12/7/16
What am I doing?
Why do I think I have to be perfect.why do I need to hold it every second of every day. I deserve to losen up a little bit. I deserve to show anger and infamous sadness. I deserve to be not looked down on.
And you know what,whose fault is it in the first place?
Mine!
I am too hard on myself. I tell myself to do this and that and this again and bla bla blah!
I keep myself locked in. I pretend to be okay when I’m not. Its always been thay way.i had a friend in 2nd grade who was mean. I mean my own mother who practically wants to adopt my current friends warned me to not hang out with her. In second grade I was what? 5 then!! And she did the meanest thing a five year old could do.she was a transfer student, and a bit of a hit in my school. I still wonder why she took to me but anyway!So all this time the year that we hung out inseparable, she would go say stuff behind my back.to another friend of mine who was also hers and I knew about it but did not say anything. Why? I was crazy I think, afraid too. I loved hanging out with her so maybe…
I somehow ended up changing schools that year. I promise you I tried to keep in touch. I swear of it. I used to call her and she would not pick up.she would just ignore me.I even met her one time but nope. I was an unknown soul to her.alright you all imagine a 5–6 year old losing her best friend not just to anybody but to her best friend. It was crushing.atleast then it was.
I met her again, almost 10 years later.we took a class together.and I could have said so much. I could have. I was so angry but I didn’t.
Not because I’m too noble or anything simply because I realized it was not her who did something bad to me but I who wasn’t capable to tell myself the same all those years ago. She didn’t remember me. I realized with a jolt that day when we sat together. She did not remember sitting next to me for over a year or sharing our tiffin of bread and butter or hanging out in the traffic park under the railway crossing ahead sign hidden from view.she was long past missing me and I would always miss her. I started loving the color blue because of her, atleast that’s what I associate with her now, a spark of sprawling blue.or how I’d lost a tooth playing in school and we’d searched for it on the ground for as long as I can remember.or how our class trip happened the exact day of my birthday and how she had bought me the most beautiful present. I still have it...
Now I know you’ll say, why? Why are you lamenting over it 13 years later? Its gone its done .people come and go.Dont you know what peyton used to say? People always leave.
And somehow in my case I keep standing there in their wait. So I do this to myself. People I knew. People I know, people I’ll know.they will leave me and that’s okay.maybe that’s what its about .Maybe its fine.maybe I need to move not behind them, following but in the opposite direction.
It’s true I miss her.the silly me always will but,
Why do I think I have to be perfect.why do I need to hold it every second of every day. I deserve to losen up a little bit. I deserve to show anger and infamous sadness. I deserve to be not looked down on for doing exactly that and I will.there! I will! And that’s okay.
Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.
When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.
On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.
When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How can I put myself together?
All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.
But when I call upon my DASHING BEING,
out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,
and so I never know just WHO I AM,
nor how many I am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.
While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.
by Pablo Neruda.
