Some journal entry excerpts I found and liked. Enjoy. Sorry if they're a bit depressing, I was really shot for almost half a year.
They're all true.
2/12/08
I snarled, my stomach curling in anger. Swirling emotions whirled through my head, driving away all sanity. My back was hunched and my eyes glinted as fury took over me, broke me. I wanted to strike out, to rip, tear, rend, break, smash, destroy. I wanted to sink my teeth into an orange peel, feel the slight pressure of the rind press back and the sheer triumph as it broke beneath my fangs.
My teeth clenched as I started to breathe more heavily, livid. Bruxism, a voice in my head defined. I tried to shut it out, grinding my canines so they would sharpen. I was trembling with fury. Just shut up for once, would you?
Denial, the voice said. Insanity. Madness, obsession, lust, greed, want, jealousy, anger, self-doubt. Deadly sins, many of them.
I don't care.
Love? I think not.
1/19/08
Nights are the worst. Nights, the dreams I once longed for, to end the dreary evening, spend the interminable night, just to see him, be with him again, my salvation. My demise. Nights provide no distractions, let my aching mind produce heartbreaking dreams which turn into memories of times never to be had again. My wits escape me during the night, leaving me vulnerable to any errant reminisce that wanders through. Nights. They are endless, torturous.
(skipping a lot... I just like this next bit)
I am under constant surveillance, unable to betray even the slightest emotion for fear it will bring hatred against the one I love.
( Oh, good times.)
1/30/08
When you spend your life screaming, how will you hear the bells?
2/13/08
I feel sick.
It will have been a month of torture on Sunday. One month. I didn't think it was mentally possible to take this kind of self-abuse. And I wonder - how does the rest of the world see me? Does my mask fit? Moaning in terror, fear, anger, & depression. It's a wonder I haven't broken anything.
2/28/08
Not that I would ever admit this out loud, but I am a little nervous about tomorrow. I feel like a Roman gladiatorial slave, knowing that tomorrow she will be thrown to the lions with no defense. And yet, there is that glimmer of cruel hope, dangling tantalizingly.
I fear nothing. Nothing. I've never experienced it, true terror, so it is not in my emotional vocabulary. Detached calmness is usually my response.
4/2/08
I don't remember how I passed off that empty void as a life.
How did I live?
I don't remember at all.
I've...
I've lost myself. What is wrong with me? I honestly can't remember how I lived...
...
......
I'm not myself anymore. Was I ever? I'm but a collection of thoughts from other people.
Who am I now?
12.08.2008
11.29.2008
I'm sick and tired
of all this crap. I feel fettered, chained to a life I am barely a part of. I can't think anymore! I'm never myself!
What in the seven hells is wrong with me?!
I don't know myself anymore. I don't know how others perceive me, nor do I know how I act. Self-consciousness hasn't been an issue since eighth grade, and now I get to college and I'm thrown back into a world of confusion. At least in eighth grade I felt a little intelligent. At least I had confidence in my academics. Now... it feels like everything I do fails. Miserably.
In all honesty? It is very degrading and very difficult to cope with. My ego was the only thing I had left, and now it has been torn to shreds.
What in the seven hells is wrong with me?!
I don't know myself anymore. I don't know how others perceive me, nor do I know how I act. Self-consciousness hasn't been an issue since eighth grade, and now I get to college and I'm thrown back into a world of confusion. At least in eighth grade I felt a little intelligent. At least I had confidence in my academics. Now... it feels like everything I do fails. Miserably.
In all honesty? It is very degrading and very difficult to cope with. My ego was the only thing I had left, and now it has been torn to shreds.
11.19.2008
Corrected Vision
I stare out through a filmy lens sutured by water to my very eye. A bent plasmoid forcing my retinas to see against their will, to focus on the world around them. My stretched, useless eyes, made "correct" by a man-made object.
However...
I shut one eye and the world shifts, moving slightly to one side, becoming a blur. I shut the other and the earth shifts again, blurring even more.
Oh, physics, how I love thee!
However...
I shut one eye and the world shifts, moving slightly to one side, becoming a blur. I shut the other and the earth shifts again, blurring even more.
Oh, physics, how I love thee!
11.18.2008
Mexico
I'm homesick.
I'm homesick for a place I have never fully been a resident of: Mexico City.
You step out onto the street, hand clutching a patterned kitchen towel, and your nose is met by a barrage of scents: dog excrement and car exhaust, mostly. The metal door clangs shut behind you and you walk, admiring the walls hiding homes behind bars, splashes of color in what would be a grey city. Turn a corner, then another, and you see it: the tortilla shop, an opening in one of the walls forming a counter at the corner, a smiling man making the dough just out of reach next to the tortilla-flattening machine. You ask him for some amount: "Quarenta tortillas, por favor señor?" He grins and puts the dough through the top of the machine. Forty tortillas come out, steaming, like paper from a printer. You put them in the towel and snag one off the top, a smooth warm tortilla, and salt it with the salt he provides on the side of the counter. You pay the man and walk away quickly, clutching the towel of tortillas to your chest to keep them warm and to savor the heat coming off of them, a heat like the heat of a lover pressed against you, a heat of life, of food, of the promise that these simple tortillas will bring people together in the ceremony of consumption.
Zocalo. The word itself means town square, or plaza. And that is exactly what it is, only so much more.
The first thing you are greeted by is the enormous Mexican flag waving proudly in the dead center of the world's second-largest square. Red, white and green pronounce themselves against the blue sky, the brown eagle clutching the snake in a deathgrip. And the people! Hundreds of people mill about, dancers wearing feathered headdresses and shells around their ankles, wielding smoking incense, tourists meandering through, admiring the cathedral and the capitol buildings, children chasing pigeons, merchants selling balls with tinsel on the end and small plastic birds that whistle when blown through, musicians playing every type of traditional music you can find.
Every hour, the bells toll. The pigeons fly up en masse and then settle back, disgruntled.
My writing spirit has died right now. Maybe I'll write more later.
I'm homesick for a place I have never fully been a resident of: Mexico City.
You step out onto the street, hand clutching a patterned kitchen towel, and your nose is met by a barrage of scents: dog excrement and car exhaust, mostly. The metal door clangs shut behind you and you walk, admiring the walls hiding homes behind bars, splashes of color in what would be a grey city. Turn a corner, then another, and you see it: the tortilla shop, an opening in one of the walls forming a counter at the corner, a smiling man making the dough just out of reach next to the tortilla-flattening machine. You ask him for some amount: "Quarenta tortillas, por favor señor?" He grins and puts the dough through the top of the machine. Forty tortillas come out, steaming, like paper from a printer. You put them in the towel and snag one off the top, a smooth warm tortilla, and salt it with the salt he provides on the side of the counter. You pay the man and walk away quickly, clutching the towel of tortillas to your chest to keep them warm and to savor the heat coming off of them, a heat like the heat of a lover pressed against you, a heat of life, of food, of the promise that these simple tortillas will bring people together in the ceremony of consumption.
Zocalo. The word itself means town square, or plaza. And that is exactly what it is, only so much more.
The first thing you are greeted by is the enormous Mexican flag waving proudly in the dead center of the world's second-largest square. Red, white and green pronounce themselves against the blue sky, the brown eagle clutching the snake in a deathgrip. And the people! Hundreds of people mill about, dancers wearing feathered headdresses and shells around their ankles, wielding smoking incense, tourists meandering through, admiring the cathedral and the capitol buildings, children chasing pigeons, merchants selling balls with tinsel on the end and small plastic birds that whistle when blown through, musicians playing every type of traditional music you can find.
Every hour, the bells toll. The pigeons fly up en masse and then settle back, disgruntled.
My writing spirit has died right now. Maybe I'll write more later.
11.13.2008
Oh, Rain!
Rain!
The song of the heavens. An incessant pattering, like a million feet running, a million hearts beating frantically, a million hands crashing together in never-ending applause. A million drumbeats sounding the call to war, to hunt.
Why is that so soothing?
It's beautiful outside. Chilly, overcast, grey, wet. The trees are nearly bare, decaying leaves litter the ground, yellow, orange and brown. Drops hang off the ends of branches, only to fall to their demise. Black tree branches form a stark relief against the pale grey sky, cutting it like dark lightning.
Life pours from the heavens.
The song of the heavens. An incessant pattering, like a million feet running, a million hearts beating frantically, a million hands crashing together in never-ending applause. A million drumbeats sounding the call to war, to hunt.
Why is that so soothing?
It's beautiful outside. Chilly, overcast, grey, wet. The trees are nearly bare, decaying leaves litter the ground, yellow, orange and brown. Drops hang off the ends of branches, only to fall to their demise. Black tree branches form a stark relief against the pale grey sky, cutting it like dark lightning.
Life pours from the heavens.
Valkommen
I guess this is where I introduce myself.
First off, my name is not Alcatraz Skandranon Rashkae Thomas. No. My name's Maria. Alcatraz is my dog. She has the gmail account so I could be a total dork and make a facebook for her. Sue me.
Now, on to the real questions.
What am I?
Right now, I am a college student. In pain. PAIN I SAY. Sitting at a computer for long arduous hours leaves a terrible crick in the neck. And a knot in the back. My eyes flicker... it's late, and here I sit, procrastinating the inevitable return to the soft, downy, warm world of dreams and sleep.
Mmm. Tempting.
But I can't leave you hanging, now can I?
What else... I'm cold. My hair is wet from the shower, my feet are bare, and the window was open for at least an hour because my roommate was airing out the room.
I'm sorry if I go onto random tangents at times, I seem to have approximately three voices arguing and analyzing in my head at once. What can I say? (Besides my usual MO of nothing...) It gives me a rather excellent perspective on several points of view.
You want to talk to me? Fine, but don't expect very much in the way of discourse. Sorry about that.
God, I'm cold.
I'm currently irritated beyond belief at the fact that nearly every class I need for my major is full. Snarl. That's probably another reason for the backache. And it's late. And cold. And I have to do so bloody much in the next 48 hours it's disgusting. And I'm sitting here on the internet pouring out my irritation to a textbox whose scrollbar is getting progressively smaller. And smaller... and smaller...
Huh.
So it autosaves? Nice.
Why am I writing such nugae?? Must be the hour. Some people actually work, you know. Actual work. Physical labor. Those books... by the end of the year I'll be ripped (sorry Jeremy, guess you'll just have to pump more to keep up with my masslez xD).
I plan on being a writer, not that you can tell by this excuse of writing. Er, not writing, really. Just my brain pooping out words via the fingers. If you read it all, please consult a doctor about brain hemorrhaging. Really. I wouldn't like to be the cause of any unnecessary deaths.
And now, off to the sanity-restoring nest masquerading as a bed.
Bene nocte, omnes. Amo.
First off, my name is not Alcatraz Skandranon Rashkae Thomas. No. My name's Maria. Alcatraz is my dog. She has the gmail account so I could be a total dork and make a facebook for her. Sue me.
Now, on to the real questions.
What am I?
Right now, I am a college student. In pain. PAIN I SAY. Sitting at a computer for long arduous hours leaves a terrible crick in the neck. And a knot in the back. My eyes flicker... it's late, and here I sit, procrastinating the inevitable return to the soft, downy, warm world of dreams and sleep.
Mmm. Tempting.
But I can't leave you hanging, now can I?
What else... I'm cold. My hair is wet from the shower, my feet are bare, and the window was open for at least an hour because my roommate was airing out the room.
I'm sorry if I go onto random tangents at times, I seem to have approximately three voices arguing and analyzing in my head at once. What can I say? (Besides my usual MO of nothing...) It gives me a rather excellent perspective on several points of view.
You want to talk to me? Fine, but don't expect very much in the way of discourse. Sorry about that.
God, I'm cold.
I'm currently irritated beyond belief at the fact that nearly every class I need for my major is full. Snarl. That's probably another reason for the backache. And it's late. And cold. And I have to do so bloody much in the next 48 hours it's disgusting. And I'm sitting here on the internet pouring out my irritation to a textbox whose scrollbar is getting progressively smaller. And smaller... and smaller...
Huh.
So it autosaves? Nice.
Why am I writing such nugae?? Must be the hour. Some people actually work, you know. Actual work. Physical labor. Those books... by the end of the year I'll be ripped (sorry Jeremy, guess you'll just have to pump more to keep up with my masslez xD).
I plan on being a writer, not that you can tell by this excuse of writing. Er, not writing, really. Just my brain pooping out words via the fingers. If you read it all, please consult a doctor about brain hemorrhaging. Really. I wouldn't like to be the cause of any unnecessary deaths.
And now, off to the sanity-restoring nest masquerading as a bed.
Bene nocte, omnes. Amo.
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