isn't it pretty to think so?

So, I found my Berlin journal and started writing again…

Youth Lagoon’s been in my brain all day, so let me set the scene:

17

Anyway, I watched an interview today in which he (Trevor Powers) said something like, “Every day you’re a little bit different than you were the day before- if you’re living the right way, that is. If you’re not sitting on the couch, but instead, you’re outside, meeting new people, making new experiences, discovering new things… you’ll be a little bit different tomorrow than you are today.”

I’m paraphrasing.

But I want that. I want to be like that, to live like that. And so, I have found my latest and greatest endeavor- to be a little bit better and a little bit different every day. I’ve felt stagnant and uninspired and uninteresting over this past year, and I’m not doing anything to change that. 

Except complaining.

And making excuses. Always excuses. Excuses for not doing. For not moving. Or trying. Or letting go. And that’s all it is.

Letting go.

I’ve never fully been able to let go. I understand the concept, but not fully. Not the practice of it. I guess that’s pretty sad if you think about it, but I don’t. I won’t. It’s sad and ugly and stupid, and it’s my biggest vice. And who here likes to lament their vices? 

Exactly.

Shrinks call it a “need to control,” which makes it sounds aggressive and active. But it’s not. It’s passive and overwhelming and frightening as all hell, but it’s hardy active. I mean, the only truly active part of it all is the fact that I bring it upon myself. And secretly, I kind of like it that way. It’s familiar and comforting, like the pillows I used to cling to during every midnight thunderstorm. It’s weird and kind of unnecessary, but it’s ritual. It soothes.

Anyway.

This need to bring order, this need to know and be told and understand… It’s a need to acquire visible strength and control. It’s a totally superficial and self-serving need.

Notice, I said “need.” Not desire. Or want. Need.

And that’s precisely it. It’s a need to let go, but a desire to remain in limbo. To remain in tense suspension between the worlds of need and want, between living and functioning. Because the truth is, I can’t let go. I mean, partly, I don’t want to, but mainly, I won’t allow myself to. I mean, really, who am I without all of this baggage? Without all of this pain? With this haunting past and lingering present?

Answer: I am no one.

I am boring. I am nobody. I am afraid.

I know that’s not true, or at least it’s not supposed to be, but it sure fucking feels like it. I really don’t know who I am, because I’m afraid of what I might learn. Not the dark, twisty, outside stuff… the inner hollowness. The nothingness. I am afraid of finding nothing; not the ordinary, but the nothing. I’m afraid I’ll find just empty, boring, tasteless space. Just a hole, void of definition or any distinguishing characteristics. No imagination, just duplicates of others’ words and thoughts and opinions; no creativity. Nope, not here. Not in this hole. Only nothingness. Fucking frightful nothingness.

I need a hobby. 

/rant