5/13/2007
Goldfishes in plastic cups

I marveled at myself earlier when I flashed an image of a police car chase at just the exact moment. A few moments before Tom Chaplin asked where do we go? I envisioned someone in a car, being chased by police, singing along, before eventually picking up a fully-loaded pistol in the passenger seat and, well, does the predictable.

I know something's wrong with me. Call it deprivation, but I feel terribly about myself. You've probably seen this somewhere - a feeling that you're all alone in this world, with nobody destined to help you - but I've actually dismissed this, time and again. I think this is the fifth time this surfaced for the week. And this is the fifth time I'm dismissing it.

Let me get back to what Caresse said. All along, she told me at the steps to the Sports Complex two years ago, I'm looking for someone to be with. The reason why I've been acting crazy over someone - and this has happened for far too many times for me to recall - is because, after all, I want someone to be with. I'm still fairly convinced, two years later, that I'm a lonely person. A very lonely person. Sure, when people make their presence felt it makes me happy - at least, somebody remembered you're just there, waiting. I've dismissed this - I don't really know why this comes back, despite the repetitive patterns that have been appearing. I declare my ultimate happiness, only for that to be trumped somehow.

I guess this was the emotional overhaul I've waited for. It's been quite a while, actually. I guess this is the only time I find comfort with myself, thinking that there are people who will eventually come and inject happiness into my blood stream. (And then I'd hit myself in the head for being too emotional. I think it's safer to be apathetic and not realize someone's killing you.) The surprise, however, is that nobody has a direct role in this - it all just happened. Mistakes in interpretations, sappy gleeful demonstrations, and maybe everything else - sure, I can blame all the free time I got, thanks to circumstance and a lack of luck, but this time I know it sure is about something. Better yet, it sure is about someone.

But who am I to be sure? I'm certain I've been at peace with the synthetic relationships I tangle myself in for quite a while now. Based on experience, nothing is bound to go wrong until you disarm yourself. And based on that, I'm on the right track. Maybe I've done a lot of denying to the point that I don't even know whether I'm doing that or not. But nobody's standing at the door, for the moment at least. I'm worrying about other things. Maybe I'm just getting paranoid? Growing bored? Maybe plain hopeless?

I wonder. The school year ended without a hitch. Yes, I got home and was more than willing to fall asleep, but I'm sure I didn't leave the campus with a floating canister of bad blood in the air. Somehow I feel that I'm all alone again. But I know that I'm merely misinterpreting signs, or maybe am just too bored, leading me to think differently about what's presented. I think I'm intellectualizing too much - it's embedded. I guess I should blame myself.

The problem with seeing new things is that you set expectations along the way. However false - or irrepressibly funny - they may be, you still set them. I don't have the memory of a goldfish. Thankfully I'm human, and supposedly gifted at that. I can recall in my sleep the things I expected to happen, and even the things I acted out. Who knows, the dream sequence might become a real scenario. You can't be too prepared, although you'll look like a dork and people will laugh at you. Then again, that's probably the reason why I stopped even trying - I somehow figured that, eventually, after all the excitement comes the best idea you probably had. They all leave you behind.

I bluntly told Karla about my depression a few mornings ago. Surprisingly she was online - or better yet, surprisingly I was online, at least for ten minutes, and in that short time I saw far too many things. Predictably, under the indigo sky, I got depressed. And I wasn't ready to dismiss it. Karla's working on some paper so she understandably just appeased me before I started to send her my "good luck" greetings. She still doesn't know anything - I told somebody else, but I dismissed that as the reason. Besides, I've never fully declared anything - the end of one thing, and the start of another, that's surely the point. It wasn't. Maybe I was just waiting for that goldfish's eyes to peer through me and speak of nothingness that means everything. Or maybe wait to be dissed - it's a job, after all. That's what I asked for, right?

At this moment I find a reason to stop whining. Lizette's words, scrambled after stuff happens and you realize they've all turned their backs. "Because really?" she typed in. "People are not interested in our lives, as bloggers. Unless we travel a lot, or have an interesting job, or were famous, but else, they don't care." Maybe I should stop now.

The song ends, and his eyes open. He's in his bed. Everything he did, from the murder, to the car chase - it did happen. The suicide, however, wasn't. He's just there, in the prison cell, slowly contemplating. It is, after all, a bad dream.

I wake up. It's a bad dream. No one on my side.

And your responses...

while it may be satisfying to be in a relationship, i hope that that doesn't become your benchmark for happiness. try not to depend on external factors so much for your happiness :)

sounds cliche, but i felt i had to say it anyway =D

Anonymous stef5/14/2007     

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