Well, I’m royally screwed.
My dad’s going to be giving me…classes…in a few days, and. It. Will. Suck.
It’s not that I’m surprised or anything. I mean, this day had to come, since I’m on a month-long winter break and I’m trapped inside the house all day, every day. And since I’m leaving this place in a few months, for a completely new home, I suppose I SHOULD be learning and preparing for school and everything there.
But I’m not.
At least, I’m not learning anything now, because my brain just shuts down. Literally. Shuts. Down. When I am faced with chemistry and physics and math, it seems like my brain, which had previously been filled with such wonderful whimsical thoughts about my stories and the lyrics I write (btw, I write terrible song lyrics–think of it as a form of terrible teenage poetry, just more angsty) and the people I like and the books I read, explodes and goes up in flames, rendering me incapable of doing anything but sitting and staring at my worksheets and basically having a silent internal crisis.
The inside of my brain basically looks like that Tumblr meme with the Evanescence lyrics:
Wake me up inside
(wake me up inside)
I can’t wake up
(wake me up inside)
(call my name and save me from the dark)
I feel like the inner machinations of my mind are an enigma. (Props to you if you get the Spongebob reference). My mind doesn’t listen to me–it’s like it has this freaking mind of its own and is intent on destroying me, to the point where it has slowly caused my thinking abilities to just *poof* into dust because it refuses to even look at stuff it doesn’t like.
Or maybe, you know, I’m just blaming my brain for my own laziness and lack of willpower when it comes to doing unpleasant things, like chemistry problems.
Obviously, I’m just trying to come up with a justifiable reason to write horrifically sad stories and doodle everywhere while daydreaming about the universe. You know, deep stuff.
Have I ever mentioned that I write very dark stories? Everything I write is sad, somehow. I have all these troubled characters, and it doesn’t matter how old they are or where they’re from or what race or gender they are–they all have shitty, tragic backstories and emotional problems. I’ve written about drug addicts, about suicidal people, about people dying of illnesses, and people dying of mental illnesses, and already-dead people, and mean people who really just hate themselves, and all of their stories are sad. And I always have these scenes were they are screaming and crying all at once, and kneeling on the ground, completely incapable of even standing up. Crying and screaming, because they hate themselves, hate everything and wish it would end. I don’t know. I write about so many depressing things. I make my characters as terribly depressed as possible–and I put them in all these shitty scenarios, and I always imagine their endings as being subtly happy but still mostly very, very sad. I don’t think I’ve ever written anything that was really happy or humorous; anything that didn’t somehow involve something sad. It’s sick, isn’t it?
Forever the sickest kid.
But I guess since I’m all unstable and dark-ish inside, my writing is a reflection of who I am as a person. I like wearing black. Lots and lots of black, besides my jeans. Except my mother doesn’t quite approve of me wearing too much black; it’s “too dark.” She said I used to be quite a colorful kid, and it’s true–I used to wear every single color in the rainbow. I was a freaking confetti-covered Skittle. Those days are long gone, though, because I don’t wear any colors except blue, black, grey and white outdoors now. I like how orderly and simple and no-nonsense and impersonal clothes look when they’re black and white. New and fresh and plain, like they’re not mine.
And my personality must show through my writing. Emotions are messy and terrifying and real and raw and unstoppable, and I like writing about them–about how destructive, yet healing, and also fucking scary they can be when they get to be too much. I like imagining people facing frightening things, like grief and anger. I think of emotions often, because I have too many of them too often, and it feels quite satisfying to write about other people going through the same things and dealing with trauma and death and emotional problems, because I put a little, tiny piece of myself in them, and I wish I could be as brave as them.
I think that’s why I write, really. Just to place a little piece of my soul in someone else, and feel like I’ve been brave and defeated my own demons by making them defeat theirs.
It’s kind of sick, I know, but I can’t help but comfort myself by thinking that it’s also quite sweet, in a sad way.
(Funny how so many words–adjectives–begin with the letter S.)
It seems like the longer I write an entry, the more stupidly sappy and sentimental I get. I started out sounding like…like…I don’t even know what I sounded like, and I ended up sounding really soft and emotional and weepy and deep. It’s like I went from sarcasm to sentimentality in this one giant leap. In internet meme speak…that escalated quickly.
So I’ll stop.
But have you noticed how often I talk about ~feelings~? I don’t write about my day per my own actions and daily happenings–I write about my day through ~~feelings~~. God. I’m basically an emo without the hair and the eyeliner.
I’ll stop here before I start droning on about emo fashion and music.
Have a good afternoon/morning/whatever where you are, and stay awesome.