As I keep reading Rebecca it feels like I’m going to crumble, and I’m on the verge of killing myself, particularly at the end of chapter eighteen. It really is more than I can bear. I have 130 more pages to go, which seems a mile away, but hopefully I can finish it by tonight if I keep reading diligently. For sure I know I’m behind on my reading schedule, but I was much “distracted” by more social times this past month. The moment I’m done with Rebecca I’m going to read Treasure Island, which surprisingly, I’ve never had a chance to read in my school years. To semi-quote Heather, I wish I could live forever just to finish my reading list!
My imagination is starting to run rampant at an unhealthy pace. They’re thoughts that I don’t wish to delve into and I REFUSE to even acknowledge them on my blog. The thoughts have to remain forever in my thoughts as I’m not proud of them in any way. They are unrealistic, and fucking needy. Yes, yes, and currently I am very annoyed at myself. More than that, I am in a pitiful state that I even had to stop reading to write this. These vague hopes and dreams are taking over my dreams, and my every day thought. Vague notions haunt me in my dreams! At what point in time did I become an unopened letter to the world? Hah, that’s what I compared myself to in a poem I wrote during senior year for AP English. It’s fitting, and I’m glad I thought of it.
As I recall with my stomach turning
I was hiding away from myself,
Away from you
Like nothing, though something was terribly wrong
and I admit that I was only waiting for the right time (night time)
The right moment for you to look away
though you never did I pretended for a while
Honestly, I want to sit in a dark corner of a room right now, away from all the light of the sun as we begin the family barbecue. I’m playing my emo shit on the laptop, not connected to the speakers… and it clashes horribly with the upbeat Spanish rock playing on those speakers for all to hear. Suddenly I feel pretentious … as though my depression were a facade, but if I act happy or content, it feels like a facade, too. Oh, oh! It’s because I’m in an “in-between” stage of apathy. That has to be it.
Here comes another decision: should this entry be public or private? I struggle with this issue quite frequently. If I make it private, I’m just going to have Ryan ask me the password and I’ll shrug it off like the entry is no big deal and give him the password. After all, it’s been many many many months since I’ve bothered having a serious conversation with Ryan. The silent agreement of nothing but frivolous talk.
And in the end, I know what it comes down to, but I refuse to admit it. I can’t be honest with even myself. Suddenly, this feels like deja vu, but all memories of the past have faded.
Who am I? I mean, really, who am I? Who do I want to be?