I feel I should begin with a disclaimer. I am becoming more and more used to the idea of writing without thought of my readers. Well I can't quite say that. I believe it is beneficial to keep it tucked away in the back of my mind that I am writing with an audience, but not necessarily for them. I do need to consider that. Do I write for an audience? Or do I write for me? Again, I am warming up to the idea of writing for me, yet with the awareness that others are reading. I still feel my audience strongly enough to have an inclination to write this disclaimer. Today's entry will get very near completely uncensored and brutally (almost disgustingly) honest. It will be ugly and quite an outpouring of my soul which I usually don't give. This will be much more honest and far far uglier than Warning: Contains Slight Traces of Politics. Pffft...that was paltry child's play compared to the following angsty mess. You have been forewarned. Read on if you dare.
Do I need a bit of daylogging to begin? Why not. I hate daylogging though. Ugh. We ran errands today and I went to the store with my dad. There. Ha. Daylogging always feels like such a chore unless I am in a particularly eloquent mood. Then wonderful spins and yarns of reality occur. Humourous stories and accounts to amuse. But that is a rarity.
I began keeping a journal when I was 8, and stretching even that far back, I always slipped in my journalling because I hated daylogging. I just wanted to write anything I felt. And just write with a disregard for anything else. I felt that was incomplete though. That I needed the explanation of ordinary events. Thus my journalling was often irregular. I am surprised that I can keep this one up as much as I do. I suppose that that is because I have an audience. I feel an obligation to provide them with entertainment or something of the sort. One can't wipe the feeling away from me by reassuring me that they don't need me to write every day to entertain them. I just feel like I must provide an entry. "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you." I do almost slip when I start thinking about daylogging though. Today I do. I am sure I could and twist it humourously and into an enjoyable format, but, truth be told, I just plain don't feel like it. I just plain do not want to daylog today.
103 things out of nothing.
I am feeling so restless. Nothing seems to hold my attention or interest anymore. Everything bores me. That makes me restless for something to do. Not something ordinary either. I want to do something extraordinary and fulfilling. I just don't know what. Just something. Almost anything. I am constantly driven to the pantry to browse through the snack foods and decide that I am not hungry. Then I throw myself on the couch and find everything on tv boring and monotonous. All of our dvds seem uninteresting. Thus I get up and wander again. Shuffling back through the kitchen. Then down the stairs and about my room. I don't want to read. I don't want to listen to any of my music. I throw myself listlessly into my chair and stare at things. This bores me quickly. I get up again and toss myself into my computer chair. No one is on. Does it matter much if there was? Few of my friends offer me conversation to relieve me of this boredom. And those that do, hardly do. I am just tired of only chats. I feel the boredom and monotony more painfully and long for human interaction rather than the rhythmic typing of my fingers on the keys and the flashing of conversation boxes. There is nothing else to do on the computer. My muse is not really driven. A force bores my muse. I have a list of dolls to make but that would be a force on my muse and she just doesn't want that now. So I depart from my computer. To shuffle back up the stairs to the pantry. I was just here. I am not hungry. I don't want food. I shuffle back downstairs and by this time, tears of frustration are welling up in my eyes. I feel entrapped. Enclosed. Lonely (always a recurrent theme). I start to get desperate in those moments. It might seem a little ironic, but I think suicide is closer in those times than when I am in depression. Everything is just more stifling and desperate when I feel so bored and oppressed. Obviously I won't kill myself, but it just feels a little closer. I stand in my room and stare about and I begin to feel as though I am going mad. It's a touch of insanity. Cabin fever must be my malady. I do not know a cure though. I usually just find something to chew on to my heart's content and wait it out. Find weak excuses for occupations until the cabin fever blows over.
In the midst of this restlessness and easy boredom, I tire of msnm screen names quickly. I want a new one already (I don't think I have had the current even a full week) so I went at my bookshelf to disinterestedly flip though my small collection. One book that came out and rested in my hands longer than the rest was Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bront�. Not because anything particular caught my eye, just because I remembered how much I love that book. I am already reading two or I might start that one.
Ever since I first read it, I loved it. I have read it at least 4 times now. Or maybe 5. Or 6. Why do I love it so much? I always was a sucker for romance. I remember having the realization at a very young age that I was an utterly hopeless romantic. The sweeter and sappier the better. But then my rose colored glasses were shattered and broken. A thoughtless boy unintentionally ripped them from me and stomped on them until they were broken. I shed many frozen tears over them. Then, with a few pieces of the broken glass and my frozen tears, I forged myself a new pair of shades. This time, a bitter gray. The pink shines through just a little, but everything looked much different than it had as I grew up. The sappy romances I used to read just didn't seem the same. I didn't enjoy them as much and they didn't offer the same enjoyment. The stories were always tinged with the shade of black. Everything was. Now the stories and such moved me to tears because I just couldn't believe them anymore. Just stories. Works of fiction.
I sat down and set to work repairing my rose colored shades of my youth. It is hard to see them through such dark shades but I can see enough to work. And then, the other day, another thoughtless boy came and crushed my glasses again. This time I wasn't wearing them, but all my work of the past 3 or 4 years was undone. I shed a black tear or two over them, which darkened my current shades just a little more.
I have left the rose colored shades alone for now. I don't know if I have any desire to go back to fixing them again. It really isn't worth it. I need to abandon the shades altogether. But perhaps, they are so important because they are an image of my heart. A likeness. To crush the glasses is to crush my heart. Twice. Twice. Black as the shades. Black and cold.
Wow. I feel like I need go hide. I am going to go to bed now and uhm...hide under my covers in embarrassment for being that honest but...something deeper has been telling me to get that out and in the open. Just whoop de doo.
This has been a really stupid entry. *blurb* And here I am talking to my audience again. Shut up Megan. I needed to get all that off my chest and if they all are shocked or offended or bored or anything now...well uhm...yeah, I just can't care. I feel like a couple of loads of bricks just got lifted off my shoulders and I know that if I just erase this entry into oblivion, they will come back and sit on my shoulders again. I don't want that. So here I go to post it. Ick.
*reads over entry one last time before posting...finger hovers around, poised to select all and delete... considers... ponders...* One hour and thirty minutes labored over this entry. I will not delete that much typing and thought. Gosh. I can't believe I am doing this...Everything left as is...no deletion...*shuts eyes tightly and pushes the done button and then runs away into the distance*