Reassessment.

A contentness. A calm. So strange when I think about things in my past. I remember a time when I felt like I had no past. As if my life wasn’t interesting at all. Our lives are only as interesting as our storytelling abilities. I’m sure my childhood could be very interesting if I bothered to sort through those things I think are so boring as they’re not worth sharing. I remember telling (my aunt) Gita how I used to make cookies with my mom. She said I had a very “wholesome” childhood.

I understand Angel’s significance a bit more now. She marked the transition from passive controlling of my facade, to active controlling. The rest of that year was marked by a deepening of the psychosis. Yet, I patted myself on the back for being more outgoing.

When we’re young, we want everything to matter. To be significant. At least, I did. We never want to accept that the things that seem so important, so significant, are actually quite common and happen to just about everybody that grows up. I remember now I transformed Angel into something far bigger than she was. And having heard the stories of so many others since then, it’s clear this is something that is, in fact, very common for people to do.

It certainly doesn’t feel like I’ve had sex. I’ve had my hard cock up a wet pussy? For real? I even got her pregnant? Blur the memories, and you could convince me I was still a virgin. Certain maturity aside, I feel pretty much the same. Not that I thought any huge change would take place. It’s just kind of funny to realize “Wait, I’m.. a non-virgin”.

That clawing for truth I used to do. Constantly trying to find the black and white in a sea of gray. I wanted so badly to have a nice quaint rulebook to follow. To know what was Right and what was Wrong. Lamenting time and time again about when I should have sex. I just didn’t want to fuck up. Fear of doing something wrong. Not sure if it was a fear of a cascade effect. I doubt it. Just fear of a stain on my permanent record.

In reality, no record exists except in the torture chambers of our minds.

Caddle prods born of pressure from my parents. I see this is so many people now, in so many different ways. We all express such similar things in such different ways. The way we all love, the way we all fear, the way we all beat ourselves up. We all shower, we all pee, we all fuck. Everybody fucks. Yet in so many different ways, under so many different circumstances. Who knows what goes on behind closed doors, or inside the minds of others. So many times in our lives we think we’re alone. Yet everything we’ve ever felt has been felt by somebody else at some time in history, and will be felt by somebody in the future. Simultaneously, our experience is entirely unique. Much like a unique snowflake, if you bother to see how we’re in common, it’s clear we’re easily in the middle of a blizzard.

How did I live before? I’m not sure how I got through the days fending off paranoia, sadness, and depression. Clinging to some hope that things would magically “get better”. I’m not afraid anymore. It’s just so awesome to breath now. I remember that feeling of directionlessness. Ugh, that was so horrible. Of feeling like my life was a waste. It’s pretty shitty to believe one’s life is a failure before you even get started. Before you even give yourself a chance. I’d nit-pick at the surface, while chaos ensured underneath. I see now the fault in writing treatises on rather trivial topics.

Not that I’d be afraid to write a treatise now.

I just. I’d rationalize and justify my own existence and way of being simply because I wanted something solid to stand on. I hadn’t grown legs yet. Lack of self-confidence is kind of self-perpetuating. Much like confidence grows more confidence. Which each person I look confidently in the eyes, my self-confidence grows. When you believe you can’t do something, ultimately, you’ll find a way to make sure just that happens. I did fail a semester of college, after all.

On a long enough timeline, the life expectancy for everyone drops to zero.

One of my favorite quotes from Fight Club.

There was a time when I thought it made sense to decide who you wanted to be and then “be it”. Hence when I said when the facilitation of the facade went from “passive” to “active”. If you think about it in a certain light, it does make sense, does it not? Being who you want to be. Yet you can easily be lost in the semantics of who you want to be and who you are.

I won’t delve into those semantics.

Fear of judgement. Yet, we can only be afraid of what others think if we’re afraid of what we think of ourselves. It sounds so simple, no? Yet once you accept something about yourself, nobody can tell you otherwise. Calling me fat wouldn’t really do much. I’d more than likely give you a blank stare, or pull out my gut and agree sarcastically. Yet say that to an obese person and he or she is more likely to be offended. Things only hurt if we let them, after all.

I remember how I used to let people walk all over me. I forget why that was the case. Was it a fear of striking back? Was it that I felt incapable of fighting back? Passiveness, I remember. That evolved into the present knee-jerk reaction to lash out at people. Still working on disarming that. At the very least, I’ve learned that if you stand up to most people, they’ll back down. I at least know how to stand on my own too feet without feeling like it was a bluff. I look people in the eyes when I talk to them. I’m not really afraid of anybody, anymore.

Man, I could have used this maturity six years ago.

:: emits Aura ::

I remember when I realized that life amounted to a series of threats and counterthreats. Or, rather, somebody else pointed out that fact to me. Most people don’t have anything to back their shit up.

(Half hour later…)

Oh, I guess my train of thought ran out. DaRn for you.