Fading... away...

They say the best way to know someone else, is to put yourself in their shoes. Only, for the mere specs of humanity on this planet, putting one's self in someone else's shoes is complex. Sure, you can dream. You can pretend, you can visualize. --but, nothing comes close to the real thing. Being YOU. With all your flaws, imperfections, and beautiful kinks & quirks. Few in life, will ever know the true you. It may even be, that you yourself don't know this 'you'. I know I fit into this one.

It's funny, because as I grow older I seem to have less and less to say. There is a certain element to my old-self, that sparkled with innovation, creativity, and a raw talent that surprised me. I had so many THOUGHTS, so many passionate ideas and flavors at the tip of my tongue. Those were the days when I dissolved into paper like a fish would the sea. I loved the written word, and I felt that love spill from me in the most unexpected moments. I was beginning to realize the vast labyrinth of my mind, and it sent thrills of excitement through me.

And then it stopped.

It was slow at first, a gradual decline. Call it getting older, call it heartbreak and resignation, call it perfectionism or self-degradation. I don't know what it was, though I wish I did. Maybe then I could reverse this sudden quiet that seems to be descending all around me. My brain, my mind, my one passion in life for learning and creativity, is shutting off. I wish I could say I don't recognize myself anymore, but to be quite honest, I don't think about it. I don't think about much, other than these primal driven instincts which seem to have become all that is left of me. Food. Sleep. Protect myself, protect my heart. I don't want to hurt anymore. Never.
I feel like I'm closing myself off from life, from living. Most importantly, from feeling. It's been replaced by anger, irritation, and an overwhelming nothing. I'll be the first to admit it, I've become boring. I've become afraid of myself, and what the world can do to me.

I don't know how to fix this. I don't know, if my primal instincts, even want to. So for now, I suppose all that is left to do is try. Try to fix this mess, the universe seems to have created out of me.

A peculiar touch of darkness

   There are people who are different. 

   People who don't drift easily in the sea of humanity; people who still strive for beauty and virtue, while shrouded in a raiment of ashen silk.

   There are shades of black, yet white can only ever come in one form. It is endless; eternal. Unlike its counterpart there is no depth to be found in its spectrum. The terror of its power is without a veil.

   Black is to comfort. It is to clothe, to shield.

   White is the herald of destruction. 

   Yet in the folds of darkness; there is also a more sinister intention. It clothes itself in lies, deceit, and filth. It makes a mockery what is beautiful, and seeps into others though the shadows it proffers before it.

   There is darkness; and there is this.

   And I'm afraid, this world has become lost in it.

   There are people who are different. 

   And we are fading.

So, what now?...

This blog, was formed with the concept of pain in mind. My pain. Over time, however, it morphed into a jumbled collection of my thoughts---a journal in some ways. Yet now, I feel I have reached the end of a long traversed road. While the hollow echos of my soul were keenly felt in the beginning, there is nothing now. It's a good nothing; as it stirs no loneliness, no depression lingering from long ago. Yet, somewhere along the way I've lost my reason for writing this blog. It's no longer therapy, and it's no longer a journal... what is it then?
   This is the question that has been hounding me for the last several months. Many say, that a blog can only be successful if it has a sole purpose. BUT, my blog has lost much of it's purpose. I've grown up, I've won my battles, and now I stand as a conquer overlooking the road which has lead me here.
   There's no doubt in my mind that the pain will return one day. When it does, I fully intend to again take my pain, and redirect it into words. Because words are so much more beautiful, when fueled by something real.
   For now though, the question: is what I'm doing now, enough? begs to be answered. Is this blog still functional, without a sole purpose? Some blog about books, others blog about politics. Still others blog about beauty, and maybe photography. Me? Where do I fit into all of this?
   I've been at this keyboard, so many times before, and not known what to write about. It isn't writer's block that holds me back, it's the lack of a definition of what I can write about.

   I blog about me. But is me, enough?

Twenty One Pilots. There are no words for how much I love them.

The Fever Of Words

 

   There are times when my fingers hit the page, and I feel I am no longer human;
   when the chaos within my mind focuses into to a steady stream of words imbued with the power to change me. To shape me.
   It's as though I transcend from my body and into another state of consciousness. Where another spirit gently folds over me; taking my essence and in those moments--or minutes, electrifying the very blood within my veins.
   The words are my kryptonite and my solace; and It's within them that I find I am truly in love, body and soul. I cannot be without them, no matter the hour; and it is because of this that I fear them, at times even hate them. Words. Because how can you fully love the one thing that has implicit control over you? I bend to it's whims, not them to me. I cannot call to my fingertips the conscience that breathes life into my thoughts without this unseen power. At it's touch, I'm transformed into an undefinable zenith. As though some presence has passed into me, and shown me how it feels to be truly alive. It's addictive, enrapturing.
   Without it, I feel alone. I feel too human, too touchable and fragile. The strength within me dwindles into nothing more than a glowing memory. A memory I find myself stretching for everyday of my life. Every night, every morning. I crave that power, so much so that I can almost touch the sickness which cleaves to my heart.
The sickness for words, for feeling, for life.
The power to wield that force. One that I still cannot comprehend.

Because when I write, it is more than just me at a keyboard. It's the universe converging within the pandemonium of my mind, and turning it into something beautiful.

When I write, it's because the feelings possessing my soul are too much too bare. I string them against the paper, letting them leech themselves away from my being.

When I write,
It's because I love the feel of words coursing through my heart. Pumping awake my brain, and bringing life once again to my crippled eyes. I see things differently through the words, as though they are colored glass built by the possibilities of limitless imagination. I look through them and see a different world. I look through those words, and I know this is where I belong.

I belong within this reality, a timeless capsule of artistry and transcendence.

When I write, 

it's because I'm in love with it.

»To Love Is to Be Destroyed«

 

There is a loneliness that defies all expression. One so deep even words can not solace it's internal hunger. It's more than an emotion, it's like a second organ blossoming into existence beside your heart. Its sluggish beating merely imitates the fluttering of your own soul. The depression accompanying the hollowness inside your body is difficult to explain, to those who've not experienced it. Because it's razor cold and blazing hot all in the same shuddering breath. It freezes your tears upon your cheeks, right before it thaws them down into stinging pools down your skin.

  Is it tragedy, or merely the fragility of the human conscience to instinctively crave the presence of it's own kind? Not only that, but are we eternally sentenced to find the pieces of ourselves that walk around in the forms of those around us? Injustice does not satisfy its needs there, for not just anyone can damper the thudding aches that echo down the passages of the soul. Not anyone can quiet the constant humming of the heart... It's like searching for a single cure in a room full of medication.

  However, the worst hollowness accompanies what's left behind. What's left behind of you, when you find those pieces in a crowd, and they just walk away. It seems to be a constant companion, the betrayal of humanity. Is it really worth the heartbreak and renewed emptiness, when they're gone? How could such a pain be worthwhile? How could such devastation, and brutality, ever be a worth giving away your trust to someone who will rip it from arms? This world is not a fairytale, as much as we might try to pretend it is. Who can really blame those whose trust in human beings is devastatingly shattered. Maybe it's they who've woken up, in a world that was not what they had idealized.

  I wonder if this is my test. To watch the people I love most in this finite world descend into depths I cannot extend myself towards. In my heart, I feel as though I've experienced more than most would in a lifetime. Yet, it doesn't seem enough. The stones just keep on coming, the floods continuously pounding against my shores. I sit here and watch so many submerge under the darkness, and yet I cannot relinquish myself to their fates.  Despite the whisperings of my heart.

  I long for a silence, and absence of feeling that I will never have. I long to be free of the emotions and pain I'm confined to within this mortal body. Yet, I cannot rid myself of them. I cannot extend myself towards others in search of help, because no help can fill the divide the ones who mattered left inside me.

 Part of me longs to once again, for a brief moment, feel dependent upon someone. Yet, the consequences of such an action are to numberless to contemplate for long. In the end, it is they who will break me; and it is I who will have to put the bones and sinews back together. 

I am not a god.

I bleed like any other.

  So, here at the end, I must acknowledge that yet another one is gone. That they will not be the last in the long succession either. Is it easier to live without love? Or is it easier to live by that, and be broken. It is a question without an answer. A meaning so lost and diluted it has lost all potential for reason. Because how can you avoid what must come to pass, how can you detour the inevitability of finding out what you already knew.

That humanity is drunk in it's own fervor. That it is sick. That it is heartbreaking. That there is nothing anyone will do or say that can change it. Because, how can you fight against something so strong? How can you accept a world with no light? How can you possibly begin to understand the depths in which it can rake you against the coals.

We are alive.

Yet,

It is not enough.

 

Hope - In A World Blinded By Darkness

 

   “I feel all shadows of the universe multiplied deep inside my skin.” – Virginia Wolfe

   We stopped checking for monsters,

when we realized that knowing they were there-

wouldn't make them go away.

We closed our eyes,

and made pretend,

that there was no point to screaming in vain.

We did it, to slow the pounding of our hearts;

to stop the tears.

We lied to ourselves.

    And said that there was nothing there.

    Hope, is such a heavy word. It is layered in false promises, empty walkways, abandoned streets, and desolate faces. It's a pretense of reality, an expectation waiting to be broken. Yet, it is this same explosion of feeling which keeps us going. Keeps us getting to our feet in the morning, hiding away our pains and fears. It keeps us from giving up despite the unconquerable odds of this world.

    Recently, I was told of the suicide of someone I had met quite a long time ago. To be honest, I don't even remember his face. I don't remember who he was, or where he wanted to go with life. He was the same age as me, and in the same class as I for a short time. The concept that a person I've physically met, is now no more than a memory, is like an abrupt slap to my face.

   I was listening to one of my top favorite bands, the Twenty One Pilots, when a particular phrase really stuck out to me.

"The only difference between life and dying
Is one is trying"

   The boy I met so long ago, lost what was most important to him. He lost the ability to believe that things would ever get better. He stopped trying, because he no longer held onto the ability to hope in a future where he could be happy. 

   I don't understand why some people seem to be able to handle living as easily as one might breathe. Because for the rest of us, it's not that easy. We learn to build our lives at the bottom of a deep hole, constantly living in a perpetual darkness. It is here, that we subconsciously understand that without hope, we will falter, and crumble into the ashen dust that rains upon us. It's not a cake walk, trying to find the will to face another day, another struggle. Neither is it a responsibility to be taken lightly.

   

Frodo Baggins: I can't do this Sam.
Sam Gamgee: I know. It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.
Frodo: What are we holding on to Sam?
Sam: That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo... and it's worth fighting for.

   This quote is what's held me up for so long, through howling wind and pouring rain. It has become one of the echos of my soul, the rope to hold onto when nothing else seems to be standing still. It is the idea that there is something worth fighting for. That there is hope in a world overburdened with blinding darkness.
   I wish I could have spoken to that boy from so long ago. I wish I could have held his hand and given him one last chance. I wish I could have been the eyes that held his gaze, and the heart which heard his tears.
   Yet, I was not.
   I was only the empty ears which heard his death.
   and it is that, understanding a pain so heavy and consuming,
   a pain which he must have felt alone in holding,
   that breaks my heart.
   It breaks my heart because it could have been me,
   but it was him.
   and I'm still trying.

Insecurities

Recently, it seems I have been slowly sinking into an inert bubble within the rather effervescent muck pool known as the Lyndsey world. Not only is this perilous state of being extremely unproductive and brainless, but also comes across in a highly offensive manner to the human world. How do I explain it adequately, without coming across as sort of weird freak of nature?...

   I'm sorry dean, you're right. There is no other way I could go about this.

During the period I like to define as 'sludge mode', the daily activities humanity seems to perform rather effortlessly, become more like monumental sacrifices of my precious energy.
   Here is an excerpt from my internal dialogue this morning: "-Honestly though, why move when I can just sleep? Who needs food anyway... and school... It's not like my brain's improving from all this work anyway...I'll just lay here for a few more minutes...or maybe hours. I love sleep so much. I love sleep..."
   My situation is beginning to frighten me. It's as though my brain shuts off during these sludge mode periods and short circuits my rational decision capabilities. The excerpt from above isn't even the start of this consuming hole of disrepair! My social cords physically just shred themselves in front of me. Not only is my desire to engage in meaningful human interaction pretty much non-existent, but I find I'm hauling myself away deep into my subconsciousness, and actually dreading the imminent future possibility of having to interact with an actual life form. Remember when I mentioned earlier my rather offensive manner of handling the human world during this stage?... Well, it's actually the reverse. I just don't.
   This is pretty much me when thinking about all of the texts, emails, comments, phone calls, and social obligations I will inevitably have to fulfill in a reasonable amount of time:

This condition, is rather pathetic; and I will willingly admit this. Possibly it's the result of the teenage curse of hormones; possibly the side effects of being an introvert; or maybe it's just me. All I really know is that the people who brush my rather lengthy departures from the living world off without question, are honestly the most patient people on the planet.
   To get to the point, I have been trying to dissect the specific reason for my hermit style vacations. Is it a reaction to emotional, or physical strain? Do I just shut down when trying to deal with a certain problem? Is this just my body's way of reacting to unfamiliar difficulties?
   I'm not sure if this is just coincidence, but during these phases I seem to undergo both a great personal development and brutal self criticism cycle. Recently, my current object of self worth destruction has just been a constant dejected cry of, "I'm just not smart enough for college! How am I going to make it, I can't even figure out how to consistently find the sigma notation with square roots and fractions, without begging my brother to explain it at length to me."- and don't even get me started on chemistry!
   It's really hard to accept the fact that no matter how hard I try, my best is never going to be as good as someone's piece of cake, (metaphorically speaking of course).
   I guess what this all winds down to, is are these sludge modes really just my subconscious trying to come to terms with the question, "is it really worth it? Is it really worth trying your hardest when in the end you get the same results you'd have gotten without trying?"
   It just crushes me. It really does. I'm not like everyone else who seems to be good at fifty things, and doesn't have any problems with life at all. I'm not talented in the same ways, and in essence, I'm not even talented in as many ways. Though everyone tries to break out of that, 'plain old Jane mold', I fear that because of my limited capacity to handle the harder things in life, that it will leave me staring up towards a great mansion of achievements I will never attain. I'm not Brandon Sanderson, as much as that thought pierces my heart to the very core. I have a lot of room to grow in my writing, education, skills, talents, and the million other things everyone seems to have dangling off one hand.
   After all of this, I suppose that I fear my own imperfection. Not being worth it. Of trying, and then failing. As I think about it, my own doubts have taken root as my enemy within my very mind.
   Undoubtedly, this phase will pass just as they always do. I will come to grips my fears, and it will vanish until being called upon again. It's interesting to realize that everyone handles doubts differently, and though my way of handling things might not be the most desirable way, it seems to eventually come to a conclusion. The most important part really, is holding on to what you know about yourself, and not letting the trials you undergo become who you are. Everyone is allowed to have doubts, it is only when those doubts become your identity that you know you have to start a battle with yourself. You need to fight for the person you know is hiding beneath your insecurities. The person you want to become.

 

Fear Defines Us

 

Fear. That inborn, harrowing, irrational emotion wrought with anxiety, dread, panic and unveiled terror. Its hidden deep inside of us, sometimes subconsciously, other times not. It's constantly feeding off of our trepidations, and insecurities. In some ways it's even feeding off of our minds, our personalities, our souls... Because isn't fear at the root of our human structure? Isn't it apart of the core emotions we as humans beings feel excruciatingly more powerfully than any others? Love can be felt with the heart, but fear.. Fear can be felt with both the heart and the mind.
   Once you know an individuals fears, you can understand that person to a whole different level. The sobering truth is, that when we really understand our own fears we lay bare who we really are as individuals. Fear is our substance, the enemy we all try so hard to thwart each cold, battering day of our lives. It comes in so many different sizes and shapes; isolation, death, pain, loss, depression, change. That one intrinsic, congenital situation you don't want happening for any reason whatsoever. The one thing that has you up at night, thrashing around in your sheets, as the blossoming flowers of terror begin to unwrap in your mind. The dread formed from this obfuscating fear is enough to make anyone desperately long to lock themselves away in a solid metal safe and melt the key. Who can blame those few who actually do? The ones who pull away from humanity, shying away from the pain and incredible bitterness of it all. Who could really point a finger and laugh, when at some point all of us have or will feel the same?

For some, they only harbor a few core fears; and then there are others, who have a considerably larger pool of  them.
   If you've never asked yourself what core fears are inside you, then go ahead, start thinking about it. Chances are, it's a lot harder than you first thought it would be. The task requires a total melt down of your personality, your key traits. You have to delve right into the place in your heart where you hide your most secret feelings. Though its not easy, it can be done; and when it is, it reveals your person in a whole different light.

 

   Unfortunately for me, I'm not one of those very select few who only haul a few fundamental fears around. There are some fears in myself that I can easily pinpoint without much trouble, like for one, dirty things scare me. I just have to clean them up and reinsert the obstructed order those monstrosities caused in my life. Easy enough, right? Then there are others that take the work of a particularly emotionally challenging event or situation to really flesh out whats underneath all my carefully placed wards. To pry away those little fears that hide the true picture.
   I'm afraid of failing.
   Sure, its not particularly unique. Certainly no one would accuse me of being exemplary quirky or different in any regard. Its just my fear. The thing that has me looking in the mirror and thinking I'm nowhere near good enough, the emotion that causes me to break out in a cold sweat during a test because If I can't get that right, then what else am I good for? Its the driving force behind my obsession to completely overreach the boundaries of okay and into perfection. It's that little voice whispering if I can't be exceptional, then whats keeping the people I care about around? No one wants to be around a person who cant do anything. Who doesn't have at least one area they can succeed in.
   I know for some, this might sound silly. Why be so insecure about something that appears to matter so little on the surface? If those are your thoughts, I can agree with you. Its silly to me as well! I end up hating myself so frequently, wishing I could be someone else! But, seriously? You can't be good at everything. No one is.
   Even now that I'm beginning to recognize what truly makes me work, the fear of failure still hasn't changed. I can scream until my throat is dry, I can cry until the tears wont come, I can demand to know why I fail so completely at SO many things, but it wont change anything. I can overcome my fear, time and time again, and though the thought makes me cringe, in the end I may struggle with this for many years to come. I may strive for an unattainable perfection for the rest of my life. Its who I am, and who I might be until the very day I die.

 

Are you really living, are you really alive?

   

   What is the definition of life? What does it mean to be really, truly alive? Is it enough that our hearts are beating? Scientists refer to life as being "the condition that distinguishes animals and plants from inorganic matter, including the capacity for growth, and reproduction." So is that it?... Is that the answer?

   No, it isn't. Nor will it ever be.

   Being alive doesn't mean you walk around like an animated corpse, neither does it mean beaches and parties every Saturday just to feel like your apart of the real world. Believe me, Ive been to both extremes. Frequently, I see posts about people desperately joining activities, taking new and exotic vacations, and even hosting huge parties in attempts to give the appearance that their doing something, that their living. Facebook, Google+, Twitter, Instagram, and countless other social media's are taking over people completely.  When was the last time you did something, without the sole purpose of posting pictures of it online after your done? 

    It makes me wonder how much happier people must have been before social networking showed them how little they knew about themselves. Constant pressure is laid on a lot of us to look as though our lives are cool, exciting, fun, changing and entertaining. Everything has turned into a huge advertizement- "be friends with me, I'm unique", "date me, I have fun.", "gossip about my family, we are so loving."...

   We are all trying to create fake identities, fake lives. Personas so powerful, they can fool even ourselves.

That's the truth of it really, and in the end thats what it all simmers down to.

Not only are we trying to convince others that we are living to our fullest extent, but we are really trying to prove to ourselves that we are happy.

   All the parties, vacations, social outings and hockey games are our way of fitting in with the 'perfect life' image we all have given ourselves. Because if someone asks you what your doing on a Friday night, you want to have some sort of answer.

   Now we come to the brunt of the matter, and the real question we all must ask ourselves at some point in our lives. What does it mean, TO ME, to be alive? Is it my friends, Facebook? Family, social websites? Who am I trying to impress?...what part of me am I lying to everyone about.

   Living is personal. Living is doing and being who you are, not who you feel everyone wants you to be. 

You might be thinking, "when I'm myself and not worried about broadcasting a certain image about who I am I get hurt. People judge me, and I judge myself because of that." So then ask yourself,

Is all this worth that lie?

Always hiding behind who you are and who people want you to be?

   Let me ask you this, If people would think so little of you, for just being you, then are they really your friends? 

   If everyone was stripped of their social tags, then who would you really want by your side?

For all you homeschoolers out there, you can probably empathize with me to some degree. Everyone, I mean EVERYONE who is public schooled or in college thinks that you have no life. I don't know how many times I've walked in on someones conversation as they talked about how homeschoolers are so deprived from society. After so long of hearing it, I really started to believe it myself. For the longest time I threw myself into activities that made me miserable, just to show everyone (Including myself), that I did have a life, and wasn't missing out on anything. That when they whispered behind their backs about how odd homeschoolers were, I could prove them wrong.

    I would prove them wrong... but then why didn't I feel the least bit happy when I joined all of their activities? All the things they told me would make me happy? Why did I laugh when they babbled away about boys and drama, all the while thinking forlornly about my books and unfinished drawings. 

   The idea of facebook became slightly obsessive for me, it was where all the real action took place. People loved it, people spent 12 hours of the day glued to their screens over it. I knew I was missing something by not being apart of it, so many people had told me so! I went to my dad and asked for probably the second time if I could make an account. He took three days to give me an answer, but in the end, It was an okay. 

   I was apart of facebook.

   It was hell.

   Id never felt more torn and thrust into battle then I did after joining that website. I became apart of the drama I had sought so fervently, and it tore me apart. My feelings were a constant victim, bleeding and oozing every time another battle came up. I had to be in the right circles, I had to know the right people. I had to spend my whole day texting friends who gave me four word replies. I had so many friends, but none of them knew who I was. If I had told them I curled up by my window with the sun on my back and read for hours at a time, they would have laughed at me. 

   I was a lie.

   Then I woke up. It was abrupt as a train colliding into a wall, bringing me to a jarring stop. I heard it again, the familiar words of homeschool oddity. And I knew then. There was no pleasing them, there never would be. Those voices would continue all the way to public highschool and beyond to college. If it wasn't my education, it would be my appearance. If it wasn't that it would be my friends or dating life. If It wasn't friends it would be why I wasn't married yet, why I didn't have kids. After that, It would be me. What was wrong with me? Why wasn't I like everyone else?

   I found myself again, suffocated and nearly gone. The anger and hurt I had harbored from my supposed friends had nearly destroyed it. For once in my life I could care less about the crowd that seemed to follow me at dances or parties. I learned who to trust, and who not to. 

   I became stronger.

I went back to my books and crafts, I went back to writing random nonsense about nothing. It made me feel so happy, so ALIVE. I logged out of Facebook, and gave the password to my brother. I stopped texting those boring people who seemed to have no brains. I got real friends who actually had interests and passions of their own. I was happier.

   Who cared if I was home 5/7ths of the week, If I wanted to do something I would have. Socially deprived? More like socially recuperating, that experience showed me how aweful trying to change my life to be like theirs had worked out.

I hope sharing this experience has helped someone out, well actually, I always hope my posts might inspire or encourage someone else. Everyone is so different, just because I came to one realization about myself, doesn't mean it will fit everyone. That's the beautiful thing about the people on this earth, every one of us is so different that its hard to give a general tip without it being unappliable in someone elses situation or circumstance.

To end on a heart-wrenching note, here is a little inspiration which may turn out to be the bases for a future post!