Me So Random

Yesterday's Journal Entry. It took almost an hour to type this.

I woke up today with a crisp feeling of positivity. At length, I am in such disposition to realize I’m turning nineteen. I want to make a little change in my life. As I was stretching my arms, a sunbeam arrived from my window and touched my face, momentarily blinding my eyes. I felt its warmth and the colors burst in my closed eyelids like watercolors. When was the last time I did something for the first time? I’ve been imprisoning myself in this house, in my room, in front of the computer when I’m always at liberty to go out and enjoy my solitude.

So here I am. I have finally realized that I have reached the stage of my life that fiction could no longer sustain in teaching me the ropes of how life works. Learning the facts of life through the convenient way of fiction is important but it’s not enough. I’m only now beginning to cross new versions of perpetual sorrows and waves of joy. I am a book that has just opened. I’m written in first person. You’ve mastered my few pages but there are a thousand pages more to go and the book isn’t even finished yet. But for the meantime, here’s the draft and I will make it as interesting and gripping as I unravel what more life has to offer to me and my dreams. Would I understand myself as I understand others? I’ve always observed people and they’ve been part of my book, but do they even notice when I’m gone? They are the characters that bring out the worst and the best in me, but what will become of me when they’ve not been weaved in such complexity when I haven’t even touched their lives.

I always wonder what it would be like if I only had the right words to speak to everyone. What if through my words, they would be able to understand what’s going on in my head or the things I keep to myself. Sometimes, this introspective version of me is the problem. There’s a lot going on inside, beautiful and profound things mashing and sliding into one another creating awfully bewildering and otherworldly philosophies. But outwardly I’m as dull as your stale bread. Being outwardly unhappy and silent and being so consistently so drives people away. No one gives a fuck. That is why my friends find joy in someone else’s company. They are so tired of this melodramatic maze, the drama and this never-ending shithole I’m always in. I’m not an attention seeker, that’s the worst thing I could ever put myself into. I am not pessimistic, I have so much heart it me.

So here I am. I have been there. The worst thing a free creature can do is to poison herself with pretenses. Naturally, I’m a happy person and I laugh with the odds. But in the meantime, my life has so much drama and laughing chokes me to fatality. I won’t lose myself pretending to be happy and smiley-faced. My life is suffocating me. That’s the truth.

Staying happy is nice and that’s what I always hope for. I see people walking around like waifs, living lives that have no substance. I don’t want to be like that. I want to feel everything, be immersed in this chaos and discover sensations in it. I don’t want to be numb, like what I have seen in this people. I want to be a professor, live in an apartment, and watch a movie every Saturday night while sipping my coffee. I want my room to have a roof that is see-through to see the stars every single time I want. I want books everywhere. I want to live, in love, with young thirsty minds, class halls and poetry. I want to travel, see people, and see the famous landmarks and places. I want my shoes worn out from adventures. I want to die as if I have cherished every ounce of my life.