Diary
Me
My pen used to be alive and loaded, bursting with things it needed to say. My brain used to hunger for stories and life experience, and I devoured books upon books. Every word I thought, every thought conceived beseeched the listener to think, live, probe, question. Thrive or die!
Perhaps the desperation has gone out of my work. Though I have to be careful not to confuse desperation with passion. Without passion, I would not be compelled to tell a story as well as I can tell it, or relate my feelings as accurately as I do. But we can’t all be passionate all the time, unless you’re mentally ill or drug-driven. And I know that you can’t keep that shit up for long.
I fear being complacent, too content and stagnant, arrogantly rotting on my throne of life experience. Not that I have a corner on suffering, certainly. But people respect that I have manufactured my hardships into more than just fodder for conversations. Something more striking and less superfluous, hopefully, bobbing like a buoy alongside me throughout my life.
Often I feel like my cynicism wears me down, but for the first time in my life, I have friends that I really love and trust, cherish with all my heart- people I would seriously grieve for if I lost. And for the last two or so years, I’ve been practicing nonattachment (in a healthy, Buddhist-type way) and self-love. It’s been tough for me to not drop people when we fight or they make stupid decisions. But I realized that by giving them a break, showing them mercy and withholding judgment, I am showing myself the same.
And each of these friends, new and old, have told me either verbatim or in so many words that I am “the realest person they know.” … What does that mean? Realistic? No-frills? Candid? Humorously tactless? Honest? Genuine? A purist? I really don’t know. And I can’t just ask because they tell me with such conviction. I’m supposed to already know, I guess.
It reminds me of the Velveteen Rabbit, when he asks the old Skin Horse what it is to be Real. The Skin Horse goes on to tell him that once you are Real, all the newness is gone from you. Your fur is rubbed off and your eyes may fall out and the pink satin fades on your nose. That the Rabbit will become Real because he has been shown true love and is seen as Real. And that those who are not Real will not be able to see it, but it doesn’t matter because they cannot understand.
Is this where I am? All my velvet has rubbed away, and sawdust is poking through my stitches. But I am Real.
Past Five
are you blind or somethin'? - 2009-11-24
given - 2009-11-15
rape of reason - 2009-11-13
rubbed away - 2009-08-13
eager eyes - 2009-07-24