After Christmas, wallowing in loving feelings for my close family and friends, I always get the blues. I can't help it-- it's this guilty feeling that starts in the pit of my stomach and works its way up to my throat, where it sits and rests. It rather burns, and I suppose it's that feeling of guilt when I see those less fortunate than I on the street during the after-Christmas shopping.
They always seems so accusatory, which they have the full right to be. I feel guilty-- and I start asking God why I am so lucky to be blessed with family and friends during this time of year. And then, I start wondering why I'm seeking God's forgiveness for such a thing. I don't even believe in God.
We went to Catholic Mass on Sunday night, and though I could not take communion, as I am not Catholic, I went forward anyway and got a blessing.
I told my father, "If I have to be here, I might as well save my immortal soul."
Such blasphemy. I felt guilty saying it, but it's true. I want the easy way out. I want to never believe during the year, and as soon as Christmas comes around, suddenly conform to my parent's religion and become a Christian again. And tada, I'm saved.
But I know that's not enough, and because I don't believe in God, that shouldn't matter. But it does. I think I want my parent's approval and happiness more than I want God. They want me to be 'saved' and as long as I live in their house, I'm going to have to keep pretending to be God's child.
I'm sure the homeless couldn't care less about my miserable issues with divinity.
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Friday, December 15, 2006
Unawares
The discovery of a crush is especially devastating when the individual that is the object of your love (or lust) happens to be a pretentious bastard.
During Theory of Knowledge I was idly munching on a chocolate cookie, contemplating the advent of the holidays, and the lovely weather. Our IB coordinator was discussing the upcoming SL tests in May, and I couldn’t have cared less, because I had a cookie, and the sun was shining. Tomorrow is the beginning of the Winter Holiday, and I get two weeks of unadulterated relaxation. Even studying will be in a relaxed atmosphere. I couldn’t help but notice that everyone else was as starry-eyed with the prospects of freedom as I. Save one person.
A boy I know was slumped in his desk— his mouth partially shielded by his hand. I cannot describe the fatigue that seemed to have settled over him. It was if one lone cloud of rain poured on him alone, and everyone else was exempt from its grey oppression.
Usually he is the epitome of character— he sits up ramrod straight and his hand flies up like a whip to remark snarkily on various subjects— adored by none, and vilified by all. I find myself in the latter category. He is pretentious, and vindictive, and bitter. He is as brilliant as they come. But the combination of such intelligence and such animosity leads to a explosive combination. His leadership of Mock Trial is the subject of many quiet, vituperate conversations, held in corners of dingy classrooms.
But now, he exuded grief like a waterfall— his shoulders were sloped— even the dark blue of his warm-up jacket seemed almost pitch black.
I can’t describe the absolute misery and discontent that grew in me, and I could practically feel my lower lip tremble. A stuffy feeling appeared in my nose that hadn’t been there before; my hands were suddenly cold, and the hollow crevices of my pockets could not warm them. I watched him for a moment— he was spoken to: but he answered as if in a daze or a stupor.
“Hey, are you okay?” I asked after class, as he walked out of the room into the shining sun. His eyes were so dark I felt a rush, a shiver run down my spine and settle in my lower belly. "Hello?”
“I’m fine,” he replied hollowly.
“Do you want a cookie?” I offered, realising how childlike I appeared, in my sun-dress and low heels, my bangs sweeping across my face. I supposed then that I would always look childlike to him, barely reaching his strong shoulder, with small hands and feet, and slim wrists. And oh so naïve, thinking my cookie could save him from whatever depression had seized him.
He waved me off with a hand, and continued off toward his next class, the light streaming over him like an unwelcome blanket. I stood there, my cookie tin pressed against my stomach, like a lost bird, fluttering to and fro in indecisive agony.
When I was walking home, I saw him drive by, and he waved with one hand, the other on his mobile, driving by sheer will, I suppose. I felt my heart flutter, and I smiled involuntarily, a sort of sweet, melancholy slip of my lips.
Realisation is difficult— and I suppose that my heart will speed up next time I see him, and that a flush will appear across my round cheeks, and that I will want him so badly that I will stand pigeon-toed in his presence and stare at my feet. I wonder how I could have been so caught unaware, and by so wrong a person.
I suppose, for the purposes of anonymity, I shall call him the Obscure Object in this blog.
During Theory of Knowledge I was idly munching on a chocolate cookie, contemplating the advent of the holidays, and the lovely weather. Our IB coordinator was discussing the upcoming SL tests in May, and I couldn’t have cared less, because I had a cookie, and the sun was shining. Tomorrow is the beginning of the Winter Holiday, and I get two weeks of unadulterated relaxation. Even studying will be in a relaxed atmosphere. I couldn’t help but notice that everyone else was as starry-eyed with the prospects of freedom as I. Save one person.
A boy I know was slumped in his desk— his mouth partially shielded by his hand. I cannot describe the fatigue that seemed to have settled over him. It was if one lone cloud of rain poured on him alone, and everyone else was exempt from its grey oppression.
Usually he is the epitome of character— he sits up ramrod straight and his hand flies up like a whip to remark snarkily on various subjects— adored by none, and vilified by all. I find myself in the latter category. He is pretentious, and vindictive, and bitter. He is as brilliant as they come. But the combination of such intelligence and such animosity leads to a explosive combination. His leadership of Mock Trial is the subject of many quiet, vituperate conversations, held in corners of dingy classrooms.
But now, he exuded grief like a waterfall— his shoulders were sloped— even the dark blue of his warm-up jacket seemed almost pitch black.
I can’t describe the absolute misery and discontent that grew in me, and I could practically feel my lower lip tremble. A stuffy feeling appeared in my nose that hadn’t been there before; my hands were suddenly cold, and the hollow crevices of my pockets could not warm them. I watched him for a moment— he was spoken to: but he answered as if in a daze or a stupor.
“Hey, are you okay?” I asked after class, as he walked out of the room into the shining sun. His eyes were so dark I felt a rush, a shiver run down my spine and settle in my lower belly. "Hello?”
“I’m fine,” he replied hollowly.
“Do you want a cookie?” I offered, realising how childlike I appeared, in my sun-dress and low heels, my bangs sweeping across my face. I supposed then that I would always look childlike to him, barely reaching his strong shoulder, with small hands and feet, and slim wrists. And oh so naïve, thinking my cookie could save him from whatever depression had seized him.
He waved me off with a hand, and continued off toward his next class, the light streaming over him like an unwelcome blanket. I stood there, my cookie tin pressed against my stomach, like a lost bird, fluttering to and fro in indecisive agony.
When I was walking home, I saw him drive by, and he waved with one hand, the other on his mobile, driving by sheer will, I suppose. I felt my heart flutter, and I smiled involuntarily, a sort of sweet, melancholy slip of my lips.
Realisation is difficult— and I suppose that my heart will speed up next time I see him, and that a flush will appear across my round cheeks, and that I will want him so badly that I will stand pigeon-toed in his presence and stare at my feet. I wonder how I could have been so caught unaware, and by so wrong a person.
I suppose, for the purposes of anonymity, I shall call him the Obscure Object in this blog.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Procrastination is Life
Life is constantly procrastinated. We put off living every day to watch T.V., update our blogs, read about the latest celebrity's sordid scandal. Every day-- I procrastinate on taking walks, playing with my dog, talking with my little brother. He's growing up so fast, and I'm sort of afraid I'll blink and he'll be an adult. It's like watching my own life flash before my eyes as I try and catch up with school work, and the website. It's rather frustrating to be so unable to do much of anything besides watch. I try and reach out and touch what I don't have, but something keeps me from catching up.
Falling leaves
I saw the most beautiful thing today. A large gust of wind hit the liquid amber trees on my street, and while the limbs shook and quaked, hundreds of red and golden leaves swept down onto the asphalt. All of my mother's work, raking and scooping last week has been undone, but the red and gold dessicated leaves are so beautiful on top of the grey street. It was like watching rain drops turn yellow and orange.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Beauty in simple things...
I felt as if an elephant has sat gracefully upon my back, and I was trying to support it with only my feeble arms and weak limbs. I am referring to the literal pain that was coursing up and down my spine, but also to the overwhelming sense of desolation that had settled over me over the last couple weeks. I kept trying to comfort myself, saying, bloody hell, it's the holidays. But it's hard to feel cheery when one feels as if a wet rag is stifling all your creativity and all the beauty in life.
I guess I could say all that pessimism stopped when I looked out the window, just a mere second ago. The screen seems to fracture the light from the neighbour's porch that streams across the road and illuminates every divet and pot-hole on our dingy street. The neighbours catty corner to us have all of their icicle Christmas lights up, and even though the moon is strangely absent, there is enough light pollution to lead an airplane. I can't say that my back hurts any less, but there is something strangely moving about what I see. Perhaps it is the lack of sleep, and lack of coherence, compounded by stupidity, but I cannot say that I've seen anything more beautiful before.
I guess I could say all that pessimism stopped when I looked out the window, just a mere second ago. The screen seems to fracture the light from the neighbour's porch that streams across the road and illuminates every divet and pot-hole on our dingy street. The neighbours catty corner to us have all of their icicle Christmas lights up, and even though the moon is strangely absent, there is enough light pollution to lead an airplane. I can't say that my back hurts any less, but there is something strangely moving about what I see. Perhaps it is the lack of sleep, and lack of coherence, compounded by stupidity, but I cannot say that I've seen anything more beautiful before.
Duty
I suppose I've always wanted to be a so-called "literary fiction writer". I think I've failed in that regard. So, that is what this blog will be. It will be a recount of my life as if everything were dreadfully and terribly important, and that all things are serious and ponderous. They aren't. You can see my other blog if you want to see un-serious or ponderous things. So, it is my duty to complain about life, and other interesting things, because I feel like I could contribute something to the empty space of the web. Yes, I could. Maybe.
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