My confession is not lighthearted compared to others that have been posted here. I don't speak what I am about to speak for attention, but out of necessity to straighten my thoughts as I was going to write in my journal for a long time tonight regardless. It might be better to do it in one place and not waste repeating myself. I feel like I would just be lying to you if I wrote on any other topic. More importantly, I'd be lying to myself.
My confession is this: I've been feeling apart from myself for a long time. It's been a slow building process that's gone unnoticed until recently, but when the truth dawned on me a small part of me recoiled in horror at what I've become. I'm a vestige of my old self. Once, I was introverted, artistic, and spectacularly intriguing personality wise. Mentally speaking, I was a very well rounded teenager with a seriousness and maturity far beyond my years. When others ran, I stood still. When others spoke, I remained silent and contemplated instead.
More or less over the last few years I've had less opportunity to stand still or think. My own time ran away from me and my thoughts drifted like a leaf in the wind. My mental capacity started to deteriorate partially because I was no longer in school, but also because, sadly, I had stopped writing. My life used to be filled with such strong urges to express myself that my drawings, poems, and stories almost tore themselves from my mind. It was a beautiful cycle of thought and creation that I miss very much.
As of a few days ago (only a few days) I've been on a quest to reclaim something of true value that I lost when I became distracted by boys and modelling and work. I'm picking up the scattered pieces of my soul and gluing them back together, having been ripped apart by my subconscious idea that outer beauty and money outweighed the value of who I was as a unique human being. These past few days have been like trying to hold water in your hands only to watch in misery as the water slowly drips through your fingers.
Still, progress is progress and even now as I practice my writing to you, my dear readers, I am reclaiming that spark that everyone loved me for but a few years ago. It's been frustrating trying to become something that you used to be, and I've been struggling, but already I feel much better.
I'm not out of the dark yet, but dawn is fast approaching.
Namaste
Me, at 13/15, in my glory years of artistic expression (and slight depression, but that comes with the territory often, no?).
Ballad of a Lonely Bird (An example of my poetry from 2010)
The ballad of a lonely songbird
A wounded heart of this spinning earth
The sad song that is barely heard
The weeping of my little bird
A broken heart without a word
A broken pack without a herd
Would her little wing ever mend
Would my songbird sing again
Would she bellow into the wind
Could this be her bitter end
To stand and fight and never win
To dive and drown and never swim
My little songbird sings for him
The sound she makes is sad and broken
Her bellowing is hardly spoken
Not a tiny creature awoken
Not a soul to hear her cries
My little songbird gasps and dies
The loneliness of her demise
Etched into her little eyes
My drawings are not often put online, but when they are, they look something like this:
A quick shout out to Devushka Suicide! The object of one of my favorite pieces.
