I am not a great painter. I can’t look at an object and reconstruct it in a painting with a perspective that redefines objectivity and perspective or gives anyone a stunning new outlook on life. At most, I can look at an orange and put a blob of orange paint on a piece of construction paper. What was “art” and “genius” when I was little is now nothing better than kindle for fire.
I am not a great proficient at music. Yes, I can sing. Yes, I can play about three different instruments. But I can’t compose great pieces (or any pieces for that matter). It’s been a life-long dream of mine. I can hear the piece I want to write, but I can’t play the piano, which has been a definite stumbling block.
I am not good at acting. Though every day, I hide who I truly am even from the people I love most, on stage I freeze up and break out sweating. I would love to be able to carry myself as confidently on stage as I do in my writing. I feel like if I could just get over my stage fright, I would be amazing at acting. The thing is, I spend so much of my time and energy not letting anyone get to know me that I fear putting all of who I really am into the character I would need to become. The best actors and actresses seem to really put themselves into the life of the characters they play. Sure, they bring a bit of themselves into the part, but for the most part, they truly *become* who their character is. I find this utterly amazing.
I am not strong. I am quite possibly the weakest person I know. At the slightest hint of trouble or pain, I hide behind my not-so-subtle defenses, my translucent walls. I wish with all of my heart that I could abandon my useless masks and open myself up to people. I feel like I would be a lot less alone then. But… I’ve never really been one for baring my soul to someone else. On the rare occasion, I will share a personal experience that goes deeper than the surface with someone in need, but otherwise, I try to keep most of my problems to myself. Not many people truly know most of what’s going on (only two that I can think of right now).
My two biggest fears are being alone and dying in my sleep. I am afraid of being alone because nothing good has ever come from me being by myself with nothing to do. I am afraid of dying in my sleep because it actually seems plausible. I am usually in the most pain at night, as I am lying in bed waiting for sleep to come, a sleep that evades me time and time again. I feel weak, helpless, as if the darkness of the night is somehow suffocating me into silence. Oppression. My too-silent soul begins to weep at night, as if somehow the serenity of the blackness releases my deepest fears. Too many times I wake up at night wondering if perhaps this is all one big dream, wondering if maybe someday I’ll wake up and the things I go through will be as a distant memory. A place where I’ve been before, but that I cannot fully grasp. And yet… no matter how hard I try, sleep will never fully come to me, and I will never truly be whole.
I am who I try to be. I am nothing more than what I make of myself, what I make myself become. I can be who I want to be and do what I want to do. Life is about the choices you make, how you view yourself, how you choose to hold yourself. A depressing life comes from believing that you cannot make a difference. Giving up on dreams and goals is like cutting out the soul of life itself. I think that I’m beginning to learn that there are three ways to look at life- pessimistically, hopefully, or apathetically. Up until this point, I’ve lived my life predominantly with enough apathy for a small crowd. However, given recent events, I think perhaps I’m going to start trying for hope. It seems kind of pathetic that *now* I would turn for help, but I think it’s in the darkest times that we need the light the most.
My very soul is expressed in my writing, if one looks hard enough. I’ll be very honest about what I’m going through and how I expect to get through it. Wedged deep inside my writing, I find that a bit of myself is lost in the words. I give a little bit of myself away in my writing, that maybe I shall find some semblance of self-recognition. Many times I fail when trying to comprehend just what I meant to say, what the deeper meaning was, but on those few, rare occasions when I do discover a bit more about myself, I redefine the way I think, the way I live. And I guess I’m just trying to live a bit better, trying to become a little bit more whole inside.
I am trying. I am trying not to forget, trying to remember that what once was must no longer be. Where we came from, we must never return to. Where we came from, we must always remember. Where we came from, a memory in the distance. And silence will never bring us peace. We must not lose our pasts, for they are what shape us. History and the development of culture define how we learn and grow. And to lose our understanding of the past would be to lose the very core of our being.
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