Contemplations
I have realized that I kind of regret coming out to my mom. She's supportive, but I feel like just under the surface there is a lurking discomfort. I don't know. I seem to feel that way often now. I know little, and and would be perfectly happy to curl up in the corner with some rootbeer and books for the rest of my life.
I feel like I have a large weight that hangs in my ribcage, pulling on my sternum and collarbone and curling me up into a ball of manic depressiveness. Particularly at school, where sometimes I feel like dying, and others I feel like singing, within about 10 minutes. Someday we will start to fly and never look back. But today I have to cry when I can't go back.
Who am I? I thought I knew, but I cannot describe myself, only label. Gay, wierd, creative. All labels. I resent labels. What do they want me to do, write my label on my fucking forehead so they can put me in my assigned box?
I'm so glad it's Friday. No more school for two days! No moronic math classes! No forced basketball! I might actually get enough sleep for once. (gasp!)
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Comments
agreed
I can't complain about that weekend bit, that's for sure.
It sounds like even though things are moving
that you are uncomfortable.
How bad are things? Cause from this one entry,
it sounds like things could be so much worse.
and one more thing, if your thinking "how corny"
don't take me as a optimist, cause I'm a really good
cynic. ;)
Its the little things that make the big things.
Ja
I know things could be worse. They could be a lot worse. I could have syphlis. I could be the child of homophobic parents. However, things could be better. I think I need to sleep before I become more depressing.
Drape your velvet skirts around me
Silent lady of the night
Envelope me in sultry blackness
Help me blot out all the light
Labels
A very smart man once said that labels are for soup cans. I agree.
I pretty much think there are two kinds of people out there. Some people are just trying to figure out what kind of soup they want for dinner, and I feel like short-hand is sort of something to forgive and to help along. I mean, if someone is trying to suss out what you are about, with no malice, then it is sort of right to help them to see what you are and are not as to enable a potential friendship, relationship, or even mutual decision not to hang out. That is the mundane, and sometimes exciting, negotiation of meeting people.
But, when people start deciding that a label DEFINES the contents, rather than describes it, well...I think it is all but required that you try to make sure that what comes out of the soup can looks nothing like the label. It is the job of the soup to make it seem like the label mis-represented things (because the label was put there by the outsider, not the soup, you know?)...that kind of thing requires that you smile and let your soup taste nothing like what the poor sod opening the can was expecting...and, of course, you have to just go along with your life as though there is nothing out of place.
Yeah, the soup thing falls apart pretty quick...I guess I'm just saying that anyone who relies on labels for the wrong reasons should have to deal with the shortcomings of using labels like that...and the real trick in life is not getting too caught up in it...I mean, you are soup...it's best if you can just rest assured that you taste exactly as you should...and, as another smart man once said (that being me, right now)...fuck those people.
If someone tries to DEFINE the soup by the label, I think the soup needs to DEFY the label.
Please forgive me
It's spelled 'weird'.
You are fuckin' BRILLIANT!!!! Man, absolutely, b
brilliant. I don't know if there's enough time
left in this era for you to really fly, but if
there was, you'd probably hit another galaxy,
with your creativity.
Spelling
I doubt I will ever spell 'weird' right. Damn spelling.....
I kinda doubt I'm brilliant. I'm just not as stupid as most people my age.
And all I know for sure
All I know for real
Is knowing doesn't mean so much
When placed against the feeling
The heat inside
When bodies meet
When fingers touch
-The Sisters Of Mercy, Some Kind Of Stranger