Poem at the end of rant. LOL
Recently, I’ve been procrastinating on life. What I mean to say is, I’ve been less involved with my life over the past few weeks, letting it pass me by as if it were just a TV show and I, a viewer. Honestly, it hasn’t been the best weeks for me and I haven’t got anyone to tell this to except for you, my readers. Why is this?
Why is it that I have no one to talk to? I should be able to run to my friends about these things, my siblings, and my parents, but I always choose not to. Am I harsh to myself? Do I not trust anyone? Things like those run through my head and I wonder, why can’t I just complain to them once in a while about real life problems… about things that causes my depression to peek it’s ugly head out of the trunk I’d locked up and sat on.
This is why: I believe, people go through problems everyday and everyone has brooding emotions that don’t all share. I’m just like everyone. I don’t like to bother people with things that might be trivial to them, compared to their own problems. They already carry so much on their own and here I am wanting to tell them more… But it’s funny that I say that because I love it- I like it when people rely on me. It makes me feel like I’m somebody in their life. I suppose, they must feel the same way whenever I do say something. I don’t think it’ll happen any time soon though.
2013 Christmas, I gave my best friends a handful of letters containing words I couldn’t say to them at the moment they were thought. They were letters I wish I had said earlier, but never did. Instead, I wrote them- all of them, handwritten. Is that cowardly? Or courageous?
In all honesty, I’m embarrassed by my own insecurities, my own short comings and yet, why don’t I try to fix them? I always try. I always make the effort to acknowledge and tackle them, but half way through, I always stop as if it isn’t worth it. Is it worth it?
As you all know, I don’t go to the same school as my friends. I’ve never been good with making friends because I don’t like to hear my own voice, only because I don’t like to talk. I like to say my opinions, but I don’t like to talk. I don’t like prolonged conversations or useless ones. Useless? Like people ranting about certain things. It depends. I don’t know how to explain it. I dislike people who talk bad about their own family without good reason. I don’t like petty things and I often find myself around people like that. Petty people. So, I don’t like conversations. Anyway, college is supposed to be a lot more fun than now. I’m supposed to like where I am… right?
I do, but I also don’t.
It’s difficult to share success and failures because those who I’m close to can’t understand. They can only hear, “Art Institute” and “finally pursuing art!” and stuff along those lines… But the art I wanted… the art I imagined myself living was Fine Arts not Digital Arts. I wanted to paint my life away with a brush at hand, coffee on the other. LOL I wanted a traditional life…
Why am I here? Why do I stick with this life that slowly drains my passion only to replace it with dry determination? Slowly, I forget what brought me to art… Maybe, I don’t like where I am because I can’t remember how I got there in the first place. I’m not sure.
It’s just, for the past 22 years, I’ve lived my life not for the moment and not for the future, but for the certainty of success. I wanted to be successful in pursuing art, which I love. I wanted to be successful enough to share the load that weighed my parents down, wanted to make them feel like their hard work has been for a good cause. I wanted to successful enough to say, I did what I was put into school for.
But where is the love?
Talking about a different kind of love… I might have wasted a few chances in my life. Back in grade school, boys liked me. In high school, boys liked me.. I always had a crush on someone. In college, I don’t see boys. I see lots of guys who look like mentors and bystanders. I kind of wish, I hadn’t been study this, study that, say no to invites, stay at home and stuff like that. I wish, I had lived a little more than I did. I should have said yes occasionally. I should have said things I never said and shouldn’t have said things I did.
Argh, I have so many regrets in life.
I hope I didn’t rant too much. Anyway… Here’s a poem I wrote. I know, I dragged it on. Sorry
I saw him everyday for seven straight years
without ever thinking, that it wouldn’t last
We started at the same height and suddenly
he became one? two? three? inches out of reach
and still then, I didn’t think of what could be
When I thought we’d never meet again
Sundays began to be the best days of my week,
it always started me out great, like medicine
but he got too addicting, and I started to crave
for more and more chances to meet eye to eye
and every day, I remembered how I didn’t think
about the possibility of never seeing him again,
I almost got desperate for that fleeting chance
Somehow, the desire wasn’t strong enough
and I slowly started to build my life around the never
thinking that these chances will not come up
They repeat and they get me addicted.
And I’m messed up all over again in the possibility
that I might say something, anything at all
but I don’t, I never do. I never do.
And he doesn’t make a move even when I think he will,
he never does, because I never do and
it’s just a cycle of waiting, I supposed
because here I am falling and falling every time
like the first time that I did, wondering
if he had ever felt the same way and maybe
he was wondering just the same as me,
questioning if he should say something or wait
And we wait for each other to make a move
like a game of chess, improperly played.
I used to see him sit on a table, the actual table
smoking a joint, rolled by his friends
and maybe it always crossed my mind that he wasn’t
he wasn’t any good for me
and maybe he knew it, knew that I thought
he wasn’t any good for me
but he looks at me, pretending that he hadn’t
just broken a law, smoked that marijuana
that smelled so putrid, the disgusting smoke
and I look at him like I could only see him
as if nothing around him mattered enough
I used to see him, his hands in his pockets
his face in a deep scowl of some sort
standing five classes away from where
I’m supposed to be, supposed
but I always make my way around school
to where he is for the purpose of seeing him
and only him
I did useless things just to see him
And I guess
I used to see him with his dad drive in,
see the back of his head while he was seated,
used to see his scowl as he walked back.
I used to see him at church every Sunday,
waited for when that time came
and he had to walk the corner,
waited for him to secretly look around
and finally up the balcony where I sat
where I was
I used to see him.
And I almost did
I almost said something,
I almost smiled at him,
I almost waved his way,
I almost did them
But I never did.