we're all a bit jaded

When did we all become so jaded?

Think back, far back... to a time when each day was full of emotional purity, clear thoughts, renewed hope, and limitless ambition. The world was literally at your fingertips and nothing and no one could stand in your way. Until, of course it or they did. I wonder, how is it that we can go from such innocent hope to such pessimistic views seemingly in the blink of an eye? We are eternally searching for something to fill this void we've created within ourselves. Something, someone. Is it that our optimism really is dead, or that we keep setting higher and higher standards each time we fail to meet our original? If that is the case, then we are creating this sort of catch-22 self fulfilling prophecy. Creating expectations for life, for love, we know that no one will ever reach - and then we are disappointed when they don't. With each failed project, wish, relationship we seem to set the bar for the next one even higher; furthering our perpetual sorrow and downheartedness. Which begs to question: Can a broken heart ever truly mend?

Do the scars from your past ever really fade away? We like to pretend that they do, we like to put on that face and say that we judge each day of it's own accord. But who are we kidding? Your parental doubts led to you seeking that perfect mate - and we they fell short we seek for something better - better. Why don't we simply search for something different? For something that fits our brokenness, our pessimism, our jaded perspectives?

I still feel like I was just broken up with, like my hearts on the mend - from time to time. My ex and I broke up over a year ago. Perhaps the adage from Charlotte from Sex in the City is true... we don't heal until half the total time in the relationship. Maybe this is true. Somehow I feel that a truer assumption is that we simply never heal. We go through the motions of grief, we get over the worst of it, but the shadows never really are shaken from our frame.

The more we go through life, the more shadows we collect. This isn't to say we cannot find happiness within our covered and jaded frames, that a broken heart cannot love immensely. It's just that the shadows of past hurts and failures cling to the happiness and shroud the love. Perhaps we'll reach this wise old age and find a way to dispel them all. Likelier? We go insane. Senility, Alzheimer's, what is it really than our brain finally succumbing to so much past baggage? Finally throwing in the towel.

Here's the real question. If, in our current condition, we are all so jaded; if a broken heart can never fully heal... Can we break the cycle? Is there some way to reach within ourselves and fix the broken and chipped pieces? I still have faith that there may be. Perhaps, one day, I'll be proven right. Or, I'll fail in someway that erases that faith from within. I suppose, as they say, only time will tell.

what I wish....

I wish I could write a blog about the world in all it's glory and complete sanity. I'd love to write about the excess of money that all my friends and I have. How we're all doing fantastic and walking around in custom made shoes with an extra spring or two in our step. I want to write about the wonderful job market, and how we're all completely over-compensated and no inflation's in sight. Love is all we'll ever need, and more than enough for you and for me. There's fresh cut flowers every morning, and deliciously brewed tea flowing into porcelain cups. The air is crisp, cool, and refreshing, and is that lavender I smell?

I'd love to write all these things, but I cannot.

I'm drifting away from humanity. From myself. I wish all these things, but none will come to be. I spend too much time wishing, for there is nothing else I can do it seems. I can wish or I can worry. Perhaps I spend too much time doing both.

The daily monotony is a comfort. Rise, work, eat, sleep. The days blend together, cream blending into coffee. Slowly, silky tendrils work there way together.

I know that I am lame. I try so hard to be something that I am not I suppose. I try to be clever, to be tall, to stand straight and narrow against the world. Can you see through me? Is there anything to see? I realize now, that I have very few qualities I admire. I am hardly artistic anymore. I used to be able to create, to pull words out of the air and weave them into paper...or screen as the case may be. Now... ... now I just type idly, and hope that someone, somewhere, sometime will read and that they will understand. That they will say "Yes, there is someone who knows."

Knows what? Well... I surmise that whoever this person is, wherever and whenever they are...they'll have that answer for you. As for now... I feel I know very little.

The autumn air... the rain on the windshield... it all feels too familiar. Everywhere I go, everything I do, every drive I make...it all feels like deja vu. I fall into this old mode of thinking, like it's all the same. This is all there ever was. Except...it's not the same.

I think John and I were made for Summer. I'm not really sure why, exactly, I just think that's what we were made for. Spring too, I suppose. It feels like with the weakening sunlight that we have a battle up ahead. Something to overcome. Some huge obstacle that we break through, or lie broken in the wake of.

We're losing touch, connectivity with one another. Perhaps it's just that the "honeymoon phase" is over. I still feel for him as I did...but... I just don't know. There used to be so much passion, pleasure, fulfillment. Now there is this routine...this predictability. Nothing happens that I don't know is going to happen. No one shows me huge amounts of unexpected adoration or affection. I don't get surprise I love you headywhop, I get you spent 1,000 dollars on me in a week headywhop. I get the usual kisses and pets and signs of love, but I don't know. It might just be the fact that we used to not be able to keep our hands off of one another, once a day was the minimum. And now.... now I'm down to maybe 3 times a week at best. Where did the lovin' go?

I feel gross, overweight, ugly, moronic, idiotic, complacent, overlooked, useless, hopeless, stressed, and mildly deranged....

The end.

I need to write

I cannot sleep and therefore I must write, I suppose. It happens, on occasion, where all I can do is write. I know not why, or how or when it will happen. Just that, inevitably, I will have a need and who ever is in my wake will be bid to read what wondrous or mundane work I have created. Is it out of boredom alone? I don't think so, I think it is... out of necessity. I am what I am and all that I am is me. Perplex simplicities wrapped in what warmth and shelter I can take from this world. Sometimes it is much, and I am grateful. Other times, it is less than would be desired and I feel abandoned and alone. There is no switch of emotion. There is no only on or off. There are varying degrees of everything from anger to love. I love nearly everyone alive, I suppose. However, there are some I love only because they are alive and there is a soul and meaning behind their eyes; others I love because they have qualities and traits which I admire. There are those who have admirable qualities and a common ground with myself, and I love those as acquaintances and perhaps friends if enough of the right mixture is there. There are those which are simply a part of me, have been and will be and they are family, although no blood relation is necessary at all. There is love which is deep and coursing just like blood in my veins, and consuming and undeniable – like the love of family, but with a necessity and craving aspect. Within each of these categories there are varying levels. There is no on or off. You may never hear me tell you that I love you, but I do. You may beg with me and plead with me that you love me, and though I feel the same way you'll never hear me utter the words. I believe with all that I am, that you shouldn't tell someone you love them to hear a response. If you love someone and wish to let it be known, you shouldn't feel downhearted if they do not repeat the words to you. If you would feel this way – then let you never utter those words of feeling aloud. I also believe that “I love you” is said far too much. We've raped the meaning from it. It means the same as 'I like you' or, 'I think you're an awesome person.' I am just as guilty of this as the next. With all of this knowledge I hold to be nothing but the truth, it will continually befuddle and confuse me as why telling someone you love them is such an enormous deal. Why you would be willing to rid yourself of someone you love in what you claim is the deepest sense to tell someone you love as a friend – acquaintance these days – that you love them. To me, it means much more to simply be alive, to care as you will. I would not need you to tell me you love me to know that you do. Actions will always, always speak louder than words could ever hope to. It is what you do, how you treat someone that let's them know how you feel about them, not the words you speak – type – send. It is sad to me that we have come to rely on words when so very much of what we experience can not be understood with any language that I have ever encountered. I say this as someone who is more tied to words than most. I will always be a writer. Even when what I wrote was fairly pointless, silly, and without talent I considered myself as such. I feel that without writing I would surely go insane. Yet even I can admit that we place too much merit on what is said with letters smashed together in semblance of intelligent thought. As I sit here, in darkness of night and somber thoughts I wish that there was a way to download how I feel into a disk uploadable to your mind. Maybe then you would realize that by not responding you are not lying. You are choosing to love me like you say you do. I didn't start writing this to go there. I didn't even mean to, it just kind of happened as my consciousness spilled forth from my fingertips. I still feel like I am right, he is wrong, and there is nothing I can do. My dreams are consumed of him choosing her over and again. On our wedding day, random events, it doesn't matter. He always goes to her, even if he tries to come back to me later on, it doesn't do any good. He's made his choice. I guess that's it, isn't it? He did, and my subconscious doesn't want to let me forget it....