Onward, and to the Stars

As I embrace the idea of looking to the future, and of making sense of what is to come, I find myself less anxious than I might’ve previously. Lack of anxiety, of course, may not necessarily mean lack of fear itself, but I do believe I am more at ease. And for that, I am grateful. I don’t know where this newfound peace is coming from, and how to hone it holistically and optimize in the way that I probably should. I suspect optimism for the future is stemming from an exhaustion with my preceding obsession with the past, or perhaps, just a clear understanding of the need to release it.

Regardless, after a long time, I am thinking about tomorrow. I am thinking about the weeks to come, about what will become of everything. I am more conscious of my relationships with people, and will attempt to be more charismatic and attentive in the way I interact with them (I think, now, that they deserve this, and that I have been wrong to remain distant and cold for the sake of my own convenience). I don’t know whether I can become less selfish, for while in theory it seems to be a brilliantly simple and becoming manner of living, I find it difficult to practice the art of denying my own desires. Still, I’ll try to work on that. Hedonism, in all of the luxuries it provides, is not something I’m sure I want my legacy (should there be one) to be associated with.

There is a lot I want to do with whatever time I may have left. I know how irritatingly cliché that sounds, and I know how many people who’ve made the very same claim have done little with their actions to support it. Even still, I felt the need to say it, because I feel it, and at this point in my life I am finding that feeling something is often the most apt and apparent cue we ever get to say it; I may be wrong. I feel I’ve wasted an insurmountable amount of valuable time. And I don’t mean to say this to evoke a feeling of regret or depression, but of ambition and determination, to make sure I don’t continue to mistake the time I am given as some sort of prison sentence. Time was not the shackle, my perspective was; time is a privilege, one I had been ignorantly wasting.

I hope that this final push into utter adulthood, turning twenty, means I will begin to transform (as I would very much like to) from a girl of thought and grotesque obsession, into a woman of action and eloquence. I want to think less, and do more. I want to plan less, and see more. I want to be absolutely present in every moment granted to me. The time, as I now know, is now.

I have found that the secret of letting go of my obsession with the past, of allowing myself to come face to face with the idea of fashioning my future in cognizance of its significance to me, was to understand that the future is not some distant, intangible phenomenon, it is now. Someday is here, and it is time to make of it what I will.    

Stranger in the Mirror Bids Farewell 

Somehow feels like the end is near, it’s strange– this absence of fear. I suppose there is little to conquer after the fear of death. But where fear would reside, there is nothing, a rigid emptiness. 
No one sways my soul, loved ones and enemies alike, even the people that tread the line that distinguishes the two. I am simply tired, to the very core. 

I am exhausted. Hating myself or loving myself, respecting the universe and having goals, it’s all as aimless as counting raindrops now. 

I want to evaporate, I want to rise, like steam– calmly. Nothing was for anything, and I think my coming to terms with that is some kind of cue to move on to the afterlife. 

I think I’ll fit right in at Hell. I think I’ll finally make some friends there. 

I can’t sleep. I keep thinking of weird things that probably aren’t going to happen. Not all of them are good, in fact, most of them are really scary. I have to get up really early tomorrow morning so this is really really bad. It’s weird how we can’t turn our brains off on command. Sigh. I don’t think I’m ever going to be happy again. It’s pretty strange to me that I think of the past as a time in which I was happy because at the time it didn’t feel that way at all, but I guess that’s what happens when you romanticize every bit of it as you linger in the present with no clue of how to make sense of anything. I wonder if that’s what people mean when they tell you to live in the present, are they insisting that you appreciate the present for what it embodies to you despite all of its shortcomings? 

I’m quite numb. Nothing matters the way it used to. Time spent sleeping is more valuable to me than time spent awake. Time in a daze is more comfortable than time fully conscious. I would more like to give myself up to the confusion than any sense of sureness. I am rising into the clouds, turning into nothingness, this is just the way I would like it to be. To dissolve until I am nothing at all, while no one has the good sense to notice my absence.