I want to cry. I want to smile. I want to paint my life with colours that haven't been discovered yet.
But something keeps me, something prevents me from being the free person I desperately dream of being. I don't know if it's society or my friends or even myself that keeps me blocked, numb, in a coward state of action.
I want to stand up and run, explore faraway lands and talk to people with different cultures, identities, languages, thoughts, dreams.
We can't be truly free, not in the way we really want to. People judge. People know how to judge and forget the way of making us feel good about ourselves. Egotism rules the world. And it's good, because without egotism, I wouldn't be able to write down my thoughts, like I'm doing right now, and you wouldn't be able to read them. It's us what keeps us going, is what forces us to dream more, want more, love more, be happier and happier. But we should be careful. Because this scale can easily turn upside down. Our egotism can corrupt us in the blink of an eye. The limits of who we are and who we constantly want to be are thin. Thinner than we think. We can easily lose ourselves in the process of finding happiness.
Happiness? No. I'd just say what we look for is joy. Joy and satisfaction. And this cozy feeling that's called security. Security, right? Because we're all criminals in a way. We all need to be saved. Because we're all sinners. But it doesn't really matter, it doesn't matter if we've hurt other people or if we are in a constant fight with ourselves. Because we can change it. We need to change it.
Why? Because we deserve something better than rolling in the mud of nightmares, of self-doubts, of misery, of endless rivers of tears. We're birds with wings. We were born to fly. We weren't born to be locked up in a vase of insecurities and self-destructive thoughts, like butterflies in a jar full of sugar. So, let's try to fly then.
We can fly at any age, we can change the path of our lives under any, given or not, circumstances. Because we have a special weapon, the most perfect weapon of all. Our mind. And I know what you may think. That our mind is the reason we tremble to go out and face the world and its people. But we must skip our fears, we must hug our mind, learn why we take the decisions we take, not run away from it.
After all, our mind will be with us for the rest of our lives. We should make it our alley, our companion, not our enemy. People affect our decisions, but we, only we, have the power to fully rule and guide our lives. Because we are the only ones who can use our minds for our own good. Other people can't. Other people don't know how we think or what we think. They can advise us, but they can't help us. At least not 100%. Only we can plant seeds of ideas in our minds and see them grow, flourish, prosper.
Well, I think there's one exception though.
Mental illnesses. I think they are the result of love that went wrong, of love that wasn't promised. I see people suffering from them, I see beautiful hearts getting shattered in the process of "fitting in" and "being accepted". I see people slowly dying on the inside and I hate those who made them be in this position. Because the kindest people are the ones who suffer more. The more you love, the more you suffer, and the more you suffer, the easier it is to lose it. Your mind I mean. So, I want to say one thing. Understand your thoughts. Love them. Hug them. Accept them. Try to decipher their secret codes. Try to love who you are. No one else can be you. No one. So, make the best out of it. Find a hobby and stick to it. And the most important thing? Listen to judgements, because they'll always exist. But don't let them affect you negatively, only positively.
It's like you have a glass, 50% full of water. It's your choice if you want to see it as half-full or half-empty. See the difference? Most of us see the glass of water as half-empty. We need to go naked of our old ideas. We need to learn the warmth of happiness again. Yes, it's not easy. Yes, the path to it is twisted and painful. But how can you know what lies on the edge of the cliff if you don't dare to go to the edge of the cliff?
We must learn to trust our mind and our heart. They are not our enemies and certainly they aren't someone else. They are us.
(Okay, this is another part of my -incoherent- thoughts. Read it if you feel like it and, please, comment on it. Thanks.)
Monday, 5 March 2012
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
Thoughts on life and love. (2)
Another entry in my incoherent and confusing thoughts on life and love.
I'm 20 years old, therefore a young adult. I don't want to be my age, I don't feel like my age and, certainly, I don't like my age. I don't know if there's a certain age, when you look back and say "Here I am, I've experienced what I was meant to experience, I've lived what I was meant to live". Is there?
I'm confused. So, so much. Every day that passes by brings me closer and closer to the inevitable end. And it scares me. Sometimes, when I'm at the bottom of my hopelessness, when I'm sure that there isn't any light in the tunnel called life, I seek for death. These times nothing matters. It's like you're deaf and blind. Your eyes are open, but you can't see, your ears are open, but you can't listen.
I know there must be an escape though. It has to be. You may say that this escape is love, or friendship, or happiness. I don't know. It might be a mixture of all these, or none of them.
Escape? From whom? From ourselves? From the idea of ourselves through the curtains of other's eyes? I guess we and only we are the worst and most dangerous enemies of our own selves.
Random thought. I just remembered the movie "Into The Wild" with Emile Hirsch. Watch it, if you haven't already done. It's amazing, colourful, witty, thought-provoking. Well, this movie still keeps the engine inside my mind working. It teaches us to run away when the chains of society threaten to choke us. It teaches us that we mustn't be afraid to follow the path that our hearts whisper to us, wherever it leads us to.
Monday, 19 December 2011
Thoughts on life and love.
Life. Love.
Two words. Eight letters. A thousand meanings.
We were born. We were kids. Teenagers. Young adults. We went to kindergarten and then to school and, then, college. We keep fighting to stand on our feet, get prepared for the void, this uncertain promise that's called "the future". For what reason? Are we sure that the choices, this confusing tangle of choices, regrets, tears, smiles that brought us to this very moment are correct? Have we achieved the wanted feeling of happiness?
But let's not be confused.
Let's start from the beginning. Kids. 8 or 10 years old. For some of us these were the happiest and purest years of our lives. For some other of us, the nightmare began these years. Abuse, verbal and/or physical. Bullying. Abundance. This feeling that no one notices you, you're an invisible person among invisible people. You try to talk, to shout, to scream but no air comes out of your lungs. Your parents are there and, at the same time, they're not. They think you're happy. But little do they know about happiness. It doesn't matter that they're older and in many ways wiser than you. Happiness isn't a lifetime lesson.
Happiness, like love, can't be learnt neither in 1 month, nor in 80 years. Happiness is abstract, like an idea which slowly flourishes in your mind. Happiness is the most delicate flower in the world's most beautiful valley.
I'll return to the idea of happiness. Where was I? Oh yes, at childhood.
There you were. You survived. You found a way, or many ways, to escape into a world that didn't cause you pain. It doesn't matter if it was a fairy tale, an imaginary friend, a pile of books, a collection of poems or a messed up doodling. What matters is that you succeeded. You made it to the teenage years.
14, 16, 18 years old. The Chaos. The mess. So many emotions bursting up all at once and you don't know which one of them to firstly follow. You fall in love. You fall out of love. You want to die. You don't want to die. You cut your arms, your tighs, your belly, your fingers. You regret it. You cut them again. A vicious circle. You find friendship. For the first time in your life you feel like it doesn't matter that your parents don't seem to care about you, because you've found something holier than them, something deeper. Friends.
Friends. What could I really say about them? They can lift you up to seventh heaven and they can tear you to million of pieces. They can make you believe that you're Mother Teresa or a Mafia member. With them you can be anyone and no one simultaneously. You can do everything. Powerful feeling, isn't it? You smoke, you do drugs, you have sex with strangers.
Or you're a good teen. You read, take good grades, dream of scholarships and golden college years. You're loyal to your first love and sex before marriage isn't an option.
I don't blame you. I think I was a good girl. I didn't get drunk, my grades were good, my parents knew all of my friends.
From time to time, a thought crosses my mind. That I didn't make the most out of my teenage years. (I'm currently 20 years old.) I didn't cry much. I didn't laugh much. I didn't act crazily enough.
I didn't climb a mountain, do bungee jumping, kiss a total stranger, sleep for 2 days, go out naked, run away for a week, buy 50 books at once.
I don't know. It may sound strange or weird, but I feel old and young. Like I've lived my whole life, like there's nothing else to see. But I also feel young. Weak. Vulnerable. I need a shelter, a protection, a hand to put my own to, a shoulder to lie on. I need to find my soulmate, the person who will love me for who I really am, not for who I think I am.
Oh yes, some words about beauty. Beauty is something subjective. It isn't something good or bad, positive or negative. It is beyond us, inside and outside of us. Beauty isn't just straight or curly hair, skinny legs or flat belly. Beauty isn't mere make-up or long nails. Beauty is the smile you crave to see in the face of the person you love. It's the way you want to kiss him/her, not because it's the right thing to do, but because it's the o n l y thing you can do to show your love. Beauty is the tears you hide only for your second half. It's the promise that you'll love or won't love again, either because you're astonishingly happy, or because you're unrepairably broken. But, either way, it's you. You're beautiful. Not worthless. Not dumb. Fat? Skinny? Tall? Short?
Ignore them. They're just labels. Nothing more. Nothing less. Labels that describe the size and pattern of the vessel. You are the vessel. Your heart, mind and soul, are the flowers. Who cares about the vessel? It's the flowers that produce the enchanting smell. It's the flowers that grow and flourish and light up the whole room with their beauty. The vessel is nothing but a cold structure.
Young adulthood. (...)
My arm hurts though. And it's late. I'm not finished. Please read it and comment.
Positively or negatively. Through positive comments we boost our strength, through negative ones we learn.
Thank you. :-)
Two words. Eight letters. A thousand meanings.
We were born. We were kids. Teenagers. Young adults. We went to kindergarten and then to school and, then, college. We keep fighting to stand on our feet, get prepared for the void, this uncertain promise that's called "the future". For what reason? Are we sure that the choices, this confusing tangle of choices, regrets, tears, smiles that brought us to this very moment are correct? Have we achieved the wanted feeling of happiness?
But let's not be confused.
Let's start from the beginning. Kids. 8 or 10 years old. For some of us these were the happiest and purest years of our lives. For some other of us, the nightmare began these years. Abuse, verbal and/or physical. Bullying. Abundance. This feeling that no one notices you, you're an invisible person among invisible people. You try to talk, to shout, to scream but no air comes out of your lungs. Your parents are there and, at the same time, they're not. They think you're happy. But little do they know about happiness. It doesn't matter that they're older and in many ways wiser than you. Happiness isn't a lifetime lesson.
Happiness, like love, can't be learnt neither in 1 month, nor in 80 years. Happiness is abstract, like an idea which slowly flourishes in your mind. Happiness is the most delicate flower in the world's most beautiful valley.
I'll return to the idea of happiness. Where was I? Oh yes, at childhood.
There you were. You survived. You found a way, or many ways, to escape into a world that didn't cause you pain. It doesn't matter if it was a fairy tale, an imaginary friend, a pile of books, a collection of poems or a messed up doodling. What matters is that you succeeded. You made it to the teenage years.
14, 16, 18 years old. The Chaos. The mess. So many emotions bursting up all at once and you don't know which one of them to firstly follow. You fall in love. You fall out of love. You want to die. You don't want to die. You cut your arms, your tighs, your belly, your fingers. You regret it. You cut them again. A vicious circle. You find friendship. For the first time in your life you feel like it doesn't matter that your parents don't seem to care about you, because you've found something holier than them, something deeper. Friends.
Friends. What could I really say about them? They can lift you up to seventh heaven and they can tear you to million of pieces. They can make you believe that you're Mother Teresa or a Mafia member. With them you can be anyone and no one simultaneously. You can do everything. Powerful feeling, isn't it? You smoke, you do drugs, you have sex with strangers.
Or you're a good teen. You read, take good grades, dream of scholarships and golden college years. You're loyal to your first love and sex before marriage isn't an option.
I don't blame you. I think I was a good girl. I didn't get drunk, my grades were good, my parents knew all of my friends.
From time to time, a thought crosses my mind. That I didn't make the most out of my teenage years. (I'm currently 20 years old.) I didn't cry much. I didn't laugh much. I didn't act crazily enough.
I didn't climb a mountain, do bungee jumping, kiss a total stranger, sleep for 2 days, go out naked, run away for a week, buy 50 books at once.
I don't know. It may sound strange or weird, but I feel old and young. Like I've lived my whole life, like there's nothing else to see. But I also feel young. Weak. Vulnerable. I need a shelter, a protection, a hand to put my own to, a shoulder to lie on. I need to find my soulmate, the person who will love me for who I really am, not for who I think I am.
Oh yes, some words about beauty. Beauty is something subjective. It isn't something good or bad, positive or negative. It is beyond us, inside and outside of us. Beauty isn't just straight or curly hair, skinny legs or flat belly. Beauty isn't mere make-up or long nails. Beauty is the smile you crave to see in the face of the person you love. It's the way you want to kiss him/her, not because it's the right thing to do, but because it's the o n l y thing you can do to show your love. Beauty is the tears you hide only for your second half. It's the promise that you'll love or won't love again, either because you're astonishingly happy, or because you're unrepairably broken. But, either way, it's you. You're beautiful. Not worthless. Not dumb. Fat? Skinny? Tall? Short?
Ignore them. They're just labels. Nothing more. Nothing less. Labels that describe the size and pattern of the vessel. You are the vessel. Your heart, mind and soul, are the flowers. Who cares about the vessel? It's the flowers that produce the enchanting smell. It's the flowers that grow and flourish and light up the whole room with their beauty. The vessel is nothing but a cold structure.
Young adulthood. (...)
My arm hurts though. And it's late. I'm not finished. Please read it and comment.
Positively or negatively. Through positive comments we boost our strength, through negative ones we learn.
Thank you. :-)
Thoughts...
I just need a place to write down my thoughts...
It all started last January, when Eve, one of my best friends, died from rapid meningitis in 2 days. She was only 19 years old. She didn't have to die. She wasn't supposed to.
My life changed. I slowly became isolated from others. Nick, her boyfriend, and I thought of suicide many times, but we didn't manage it. I guess we aren't still that strong to leave our families and those who care about us behind.
Cutting seemed liked an escape for a while. We're still fighting against it.
I don't know why or how it happened. I don't know why I'm still here alive, healthy, older and she isn't. You may call it luck, fate, or destiny. Whatever name you give to it, it's permanent. The pain is real, a suffocating clamp around my heart and my mind. I could never believe that a day would come when pain felt like the sharpest razor, when smile was too heavy for my mouth, when tears became my most loyal companions.
It hurts. It hurts feeling alone. Alone, isolated, forgotten.
My other friends, Eve's friends too, slowly stopped calling. They didn't care. And if they did, they weren't too strong to actually show it. I stopped trying too.
I gave my exams though, I tried for my future. I'm studying the Veterinary Science, I'm in the second year of my studies.
I don't know why I'm writing all these, my thoughts don't seem coherent.
I don't even remember what a day, a happy day, feels like. The past is too heavy to be carried. Too many memories. A laughter. Her laughter. A gift. A promise. A joke. The way we thought that everything would be possible, that we were young, uncracked, uncrackable, infinite, strong, gods.
But we are nothing. We're just butterflies, caught up in the strength of a wind, a wind stronger than our weak wings. We're birds without wings. We're made of paper, we can be ripped at any time, at any cost, and the world will continue existing without us.
I don't know what lies there, in my future, in 10 or 20 or 30 years time. I don't care either. Sometimes death seems so serene, so peaceful. Like a snowball that slowly turns into water. We were the snowball. But life turned us into water and now we'll travel to the sea and become drops into one billion other duplicate drops.
I'll continue writing, it keeps me calm. For how long, I don't know.
It all started last January, when Eve, one of my best friends, died from rapid meningitis in 2 days. She was only 19 years old. She didn't have to die. She wasn't supposed to.
My life changed. I slowly became isolated from others. Nick, her boyfriend, and I thought of suicide many times, but we didn't manage it. I guess we aren't still that strong to leave our families and those who care about us behind.
Cutting seemed liked an escape for a while. We're still fighting against it.
I don't know why or how it happened. I don't know why I'm still here alive, healthy, older and she isn't. You may call it luck, fate, or destiny. Whatever name you give to it, it's permanent. The pain is real, a suffocating clamp around my heart and my mind. I could never believe that a day would come when pain felt like the sharpest razor, when smile was too heavy for my mouth, when tears became my most loyal companions.
It hurts. It hurts feeling alone. Alone, isolated, forgotten.
My other friends, Eve's friends too, slowly stopped calling. They didn't care. And if they did, they weren't too strong to actually show it. I stopped trying too.
I gave my exams though, I tried for my future. I'm studying the Veterinary Science, I'm in the second year of my studies.
I don't know why I'm writing all these, my thoughts don't seem coherent.
I don't even remember what a day, a happy day, feels like. The past is too heavy to be carried. Too many memories. A laughter. Her laughter. A gift. A promise. A joke. The way we thought that everything would be possible, that we were young, uncracked, uncrackable, infinite, strong, gods.
But we are nothing. We're just butterflies, caught up in the strength of a wind, a wind stronger than our weak wings. We're birds without wings. We're made of paper, we can be ripped at any time, at any cost, and the world will continue existing without us.
I don't know what lies there, in my future, in 10 or 20 or 30 years time. I don't care either. Sometimes death seems so serene, so peaceful. Like a snowball that slowly turns into water. We were the snowball. But life turned us into water and now we'll travel to the sea and become drops into one billion other duplicate drops.
I'll continue writing, it keeps me calm. For how long, I don't know.
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