Blackened Personalities
I feel a little hungry and a little empty, but I have this soft float-y feeling due to too many romance novels. It doesn’t matter to me that everyone believes my reading material is all *sex sex conversation sex happy ending*. The characters are witty and inspiring, there is mystery and intrigue, although it naturally contains a few delicious sex scenes and of course, a happy ending. Perhaps it’s because I want my life to follow suit; a basic human desire, I believe. Sometimes Dustin plods into my fantasies and crushes everything with his crude speech and careless demeanor; I feel angry but I excuse it because he doesn’t know another way & of course, I love him regardless.
I woke up this morning and wanted to backtrack into dawn, simply because I know how serene and alone it makes me feel. The sun just winking over the horizon, the cold-kissed air that is so invigorating. It’s as if you could accomplish anything. As if time does not move. It is disconcerting, but every time I think of dawn I think of an August morning, the dawn after the night in which Nick just simply asked me to stay. I remember getting into my rusty little red Pontiac and cresting that beautiful hill—I swore I could see my work building from the top; no, the entire world–and whistling, feeling so light and airy and content. This is all very strange, mostly because I tend to enjoy the falling of dusk a lot more.
The slow trod of my life is necessary, and not very deflating unless I look at it in a broad view. There are so many things that are necessary and tedious and broken. I want that, therefore I must get through this. It is sometimes draining, so I tend to try to focus on the here and now. It is a lot easier when you take things one tiny task at a time.
I don’t enjoy wasting my time, though. That’s why these last few months have been so useful. I have blossomed in so many ways; it seems I just need the right kind of sunshine. I just needed a change of scenery. That is, giving up the dead weight of useless personalities. Perhaps it made my life more colorful to keep them, but the only color I can see is black.
After all, it is easy to be tired. Tired of waiting for something to change. Tired of keeping words to yourself because they won’t be acknowledged or appreciated. Tired of hearing "I’ll try harder"s and "I DO care about you"s because nothing ever seems to improve. Tired of championing a lost cause, of being the one who’s in it alone. Tired of exchanges being marked by pride instead of love. Tired of stunting your growth so they will not be left behind. It is all very easy to feel worn–no, beaten–down.
The difficult part is pulling yourself away. Leaving does not mean you love less, it simply means you have become tired. And you’re willing to do something about it. Fatigue should be expected in life, but it should not consume you.
Waiting for things to right themselves, change, improve, fall into your lap, without any interference from you, is simply ludicrous.
I’m glad I have realized that.
Love,
Amanda