it was like to have that extreme momentum.
I could finish what should take months in hours. Shrug off the mental exhaustion.
It was exhilarating. And everyone hated me for it.
I think they still do. I spent a great deal of time and effort to at least -seem- normal.
But I can't make myself quite that stupid. I can't just let ignorance pass in front of me and not do anything.
Makes for a sad irony, doesn't it? The same thing I sought to become, I hate. Storybook, fits in a sad song.
A song that isn't mine. I don't feel that way, it's more of an admission than a revelation.
My song is about stopping silence, teaching the illiterate to write poetry. That's often how I feel.
When I talk to normal people.
Maybe that's ego. I can't tell anymore. I don't feel better than everyone else, in any particular way.
But in many ways, I can't pretend not to be. I am a musician, a writer, and in many's eyes, a genius.
I stopped trying to be normal, now I just want to avoid becoming a sociopath.
That's harder than it sounds, sometimes.
What value do people have, when they can't understand anything about me?
Especially when they hate me so much, when I try to show them.
But that's selfish, and also not entirely true. Hence the avoiding being a sociopath.
I think I have to be, a little, to avoid getting hurt. I think I exagerrate that, because it's fun.
Competition, except that everyone else is stuck with the handicap of not being inside my head. Heh.
All that aside, I'm going to try and find that synchronicity again.
Figure out where it was lost, and get it back, and see what my mind can do now.
I don't think there's much to it, I just haven't had the will to care.
I have. Another lie. See how easy they are?
I hate myself for that, sometimes.
More than sometimes.
I hate some people. Stupid ones, emo ones.
I hate stupid because it ruins all the beauty in the world by being blissful in ignorance. Ignorance you can fix. Stupid is a choice.
I hate emo because those mostly pathetic bastards pretend to understand demons and shadows.
The same demons and shadows I've watched tear my closest friends apart.
Often from the inside. Often with me, powerless to help.
Until I found fire, that is. Do I sound crazy yet? I should.
That was years ago, though. I hadn't even used it in awhile, until last week.
Now I'm beginning to think I should use it on myself, and see what happens.
Maybe my shadow is hiding somewhere, clogging up the synch in my mind. Breaking the balance.
Burn it out, maybe I go back to how I was. Too smart for my own good.
A bit beyond that, as well. But that's not for the faint of heart and mind to know.
Course, how would I know who reads this? Time to try the fire. Just a last thought.
I hate writing, sometimes. It makes me feel like a voyeur.
Like I'm trying to get pictures of thoughts in their natural state.
Because they, like people, act different when someone is watching.
- C
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