Writing is not cathartic, even though its feeling of release is present; it is not enlightening, however, it provokes critical thinking; it is not, above all, entertaining, nonetheless it transports you. I write in order to rationalize interiority, to catch emic experiences with a net. Everything, however, revolves and remains inside.

Wednesday, May 23, 2007

I cried twice in a day

I cried for many reasons twice in a day.
For the innocence lost;
The knowledge of understanding there's a life that can't be rewinded and relived;
I cried for the loss of spontaneity;
knowing that the life I lead now is more exciting than the one I was stuck with but that in reality it's that other life with some minor adjustments that I would want
or it is this very life with some minor adjustments that I would want;
I cried for friendships lost
guilt, blame, actions and ommitions aside
for the loss of those friendships;

Tear my heart. I will start reminiscing this that will lead me to that which I'll relate to some other thing until one memory attaches itself to a person I had long forgotten about, and then everything about them, about me with them, about our dynamic, and what we went and didn't go through together rushes into my mind like a gust of wind that cannot but follow its route.

I cried for my parents
whom even though I make happy and proud, I have let down many times, with this being the ultimate, more lasting blow of them all: Knowing that they are getting older far away from me, without me. Knowing that my absence causes them more grief than I know.

I cried for the lies that I live which make me push foward and live happily
for the pill and the stone
for the grade and the bonds
for writing and faking

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