Nothing much to write, but I’m posting to clarify my earlier post. No I was not referring to the Bible, but to rather a series of books used to teach the students at the homeschooling centre I used to go to. I’m not disagreeing, or dissing their points, but merely saying that to me if you are going to make such arguments in a textbook than they should be solid arguments. Because kids are learning these stuff. Not all of them are Christian. But what’s more, for me, if you grow up on flimsy arguments on what you believe in than you have little substance to defend it, and are more likely to doubt or lose faith. I have come across many arguments and stands that I disagree with; that doesn’t mean they are out rightly wrong. If I were a non-believer studying the following excerpts, I would find it rather silly. In any case I want to clarify once again that I don’t believe in the theory of evolution, and am a Christian. I am merely saying that as an argument for Christianity being ‘superior, popular, stable’ (as stated in the book) than other existing theories, then the following argument sounds rather weak to me. I actually think it has simplified matters far too much. If I met an believer in evolution and sprouted these points, I would to my own ears, sound idiotic. I might be overtly critical though, and as such, this is purely my own personal opinion.

much overdue, and rather long, but you asked for it.

I wish you didn’t delete your post. Because a snippet of it appeared on my dash, and I wish you didn’t feel the need to edit. But if you removed it for other reasons, that’s okay. But you can talk to us, you know, if you ever feel down.

I went back to A+ today. And I was surprised by how everything has changed. And by how much I hadn’t expected it to. It’s cut off from the bustle of the city, of rigorous change, which gives the illusion of seclusion. But it has changed in increments underneath the fresh paint.  It’s been two years and a half since I graduated, a year since my last visit. And one of the younger boys, I suppose he must be 8 or 9 by now, came up to me and asked, “Why have you been gone for so long? Have you been sick?”

multiple letters and persons.

I wish money weren't a factor. I wish it didn't matter. 

I think it's wonderful that some of us have that choice. 

But I feel like I am running on a limited supply of time. I have a list of things I want to do with my life, there is so much I want to learn, but circumstances won't allow it. For the next few years my life will play according to the rules of society so that my brothers can play to the rules of society. Because it wouldn't be right to deprive them of something merely for selfish reasons. And maybe, maybe when I have made sure everything stable for all of them, I can finally go on that journey to leave my own world and culture behind. 

So you ask, will I do my degree in the states? 

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I recently got a call from my dad saying that he injured his back. And I guess it just all made me realized that it will be a matter of time before he tires himself out. I really wonder how we make it by sometimes. I wonder how you can not tire yourself looking after mom, and Dom, and Ahmah. 

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I have to wonder at the human drive to survive. How that at our lowest low, when we lose our sense of self, when we are psychically crippled and weakened, how do some have such spirit to pick themselves back up again? To try to learn to walk again, three times. I know we joke about it, how pssh learning to walk once isn't such a big accomplishment, not when have you have had to learn it repeatedly. How whenever things get comfortable, something happens and we all end up at square one again. I am ridiculously proud of you. Because frankly, if it were me, I would have given up. Because, I am surviving. I think if something happened to me, I wouldn't bother. I just don't have the internal strength to do what you and Mom did. 

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 The other night I had the terrifying dream of losing my fingers. They weren't chopped off, merely crushed so badly I could no longer use them. And with that I lost most of my vehicles of expression. I lost the ability to write, to type, to draw. 

I fear the lost of my eyes. Because then I would be totally submerged in the darkness of my own world. There I would lose colour, I would lose the ability to perceive beauty.

I fear the lost of my mind. I have joked that if I ever lose my mind and fall into Alzheimer's, it would be best to pull the plug because I would no longer be me. It isn't a joke.

listening to Fun, Some Nights Intro. 

"This world does not need more happy people.
This world needs more people who are content.” - Carissa. 



I'm over thinking it of course, but it is not that I have expectations on what should bring me happiness in life, but that I don't even know what it means. What is it? What series of reactions equate as happiness? The thing is, I can't argue if happiness does or does not exist; I merely do not know. I can't say there is no such thing: that it is a constant uphill battle of trying to get out of despair by finding something (that doesn't exist) to fill a void. Nor can I explain what it is if I tried. It is simply this: I do not know because I feel as though I float in an endless pool of numbness.

I don't know if I'm someone who can be content with life.

I sometimes feel like I am made of toxic stuff.

I tried to write this with no edits. Without having to censor my thoughts. It gets dark, morbid, depressing, and frightening. There's some swearing too. It was frightening to write. You don’t have to read this, in fact this is the warning that you shouldn’t if you believe it would change your opinion of me to know my darkest train of thought. I’m emotional and on a downward slope. And so I ask, out of our friendship that you keep this you yourself if you do continue to read this. Because it is hard enough to write, and I can’t verbalize it. I can’t discuss it be because I am not ready yet. This is not the time for me to face my inner demons; I merely had to get this off my chest. 

It’s perverse of me to seek pain this way. To find some sick bizarre comfort in hurting myself; not physically, though I have imagined the act. Am imagining the act. Haunting, haunting thoughts. I cut myself in my mind. I imagine the blood, the thick goo of it.

But I also mean it the sense that I hold myself back from forming normal relationships with people. From forming those lasting friendships you read of in books. In my world, nothing is permanent. Nothing lasts, the least of all myself. Is it morbid of me to think and know that I will die? When is the question here. Nothing else. It has been far too easy for me to drift away from friends for me to believe that friendships last decades down the line. If they do, they are changed and not the same. I can’t make that promise that we will be friends when we are in our fifties. Just like I don’t think I could promise to love someone for my limited eternity. That implies that I live that long, that you live that long, and that we are still talking. And a hundred other variables come into play. Nothing lasts in my world, and so I look at certain institutions and wonder ‘why bother?’.

This is self destructive, I know it. But I don’t know if I have ever been happy. If it’s that temporal mixture of laughter and high that last while I am in company of others and that dissipates the next moment, then happiness would be superficial. And I don’t think it is, but merely that I have never felt it.

I hate myself. I hate that I have the need to put up fronts, to pretend. There’s this floating idea that we are civilized, cultured (what does that even mean. We all have freaking cultures.) and rational. We don’t act like beast because we are humans. I believe that to be as fake and superficial as everything else. There is a part of me that is perverse and base, the part of me that was hurt so badly as a child by some anonymous woman who didn’t even know what she was doing. I know her initials; all I know are her fucking initials. And I am so afraid and cautious of the pain she could inflict on me and what I could do [in retaliation or self defense], that I form an instant wall against anyone who shares her name. She was too caught up in her own pleasure and happiness to see what she was doing. And I don’t want to begin to fathom what he was thinking. But the painful truth was that I wanted to hurt them so bad I saw blood. In my mind, blood flowed in hundreds of ways. There was no care for ethics or human life or any other honorable thought; merely a hurt child expressing pain in imaginary actions. I felt so disgusted with myself.

Now, I feel disgusted with what I have become. I wish I were a better person; I am not.

That was me, without my humanity. My basest self seeks to cause pain and inflict pain on myself and others. Because here’s the thing: I have been building walls ever since. I built them prior, but never as thick. And the problem with building high, towering walls of granite and brick is that you block out the sun. I am so scared of things I keep a ridiculous amount to myself. I break information about myself into jigsaw bits and scatter them to different people. So that if someone cared enough, he/she could find all the pieces. But no one would be given them all. A hundred locks with a thousand possible keys. That's how twisted I am. I don’t trust anyone not to hurt me; I expect it. I couldn’t hurt them, so I take it out on myself.

All this need to help out in charities? Nothing fucking altruistic about that. I do it to make myself feel better, to make myself feel as though I contribute something to the world. Because without it I am faced with the most daunting questions of my own existence:

 what is my purpose in living?

And should I bother?

I’m surviving; I’m pushing myself to survive each day. I dread the day when I ask myself why I bother.

And does that sound as blame? Take it as you will. I think things have become so ingrained in me that my actions are no longer carried on by that particular episode of my life. I think I am so used to having these walls around me that they have become a part of me. I have grown into my walls, like crawling moss. Like the lady in the wallpaper, the walls are me. And if they were ever removed, who knows what grotesque creature lives behind the crumbling stone? And god, who could love it. It’s sick, twisted and deformed. It resembles nothing.

If I tried, if I stared at the mirror long enough I think I could start seeing the cracks and chips of a breaking soul. But I dare not look too deep. I don’t know if I can face myself, the part of me. I can’t face that younger, twisted side of me. Not yet. She’s frightening. I’m frightening.

Yet I have this need to keep prodding at the walls. Sooner or later several things are likely to happen. I could wait for someone to ram through the walls, and hope that they are strong enough to hold her off. If I push hard enough, I could bring it all crumbling down and confront her for myself. Or the crumbling walls could crush either of us and free the other from the chains that bind us together. Or I could just keep strengthening the walls, so I can pretend to continue my so called life while the darkest recesses of me remain hidden and chained and imprisoned.

I can just imagine a room full of psychoanalysts having a field day trying to dissect all of this. As it is, I question my sanity.



[edit] talking about Lady in the Wallpaper :

we are a product of our society. but I personally think it is ignorant to shift all blame to your environment. society isn't an excuse. you contribute to who you are too.