Weary heart..

Yet another weekend approaches, and this time, for a change, I’ve decided not to work the holiday. I’m so worn out, emotionally.. and I know that often people will say, ‘Do something about it then.’ or ‘Change your life.’ or ‘Your life is what you make it.’, so many cliche’s that make me cringe. Taking control, well.. without money to do much with, wages garnished, pinching every penny possible; a car that I dare not drive far, and my health which doesn’t help any, I’ve been having problems that I again dare not go to a doctor about. Things that could just be coincidence, and I can’t afford the co-pay for, and so I will wait, to see if it goes away or not.

I was thinking earlier.. what dreams did I have, if I were to die, what would I have wanted to do. So many things, so many places I longed to go to, now to me are as impossible as flying to the moon on my own steam. Just as impossible as turning back time. I’ve tried lately to immerse myself in the story, it’s a way to dream, and try something creative I thought I’d never be able to do. I never thought I could write, a few enjoyed the short stories I wrote, these that DarkRen and I are writing, most ignore, which I can understand. People want to read a variety of things, and not those things that I come up with. I don’t write to entertain, for the most part. I suppose my posting my meager attempts at writing, it’s putting a toe in water, to test it, to see if I have talent or not, see if I can continue to do so.

And even if no one reads, I’ll continue to put them here, for my diary is a chronical of what happens in my life. When I wrote of the layoffs and such, there wasn’t much else to talk of. The yo-yo effects of work, of no work, those who were laid off before still unable to find work because the area here has so little available.

Who is Luriena? For the most part, she’s a loner. She’s never been the life of a party, never been one that lots wish to spend time with, sometimes having one or two friends, sometimes none, sometimes more, but popularity has been both a blessing and a curse to others. I watch the popular ones who write a one line entry of nothing, and within moments, they are flooded with compliments. I can’t imagine myself writing a one line of nothing, the thought of doing that.. I think at that point I’d have to be close to giving up. Perhaps I write so much just to make sure to say ‘something’.. anything.

But then I sit here now, listening to people here at work congregating, eating pizza, managers who hang out with the ‘in crowd’ and it reminds me of here. And I do know a lot is my own fault, I am quiet, I don’t push myself to be around them. I have a few friends here, but they work early hours, leaving within 2 hours of my arrival.

I hate my writing, when I am discouraged, because it is just so much sounding like self-pity, it is so pathetic. Dreams are disintegrating, like a plant stifled in a closed, dark room. The more that months pass with this, the less I can even keep any hope alive. I know others must read and just shake their heads, why can’t this woman just get her act together? Why does she just sink into this mire of self-pity? And I don’t have the answers to give, I don’t know why, I don’t know why at all.

So when I get this way, I don’t write, because I hate being this way as much as others might dislike reading it. It’s not that I don’t think life can change, because I see it change for so many others. But when trapped, boxed in, when circumstances are so far out of your control that you cannot even see the next week without the same gray landscape, it is hard to believe in rainbows and sunshine.

I think it’s because of this, that I wished to create beauty of some sort, I wanted somehow to bring surprise and delight into my life, I wanted to bring wonder, as a child has when looking at a newborn chick or kitten or puppy.

I want hope, I want life, I want to breathe without feeling like the air is strangling in my throat from tears.. I want to feel love, I want to feel needed, I want to feel special. I would like to know what it’s like to be more than a shadow in others’ footsteps, to be one to live instead of just the one watching. I know that is superficial in me, I even did come to terms with being alone, and there was a tremendous peace in doing so.

And yet, there are times when I am so sad for it, for knowing that life is gone now, that all that is left is for time to pass, while others live and I watch. Sometimes I can look upon past pictures and remember with a smile, sometimes I just wish to weep, for what will never be. And then I think.. in 40 years, how much worse will it be then? How many years of sameness? It’s already been so many..

So.. if I fill my diary with stories, it is but an effort to try to create something new in myself. And it is also because I am so weary of the pathetic ramblings of times like this, and I run out of words as I run out of heart.