Journal II - The Weight

I feel weight on me today. Pressure on my shoulders, pressing down, and my back still hurts from the concert, so it's hard to stand up straight. I feel leftovers from difficult discussions and none of the relief that comes from "working things out;" only the anticipation that everything is too much a load for me to bear.

I am afraid to see what I am capable of withstanding. I'm tired of deciding for myself what my limits are.

Psychology seems to me to be the futile, desperate effort to map and pattern the behavior of humanity to decide what is good and bad for the emotional and mental well-being of a person. However, I feel like it always comes down to the same thing. I have to decide. Will I be happy like this? Will I feel like this tomorrow?

As I explore the purpose of this journal, I feel like maybe deciding what is good for me literally in writing would be helpful. Now, if only I knew what those things were.

Journal I

This is my first try.

I am sorry.

I need to apologize to a lot of people, and for a lot of things. I am sorry for being so damn arrogant. I don't know ANYTHING. But, the more I learn, the more I forget. No matter what I learn, I still know nothing. I can't even keep myself straight. How can I expect to know you?

I am sorry for trying to fix you. You are perfect. Every one of you is perfect. And I am a fool, the biggest, dumbest fool for thinking that I could possibly know better. I am ashamed, ashamed to my very core for thinking that I knew better. God, I am so ashamed. I know this about myself, but I guess it's just a testament to my own weakness that I have done nothing about it. I am so, so sorry.

This is my fault, in every way. To each of you, I have been unfair, and had terrible expectations. There is no measure to my shame. I am so sorry. I hope that someday, you all can forgive me.

Lovely Bloodflow

I can't help but wonder what the actual biological response of a heartwrench is. Is it perhaps a sudden flow of blood? That's what I'm inclined towards. A small length of fishing wire that fastens itself to a bit of your soul, and on nights like these, when difficult conversations are had with ones that you love, it tugs, enough to hurt, but not to break. I feel at the mercy of such a small thing: weak, childish, and incapable. I must look like a damned fool, floundering across the street, unkindly guided by an invisible thread wrapped viciously around the most intimate depths of me.

Cynicism is like the sun. It might be light, but too much time spent in it, and everything gets tough and burned. All the moisture is gone, too. A dose is necessary for things to grow and thrive, but too much and everything dies. There wasn't much left that makes me cry anymore...but...

Hm. I was beginning to wonder if I'd forgotten how to cry. Doctor, my eyes.

I wish that I were more aware. I wish that I could think without talking, without verbalizing.

Honestly, I think it just comes down to wishing I were less broken. I'd love a god who could do something with that.

By the way, everyone, don't fall into the same trap that I fell into. There are things in this world that cannot be answered or fixed. Logic cannot fix them, and therapy cannot fix them. People are broken, and humanity is flawed.

I think at the root of my soul I am aware that I am entirely unaware. As such an introspective, verbal, communicative person, it's amazing what I cannot see, cannot say, and will not communicate. I am a proud joke, an idiot who fancies himself academic, the very fool that returns again and again to his vomit. I keep thinking if I can learn about myself, realize my behavioral patterns, I can change them. I just have so much trouble knowing. The greeks had at least something right. Before attempting to know anything, to know anyone...know thyself.





In response to what I have felt tonight, I feel it necessary to begin a journal of some sort. I don't think I can stick with something regimented very well, but there has to be something I can do. I am tired of my misunderstanding of myself resulting in foolish, foolish decisions. This isn't just about me. Things are hurting. There is more than one fishing line in a soul. There is a web of gentle pain, of kindness that aches, and of lovely bloodflows everywhere. Its the least I can do to try to be responsible with whose fishing line I am allowed to hold.