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Yasunori Mitsuda - "The Scars of Time" |
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::insert lame, cliche, depressing, cryptic, opening statement::
Yeah, one of those moods. One of those apathetic "blech" moods. The rage has subsided, and the dust has cleared. And now I'm just blech. I wish no one read this thing.
I really don't know where my life is going. Chaos and disorder do not please me. In fact, they scare me. A lot. Everything has to be structured. No structure = chaos. Chaos = unpredictable, and well, chaotic. I feel really, really awkward and uncomfortable when I'm unable to predict and safely theorize about the future. It leaves things way too uncertain and up front for me to deal with. I guess that's life, though. Black, black life...
You know what? I'm so fucking sick and tired of every deluded, generic, angst ridden teen around the world (including me) constantly whining about everything. If you're 16 or 17, and you're not living in a bomb shelter in Baghdad right now, then you're pretty well off, in my opinion. Boo fucking hoo, Amy Joe doesn't like me. Boo fucking hoo, some moron at school looked at me cross eyed. Boo fucking hoo, I'm a goddamned socially inept dorkass who refuses to grow up. ANGST ANGST ANGST. FEEL MY INTRIGUING, MYSTERIOUS ANGST.
It's so lame.
I guess angst is a way for emotionally immature and awkward children like me to escape, though. Angst gives us all a reason to throw post-pubescent temper tantrums. Because as dark, sad, and unique as we think we all are, angst is simply a teenage version of our four year old selves beating and kicking the ground while screaming and crying over not getting a new toy at K-Mart. That's all it is. Nothing more, nothing less. Heh, it's kind of funny that angst is probably the most immature way we, as young adults, can possibly act. Yet the individuals most guilty of angst feel they're far above the drooling, festering bowels of society. Ironic, isn't it?
But I write on this distant, secluded journal again to release some angst. My last turd of angst, in fact. The last time I'll probably ever update this journal again with doldrum, cliched bilge about lost love, black roses, and the crimson sun sinking behind the lonely horizon.
I really debated whether I should just go to bed, or get all of this bullshit out. But since I can't go to bed, and Metallica is keeping me awake enough to form coherent thoughts, I figured...what the hell?
I think it's safe to say I understand real pain. No, not the type of pain that triggers waterworks in high school halls, drenching pink clad, teenage girls and making their mascara run, all over some thick headed jock who can't count the number of fingers on his right hand. No, not that pain. I think it's safe to say that anyone of valued intelligence brushes off that kind of "pain" like yesterday's dandruff flakes. But I'm also not trying to say I know the extent of pain, and all seekers of pain knowledge should come to me. I openly admit that I probably haven't even felt a good 50% of pain's power.
But it has dropped down on me hard. Really hard. Hard enough to merit multiple visits to a psychologist, and hard enough for me to be officially labeled "socially challenged." Heh.
But that sledgehammer caliber pain (or at least, the aftermath of it) has brought me here tonight.
I try to make Chelsey understand a lot of things. I really do. But...she doesn't. And she probably never will. Just like she'll never quite grasp why I "totally flipped out" about Saturday night's lovely incident. Not that it's a bad thing. Lots of people just don't understand a lot of things, and never will. I don't quite understand, and probably never will, why Chelsey and I can't be together. I've too feeble a mind to wade through the complex inner workings of the human mind to solve that conundrum. But I still persist in trying to help her understand, make her understand...and it's not working out. And the sad thing is that it hasn't been working out for nearly six years now. You think I'd get a clue and stop putting myself through all this. No way, though. Gotta' have something to fuel the angst. ::wink::
Things are going to change between us, though. Or at least I'm going to try to make things change. I really, really dislike the volatile, emotionally charged, incredibly deep relationship I've crafted with her over the years. It's not good...for either of us. It's too spontaneous...too powerful...and most of all, too chaotic -- which brings us back to the beginning of this entry.
She really does like this Tyson fellow. She likes him a lot. Just by the way she talks about him, I see him taking my spot not only best friend wise, but emotionally and mentally, too. He and Chelsey really click. And I'm not going to bullshit here, that really sucks. I wish she'd never met him. But, you know, life isn't always fair. I'm going to have to deal with the reality sooner or later that I'm going to be filtered out of her life. And I'd love to sit here all day and launch an angst nuclear assult on this journal, and whine about how she'll never love me, blah blah blah, etc. etc. etc. But I'm not going to. I'll probably continue to feel distant, painful pangs of jealousy for a while, but I refuse to give them the attention they so do not deserve anymore.
I'm done with that, though. I'm done living under the immature, (repeat: immature) star eyed, lovesick, overly emotional, teenage moniker we angst-folk are all so familiar with. Because it's SO. DAMN. OLD.
Granted, that doesn't solve all my problems. In fact, ridding myself of that fabricated bullshit is only scratching the surface of what needs to be done for my full recovery. But it's a start, ya' know? It's something I can achieve on my own, rather than going to talk to a guy who went to college for twenty years, or going on some kind of medicine with a ridiculously long, indecipherable name.
And sadly, the first step of that first step is creating a new relationship with Chelsey. I'm going to stop putting out such an effort to be with her. I'm going to stop trying to desperately hold on to her while fighting off potential replacements. Because it's too hard. It's way too hard. To quote one of my favorite lyricists of one of my favorite bands, "I need a catalyst/ to rekindle the flame/ that once burned within these fists/ where defeat remains."
And that's exactly what I need. I need a catalyst. I need a change. I'm going to stop forcefully revolving my life around Chelsey. I'm going to let my life become chaotic and unpredictable. Because maybe that's *exactly* what I've been needing all this time... I'll probably forever carry these scars. But I definitely have a choice when it comes to staying away from what caused them, or jumping in for another try. I'll try my luck again, thank you very much.
This is the last angst, folks. Actually, reading over this, I realize this is far different than the immature angst I'm used to. This is grown up angst, if there is such a thing. This is different. And it actually feels really, really good.
I don't know exactly how I should end this entry. Usually, this is my cue to end with some mysterious, interesting, broad statement about the horrible, painful world and all its lies. But screw that. I'll lay out the truth:
The world is an awesome place, once you choose to grow up and experience it for what it's worth.
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aggravated
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good
melancholy
awake