But it's my theme, really.

Emily's Theme
by Charles Simic

My dear trees, I no longer recognize you
In that wintry light.
You brought me a reminder I can do without:
The world is old, it was always old,
There's nothing new in it this afternoon.
The garden could've been a padlocked window
Of a pawnshop I was studying
With every item in it dust-covered.

Each one of my thoughts was being ghostwritten
By anonymous authors. Each time they hit
A cobwebbed typewriter key, I shudder.
Luckily, dark came quickly today.
Soon the neighbors were burning leaves,
And perhaps a few other things too.
Later, I saw the children run around the fire,
Their faces demonic in its flames.

--------------------------------

Feeling strange & undefinable. Nothing seems important anymore & that scares me. I'm not depressed, or at least it doesn't feel like I am; but strains of November echo back & my dreams feel like they never belonged to me. I don't know what to do now that my hopes, my passions stare at me with the eyes of a stranger. So I devour the printed word & pretend that this ache is negligible & will go away even if I do nothing to try & alleviate it.

I don't know what else to do.

Also, I wasn't going to tell you all this now, but I keep putting it off, though I did wish to get it off my chest, so... The problem between my mother & I that I mentioned a couple of posts ago was this: she found out about my self-harm of last winter. There are no words to describe how it felt to make her so sad & guilty. Because, of course, she blamed herself to a greater extent than she should have. I always knew she would, should she (God forbid) ever discover this secret; still, there was little I could say to assuage her sorrow.

Things are all right now. A little different, but good. Admittedly, I do still feel a little on edge at times...

Of course, this might have come as a surprise to everyone, since I never made more than a couple, vague allusions to my cutting. I want to make it clear I'm not that girl anymore. I haven't been for a while; I had moved on, which is why it was so painful to have all those memories dredged up.
Thank you all for always caring. I don't know where I'd be without my dear blogging friends.

I felt calm today while sitting in church. I am daring to hope that soon my dreams will be mine again, cherished & familiar; they will come back, wagging their tails behind them... :)

{Photo is by Linda McCartney.}

"Dark, dark is all I find for metaphor..."

Inert, my Muse and I sit on opposite ends of the couch; a marriage gone sour.
Why don't you love me? I want to ask her.
It's not that we've never fought before; we have and reconciliation was always waiting in the wings. But this time, it's different... We haven't made-up, but I haven't stopped writing. That's the problem; the words still flow and I am shocked by their mediocrity.

My words have reached a staleness that perturbs me. For a while now, I've been unable to shake the feeling that my repertoire is 3 songs long and I just sing them over and over, unable to learn a new melody. I'm surprised those around me don't clap their hands over their ears and run out of hearing range.

The only beauty I can find, as of late, is laced in the words of others, famous or otherwise. And then further endeavouring seems so pointless: why bother when everything has already been expressed so eloquently?

I've felt my abilities dwindling the past few months, and I can no longer ignore their vanishings. I look my ramblings squarely in the face and deem them 'passable'.
Oh! I just so desperately want to write something and to feel that deep, tranquil, satisfying feeling that it is good. I haven't felt that way in a distressingly long time.


Please don't think I'm posting this merely to get attention and your assurances to the contrary. I write what I feel... and this is what I'm feeling now.

It is what it is.



I borrowed Rainer Maria Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet/The Possibility of Being from the library today. So far, it is full of beauty and wisdom. I don't know if it will help my blue funk, but I think it will offer some solace, at least.




{The title of this post is a line from the poem 'Interim' by Edna St. Vincent Millay. The 1st picture is by and of me, and what I'm leaning against is my poster which is the entire play of 'Hamlet'. The 2nd picture is also by me and is the text of the Rainer Maria Rilke poem, 'Autumn', though I'm not sure who the translation is by.}

life's unmerry-go-round

Do you know how many histrionic posts I have saved in my blogger drafts?
A lot.
Generally, I sleep on them before posting so they never see the light of day.
I should have done that last night.
I could delete that post and pretend I never felt that way. But, on the other hand... maybe I shouldn't always be swallowing these roiling emotions and should be letting them out sometimes. I know I can err on the side of being overly buttoned-up.



I stayed up late last night submerging myself in this beautifully written book:


It eased my heart's pain a little.

I do feel better, but nothing has changed. My issues and fears (which have nothing to do with anyone but myself) are still there and I know it's just a matter of time before they bring me down again. I'm still lost, but now I'm lying on the floor of the maze and looking up at the sky. Its gentle billowing is keeping me stable for the present.

On another note, I've never updated my blog this many times in one week. Next thing you know, I'll be one of those people who updates their Facebook status every 10 minutes!

Not really. :P

the turning point.

~~[WARNING: confessional post ahead. :P]~~

I feel I have reached a real turning point.
As you may have noticed from my last post, I have been struggling. This is not a recent thing, though. I can't really go into everything because I don't have the space or the words. I will say this, though: the past few years have been extremely difficult for me spiritually and emotionally. I have been fluctuating between hope and utter despair. Turning away from and towards God over and over.

This past December was a happy time and I thought I was finally working things out and beginning to get better.
But January came with a vengeance and nearly did me in. These past weeks, especially last week, I reached new lows. Hateful things constantly bubbled up within me. I came to a level of self-loathing that is hard to return from. And I barely even cared. I was basically numb.

Then, a couple of days ago, I was reading some random girl's blog. I don't even know who she was or how I got there, really. But this girl's blog was the most depressing thing I have read in a long time. I saw a girl who was blind to the things that really matter. She hated when she should love and because of her anger and sadness she found vindication in turning to the blade of a knife.
I knew I was becoming this girl and suddenly I clearly realized, I don't want to be this girl.

I felt as if I had been ambivalently treading water, nearly drowning and had finally decided I was going to swim.
I felt light and joyous. I just wanted to stand on something and sing. (Which is often my response to happiness, haha.)

I needed to share this because nobody has any idea... I know my parents care about me so much and maybe because of that I am unable to fully confide in them. (Right now, at least.)
Pray for me, if you ever think of it. This healing process is going to be difficult, I know. Too many times I have fallen back in with temptations. But I have been slowly dying and I am ready to finally live. Trusting God and giving Him everything is hard for me, I admit. But I am looking upward and I can feel my wounded soul starting to heal.


"But I trust in Your unfailing love;
my heart rejoices in Your salvation.
I will sing the Lord's praise,
for He has been good to me."
Psalm 13:5-6

confessions of a girl who loves to sing.

She stands on a stage in front of her audience, wearing the dress she only wears for them.
Hands by her side, smiling that secret smile; she sings with the confidence she only feels around them.
They adore her. They hang onto her every note, mesmerized by her music
Before them, she can sing out loud and unrestrained.
She holds out her arms, giving them things she gives to no one else.
Holding her hands wide open, she receives what they alone can give her.
When she curtsies they clap loud and unrestrained.
"More!" they cry. "Encore!" they beg.
She's never been known to turn them down.
They understand. They understand the songs she sings for them.
Her performances for them are unparalleled.

So clearly she feels their respectful presence,
is it any wonder that she forgets she's just a girl...
standing on a chair in her high-ceilinged kitchen.
All alone except for the echo of her own voice.



{Picture of: St. Vincent.}