“Deep in my heart I’m concealing things that I’m longing to say. Scared to confess what I’m feeling, frightened you’ll slip away, you must love me.”
Normal-style entry time! The Sister Carrie essay is due today anytime before 3.00pm. I finished it yesterday. It wasn’t very difficult, but I’m not too confident that I correctly hit the topic. I hated the question because it had absolutely nothing to do with the book. There were so many things I wished to discuss, and the question asks about the setting! Anyway, Paula called me yesterday and finally I got to discuss the book~!!
I can’t decide whether I really hated the book or really liked it. It was just one of those books. Haha . . . the novel was so iono. The beginning set up the story rather well; so well, in fact that it was boring. Some time in the middle it was just a verbosely-written romance novel. Then it got interesting. I hated just about all the characters except for Drouet and the very minor character, Ames. Just about everyone ended up completely miserable. I hated Carrie, I hated Hurstwood, and I hated … yeah everyone except the two characters I mentioned. Geez, the irony, too; that Ames guy kinda had it; Carrie was so impressionable that she took in every one of his words and then did the opposite. The author was so philosophical at times! Maybe a bit too much because sometimes they felt like space-fillers or ramblings. I also didn’t agree with everything the guy was saying, but it made sense. It sounds like I hate the novel. It was really well-written, but it’s just that the characters were so ugh!
Buh-bye, the french fry. Er . . . haha.
If you’re listening …
“I’ve got an hour to find. So tell me, what do I need? What is the meaning?”
I feel so utterly hopelessly confused. Looking back, I don’t know whether to regret the year or be grateful for the experiences it brought me. It all always falls apart in the end does it not? I thought it’d hurt more, but that’s probably only because I’ve felt more hurt than this before. Pain knows no boundaries. I feel as though I should laugh at myself because I swallowed all of my words. Everything I ever told her, I should have listened and told myself because it was the same situation. Did I figure that in the end I’d turn out better than she did? Of course not, and yesterday completely proved it to me as much as a slap in the face would’ve. Everyone cheered me on and led me to believe that it was alright. But deep inside I knew the truth. The feeling was less; the idea of it felt better than it truly did. I fooled myself good.
There is another world altogether underneath my exterior. I live a private world of pain and sadness. I try not to let it affect me, but it shows. Oh, how it shows. In every smile I give, I can feel myself crumbling; I’m falling—I’m falling. I want to close my eyes, and pull the covers over my face for good measure, and cry myself to sleep—all without anyone knowing. I want to stay all alone; no, wait, I am all alone. And yet I’m still not content. I want someone to understand but am so afraid of meeting someone that does. Why, if they understand they’re no better off than I am! The irony of it all. So tell me, what do I need?
It makes no sense. I make no sense. The world spins and I watch it waiting for my turn to jump back in. I’m never going to find it am I? I’m too fucked up for any good to come this way. Oh, just leave me alone. I’ll be alright without anyone. It’s just as she said it’d be. And I’ll be just as she imagined. Already I’ve spoken of four people, five including myself, and no names have escaped my lips. What kind of a world is this? Nameless faces. Whatsername.
It’s all over. I feel as though I missed something. Did I? What is the meaning? I was unimportant wasn’t I? I was never given a second thought to. “Why does it always have to be about you?” he asked me one time. Well, isn’t it always my fault?! I provide for needless complications. In my heart of hearts I know it to be true. I find solace in expressing my worries and troubles. I believe I only did it with you anyhow. Everyone else yearns to express themselves equally, if not more so than I, but not you. When she met her, she got a taste of what I go through everyday; she even got dizzy. People talk on and on about themselves. What right have I to talk about myself when they’re so wrapped up in their tales? But with you it was different; maybe I only made it so because you never cared, but I made myself believe that it was different. I fooled myself completely. Don’t you dare tell me I get depressed when I go on about how you don’t care — you don’t!
Thinking is bad. Feeling is even worse. Emotions are for the weak. I’m awfully weak, and I hate myself. Don’t you hate me, too?