Chelsea Faye Leigh (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} just1rosepetal) wrote,@ 2007-02-14 18:42:00 |
|
As I said previously, there is somethings I have been wanting to write. Sometimes the quickest way to sort out thoughts is by writing them; by forcing yourself to fluidly string them together in a sentence. See how these fragmented thoughts become equations to a larger answer.
It wasn't until one of my best friends called it to my attention the other night that she had read my journal from the beginning up until we began our friendship.. that yes, she was right, I was portraying myself inacurately. I wasn't and haven't given myself any credit. I haven't portrayed myself in writing in a light that eludes to who I am on a one on one basis, face to face, in the realms of interaction.
I have presented myself in a light that cripples me more than applauds me. And I do have so much that I am proud of, but I never speak of it. I ask myself why. Home come I never share or pat myself on the back for the simplicity in my life. The simplistic moments that are so significant that make me special.
Like how I must be best friends with every worker at coffee shops or supermarkets. How I will sit over coffee, order my venti no room americano with cinnamon powder, read, and get interrupted to ask what sort of music I like and would I perhaps be interested in a concert in the coming weeks. How come I don't smile more over that?
Or how I desire being alone, no matter how much I say I may hate how much I think. I love the comfort of my surroundings. How I have breakfast each morning by myself. How even though I despise doing the same thing, I somehow find myself relying and looking foward to the routine. Ie., I fall asleep each night with anticipation of the coming morning. I wake, not needing an alarm anymore because all my classes start at 2. But I wake early because my apartment is the highest up and my window recieves the most light. Each day I feel as though I am waking to Miami sunshine. I immediately light incense, turn the shower on hot hot hot, and watch people outside my open window already experiencing the day as I shower for a good ten or more minutes. I then float around my apartment, making everything look perfect (for who? myself.. this way I know I will enjoy this soliditude). I make myself extravagant omelettes (this morning, two giant ones with crab, onion, and peppers.. not to mention all the spices). I'll leave my apartment in good spirits and everytime regret why it took me so long to get out; that I wish I had been walking the streets sooner. And I ask myself why don't I eat more of those meals, more meals, sooner, so I always feel this good.
How come I never talk about what my teachers wrote about my writing. How it is truly intriguing! How my train of thought is evocative and alluring. How the readers what to know more, they want to know all I elude to and am hiding. They want to know my mystery. etc, etc. How I dominate class conversations. How my teachers can't believe I am a new transfer, but somehow feel so at home, so in place.
I never talk about all the films I have been watching. All the screenplays I have been reading. All the quotes I have highlighted or the newspapers clippings I have taped in artbooks. I never talk about how I hate to shop and therefore don't do it. How I can cry seeing a performer play their instrument because I am so proud they followed their dreams. Or how my favourite thing is school supplies. How my definition of beauty is when another capitalizes and accents their imperfections. How I love men. How they open doors and live. How I don't get along with girls. Or how I have always hated my voice (even though everyone asks me if I am British) because it is soft, yet I think I talk so loud! How I hate talking on the phone, but still smile aloud when I get a text message. How I have journals from all my years that have never been fully used.
Oh gosh. The list can go on and on. And yet, I choose to show this side of me that is wounded, weak and desperate for help. I am kidding myself. And I would be lying further if I did not admit that the reason I am so specific, choose to be alone, and believe so much in who I am is because I think I am pretty damn good, actually the best - for my setbacks, but at large for the simple treasures I do everyday.
It wasn't until one of my best friends called it to my attention the other night that she had read my journal from the beginning up until we began our friendship.. that yes, she was right, I was portraying myself inacurately. I wasn't and haven't given myself any credit. I haven't portrayed myself in writing in a light that eludes to who I am on a one on one basis, face to face, in the realms of interaction.
I have presented myself in a light that cripples me more than applauds me. And I do have so much that I am proud of, but I never speak of it. I ask myself why. Home come I never share or pat myself on the back for the simplicity in my life. The simplistic moments that are so significant that make me special.
Like how I must be best friends with every worker at coffee shops or supermarkets. How I will sit over coffee, order my venti no room americano with cinnamon powder, read, and get interrupted to ask what sort of music I like and would I perhaps be interested in a concert in the coming weeks. How come I don't smile more over that?
Or how I desire being alone, no matter how much I say I may hate how much I think. I love the comfort of my surroundings. How I have breakfast each morning by myself. How even though I despise doing the same thing, I somehow find myself relying and looking foward to the routine. Ie., I fall asleep each night with anticipation of the coming morning. I wake, not needing an alarm anymore because all my classes start at 2. But I wake early because my apartment is the highest up and my window recieves the most light. Each day I feel as though I am waking to Miami sunshine. I immediately light incense, turn the shower on hot hot hot, and watch people outside my open window already experiencing the day as I shower for a good ten or more minutes. I then float around my apartment, making everything look perfect (for who? myself.. this way I know I will enjoy this soliditude). I make myself extravagant omelettes (this morning, two giant ones with crab, onion, and peppers.. not to mention all the spices). I'll leave my apartment in good spirits and everytime regret why it took me so long to get out; that I wish I had been walking the streets sooner. And I ask myself why don't I eat more of those meals, more meals, sooner, so I always feel this good.
How come I never talk about what my teachers wrote about my writing. How it is truly intriguing! How my train of thought is evocative and alluring. How the readers what to know more, they want to know all I elude to and am hiding. They want to know my mystery. etc, etc. How I dominate class conversations. How my teachers can't believe I am a new transfer, but somehow feel so at home, so in place.
I never talk about all the films I have been watching. All the screenplays I have been reading. All the quotes I have highlighted or the newspapers clippings I have taped in artbooks. I never talk about how I hate to shop and therefore don't do it. How I can cry seeing a performer play their instrument because I am so proud they followed their dreams. Or how my favourite thing is school supplies. How my definition of beauty is when another capitalizes and accents their imperfections. How I love men. How they open doors and live. How I don't get along with girls. Or how I have always hated my voice (even though everyone asks me if I am British) because it is soft, yet I think I talk so loud! How I hate talking on the phone, but still smile aloud when I get a text message. How I have journals from all my years that have never been fully used.
Oh gosh. The list can go on and on. And yet, I choose to show this side of me that is wounded, weak and desperate for help. I am kidding myself. And I would be lying further if I did not admit that the reason I am so specific, choose to be alone, and believe so much in who I am is because I think I am pretty damn good, actually the best - for my setbacks, but at large for the simple treasures I do everyday.
