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Its not that I'm depressed, like I thought I was. Its just that I'm a dreamer. Whether I was born this way, or brought up this way, I don't really care. I just am. By the age of 7 I strolled the playground alone pondering the true meaning of existence. I looked at trees and mud and saw the beauty of the colors and the textures and the smells. Instead of socializing, I imagined social circumstances where I am this confident, strong, brave girl who knows exactly what to say. I learnt to write to describe this girl, to let her loose into the world, to share with the world what she thinks and sees and feels. I can say it kept me sane. It kept me going. This brave girl knew how to get through heartbreaks, confusion, and issues of self-worth. It kept me from becoming the worst I could be. Even today.

And no one appreciates her more than I do. Maybe that's why I'm protective of her. I'm defensive when people see her flaws, especially her greatest flaw - that she's hidden. Outside, I'm fake, patronizing, I morph into anything you want me to be. And if I like who I am with you, I make friends with you. Simple as that.

But she has no foresight. I can't see myself ten years from now, or five years from now, or even next month or tomorrow. Some days I wake up hating myself, some days I feel brilliant and spectacular. But that's how I do it, I survive day by day. And I hope that every day, I'm still living a life.

Yet, while I say that I'm a dreamer, I don't "dream" anymore. Obviously. I don't dare to imagine myself on a stage in new york singing "On My Own", like I did in that choir room watching lea salonga. I don't dare read The Lovely Bones and imagining my name on a book like that. Everything I write is stale and bland and grotesque. Filled with metaphors, poet's licenses, and sexual innuendos. Its not the first time someone's told me to fight for something, to stop making concessions. I still make them today. Doing this degree is a concession in itself. I hold myself back because I don't dare to fight for something. I don't know how, I've never fought and won a war.

I can't believe I'm bringing this up again. That after all this time, I'm still the branch that bends to the wind. I give in to everyone. Even you. And sometimes, after a fight, I hate myself for it.

How will I fight for my right to get a certain job in the future? How will I fight for my right to raise my children my way? How sure am I that my choices are right? Would I be able to live with those consequences, not having someone else to blame?

I've only ever fought for one thing. And that's you.

And that's already bewildering me.

I need to figure this shit out. Starting from here.

And this thing that I'm trying to be? We're not on the best terms.

I'm a girl who has her head in one book or another. A girl who scoops ice cream, has a personal struggle with self-esteem, who looks up in the city sky and sees a dull, off-black nothingness. A girl who has loved, and lost, and cares about what others think, yet doesn't want to at all. She doesn't know how to have fun, she doesn't want to tumble down hills to see the sunrise. And she doesn't think there's anything wrong with it.

So why does the world say otherwise? If the extraordinary and strange are celebrated, what happens to the mediocre?

I'm glad I finally realized the other person out there, who is me, but isn't me. The doppleganger, the Moira, the other person that I really really want to be, and I acknowledge that the person isn't me yet. But it will be, one day. And till then, I'll have my sisters, who understand me in and out, who stick by me thick and thin. Spencer, who knows me better than I can ever hope people will, and knows my deepest dreams and wishes. My niece, who gives me hope that the world is more beautiful that it may appear to be. I still feel that tight grasp on my neck sometimes, like she really needs me.

I love that feeling.

2101 midterms today, and I'm not really that focused. Even if I did wake up at 4 to mug. I keep thinking of the billion things I could be doing or experiencing right now. But perseverance is a skill, and I'm still waiting for that Life that Grayling promised me.

For now, you can call me Ishmael.

The first poem I've written in a long time. And its right before my midterm. What does that say about my muses? :/

Seriously, how much of this can I take? I remember the night before, sitting in front of the computer and analyzing other people's social lives on the internet. No, its not a bad thing anymore, that's why its public. Yet, its so glaring that it pinches in my chest. I try to remind myself that some of it is fake, like how some of me is fake. Everyone's fake, like that girl I know, who thrives on falsity, or that guy I know who constructs social interactions in his bedroom at night. Its a reason why I don't try too hard. But by keeping my distance, it feels like I am.

Distance is relative. I'm packed into a sardine of students, chattering boldly, absorbing information for future use. Its a social construct, a mechanism to be manipulated. But I rather not. I do it, as it is my duty, but not too much. I know who I am.

Yet, distance is something that eludes everyone. One day, I know I will be forgotten. That face people will remember as "that girl that was nice" or "that girl I spoke to once in the stairwell". That's me. But its by my volition, and no one gets that. No one does that. Much. Or if they do, I don't notice them at all.

Well, there you go.

Its better, I think, than being the cause for pain. For being yourself and making mistakes, and end up screwing up someone else's life. For trusting in someone, and getting hurt in the process. For giving your all, and later end up being used. Distance is relative. Distance eludes. Distance protects.

It has been so long since I've been myself, and I'm not sure how to be that thing. Not really. What I am, or who I am, is a thing that is private. Sometimes I think its a waste that it is, but when I remember why I do it - the faults I've made, the stupid things I've said, the things I've done whole-heartedly, and the people. Oh, those fucked up people.

Of course it makes me sad. Of course I'd rather have a ton of friends, who understand me, and can rely on me. Its a given. Everyone feels that way some of the time. That's the part that makes me insecure. That, what I think I should do, conflicts with what I want. Its a constant clash of interest within me. That I want to do so much more than me. Yet, I choose to be what I am now.

Is it strange that I want to be accepted for that? Its a little oxymoronic. And a dash bit whiney.

Oh well.

(credit: feiyue-shoes.blogspot.com)