My Purpose

I don't really care about myself, at least in the sense that I know that what'll happen will happen. I'm good with that. My purpose is to help others. Always has been. I want others to know the peace that I can usually attain for myself. I want them to have hope.

It's a thankless task, usually. I find those who are really down. Really ruined. 
Like a mother hen, I collect bedraggled little chicks under my wings, 
and usually they only half notice. They notice that the rain's been blocked, 
but not by whom or what or why. And that's okay. Eventually they do, eventually they do. 

Rarely do I hear the words myself, but I can tell. It's the 
little things, like, "I was this close to losing it today, and I don't know
what I would have done,but I could hear your voice in the back of my head saying
'Just stop, breathe, don't do that', and... I did"; or "I was going out with the
guys last night and it was getting kind of stupid, stupid like I think you'd 
think was stupid, and I was like,'what the fuck am I doing here?', so I left".
I've been told by a once-good-friendthat I ought to be a motivational
speaker. I've obtained the title of "my nagger" from another. Sometimes I get
called or messaged or intercepted just to be toldthat "I done a baaad thing",
like I were a priest and the poor kid has to confess. I'm always taken slightly
aback when that happens.

It's hard to strike the right balance between lecturing and rewarding. You can't expect a miracle. You start slow; you have to change someone's mind before you can change their actions, and you have to convince a person that they have to change before you can do even that. It's a complex technique of ego-stroking, severe logicking, debating, reassurance,  implied dissapointment in dissobedience, and overt declaration of "I 
love you even if you fuck up". Because there are far too many people who don't know 
what that's like.

Agape: sometimes I think I can't handle it. People are precious, and I do love 'em, the little fuckers. Ignorance needs love to cure it. And so that's why I do what I do, and that's why I don't mind-- much. Oh, I mind the heartache and the worry and the frequent dissapointments as my fledgelings plummit from the nest, or outright refuse to leave it as they begin to learn to take off. But in the end?

It's all that really matters. When I can have someone say to me:

----: i cant even put into words how much i want to hug you right now

then all I can think is: you don't need to, I know. I feel it myself all the time. My children.

Or when I can get a child-- especially an adult child, to say in all seriousness and with more soberity than I thought they were capable of:

----: okay
----: did you know
----: that you are like, one of the most influential people in my life
----: thanks for that

...?

Then I know. This is what I'm here for. This is what I'm doing. This is why I'm needed today.

Another confession because I'm retarded.

I read about medical maladies and murderers when I'm upset. I read an entire medical book over the weekend. Pored through CrimeLibrary before that, concentrating on the cannibals and sadists. Currently I'm reading pro-ana websites where girls (and guys too) spiral off into madness because they're 5'8" and weigh in the triple digits. Analyze that.

So hey guys.

Whussup. Or something. Y'know, it's times like these I'm glad that no one really reads my blog. I mean, if I'm going to baww over myself or life or somesuch dogshit, I really ought to get a journal, but honestly? There's this gross part of me that kind of wants someone to skim across this innanity and have a word or something. I know that's horrible and I really ought to grow up, but hey. A girl can dream, can't she?

And anyway, I've just been feeling awfully out of sorts lately. Like, dumb. I don't know, I just can't think straight or do anything right; I'm half crazy, I'm sure of it. I also pointedly don't eat lately, and I'm slightly worried that I'm headed on the road to some half-ass anorexia which would be six shades of dumb. Not that it wouldn't be appreciated. Hurr, yeah, that was a retarded stab at myself for my weight. Is that ridiculous? Yeah, probably. Do I care? Depends on what you mean; I mean, yes, I really think that and it's a problem for me, but no, I don't care what you have to say to counter it. Even if it's just a well-deserved "shut up", because, hell, I know that. That's why I don't talk IRL, kids, because at least on the internet you can just roll your eyes, call me a fag, and then click that little red button on the upper right-hand corner of your browser and make it be all gone. And I mean, I'd be sad that you did that. I have this massive fear about not being taken seriously, and dear GOD if you can take me seriously after all this bullshit, you're crazy. So don't worry about it.

On from there. I dunno, I think I have problems. I just remembered yesterday that I wanted to be a boy-- legitimately wanted to be a boy-- until I was like 11, at which point I told myself to shut the fuck up and deal with it. I still hate being a girl. Well. Thinking like a girl; all the emotional/physical/needy bullshit that I apparently associate with feminity freaks me the fuck out and rather disgusts me when I notice it in myself. Self: stop it. Suck it up and deal for once in your life. And I basically am a guy, anyway, or at least a third guy. All my friends are, or at least they're all guys that are at least a quarter girl, which is okay by me. It sucks a little though, because I'm so much "one of the guys" in many cases that even I forget I'm a girl, and then I realize that honestly? I really want to just (dareIsayitdeargod) snuggle or something, and the guys are all ew, that's kinda gay. And I'm like, well actually, I'm a girl, so not really. But it doesn't matter, because in principle it feels pretty much the same.

And I don't want to be a girl; I just want sometimes some people to see me as one. Yes, I may be insinuating the fact that I am so fucking depressed that I've never been not single, really. I mean, I'm smart enough, I guess. Actually, that puts people off, though it's not likely that I'm going to stop it. I know I'm not all that easy on the eyes, and I don't fucking care, although I do, which pisses me off. I was told before though that I'm a bit of the "sexy librarian" type, to which I say "ew". I mean, I don't know. I'm not particularly grossed out by the idea of it so much as being labeled. I sound like a fetish. I never want to be "cute", because it's impossible (at least to me) to treat "cute" people with anything more than kid gloves. I don't really mean "cute" as an appearance thing in this case; I mean "cute" as in "fills me with both great warmth and slight melancholy (at my own sake) at their wide-eyed love and appreciation of life". I dunno, I'm a little too worldly-wise for that; I know I can be very naive, but 99% of the time that's just my goddam romanticism talking. I know better than that.

So I don't know where that leaves me; I feel like I should be closing soon because no one gives a shit anyways, and I really don't know why I'm emoing up the internet even more than it already is. Starving child soldiers in Africa and Equus hasn't touched a single human being since she was five. Oh woe is she.

So I miss you, guys, and I love you world. I just sometimes can't feel the love come back.

Autumn musings

I have never understood autumn.

Oh, I have meditated in the woods for hours, framed with the dull dust and greybrown underbrush while my mind soars the white sky with coaly black birds; I have felt myself in the clash of fire on dark wood as the New England forest burns around me; I have perceived the scent of syruped honeysuckle and August-baked fields and felt the bitter hand of autumn as she peers around the coattails of summer. But I have never understood it.

I, always fonder of the colder colors on the spectrum, find no particular joy in the heat of the season’s wardrobe. It burns hot against the decreasing temperature of the air, until finally the cold quenches the flames and leaves the landscape dull and monotone and surrendered. The dying yellows of the late season-- yellow-green, yellow-orange, yellow-brown, yellow-grey-- find harmony with the stoic blacks fading to husky charcoals, until finally even that fades, and the whole world is the same brown grey, ready to die but not quite dead.

I don’t know why I have such a problem with autumn. We have known each other long enough. I argue yet more with her sister springtime; I suppose it is just a matter of my own love for stability that throws for me these two seasons of change. Much fonder am I even of winter, when the air is as sharp as polished iron and the cold becomes alive, than I am of the cardinal seasons when it is much milder.

I have never understood autumn.

Perhaps, soon, I shall.

Running, running, running full tilt.

So this past weekend didn't go any better than the week it was meant to relieve. Family stress, hardcore mocking, and so much goddamn school work I could just explode made it somewhat less restful than it out to have been.

Nana and Nonu's 50th aniversary was on Saturday, and went well. It was hella long, though. It was also slightly depressing when all the slowdances cued up. Someday, Equus, someday. Now I've got one of the centerpieces in my dorm room, looking fabulous and empty, so I've gotta get me out of here to go find some vegitation or whatnot for it.

I was also alone all weekend besides the anniversary. Well, Rachel wanted to hang out, but she called like right before we were leaving on Saturday and then on Sunday when the full enormity of the workload I had to complete in the next twelve hours sunk into me, so it was a no-go. So much for Gilmore too, I guess.

I think I'm going to start updating more about my, um, inner thoughts, I guess. I put a lot of my babbling onto my MySpace blog (yeah yeah, I know), so I guess since no one really knows about my Blogger blog, it's safer or something. Not that anyone actually reads my shit anyway. Yay invisibility.