After being conditioned to write in times new roman, 12 pt font, for the majority of my ‘writing’ in school and out, it’s become the norm. Times new roman, 12 pt font, is comfortable, it takes no wide-eyed stares, or enormous bifocals to translate what has been put on paper in black ink. It’s a standard, yes please I would like 20 of your finest times new roman, 12 pt. font, papers. In a way it’s like seeing people. People are so interesting from just a glance. Last week I saw a businessman in the library who was sketching a woman’s nude portrait hurriedly as his lunch break was coming to an end. But I wonder if I got past his default facade of times new roman, 12 pt font, would anything that lay beneath shake me up a bit, scare me, knock me off my swing? I usually think that people are ever changing their default, whether it’s your baby boomer’s mid life crisis, or your friend’s parents hippy dippy phase, everyone has a uniform. I used to think uniform was synonymous with utopia, and sometimes it still seems that way. Sometimes I wish someone was there following me along my way, to help me keep my head up when it finds the need to float towards the ground, or further. But then I remember those T.V. shows where the cartoon character wears the same outfit, same hairstyle, same shoes, however every episode transcends this normalcy.
I wonder if life would better if we were all singing along to the ooh’s and aah’s in a music video. Stuck in a happy moment of time, like the brink of excited-ness I get after I listen to a new album, or buy something I’ve wanted for a long time, or go to a museum I haven’t been in a long time; candy stores also count. Books collecting in front of me, I don’t know if I should read more, or write more, or watch more, or just do my darned homework. I mean I don’t have a traditional form of learning, which I miss, the same way times new roman has brought nostalgia back into my heart, like soda back into my life after those dreaded 40 days in the springtime have met their end. I don’t really know what this is, or what it’s not. Maybe it’s me trying to make sense of the few days left in winter break, or the fact that I just applied for something and got discouraged because I may be declined, or maybe it’s because I’m not so worried about college admissions, most of my app’s aren’t due until Jan. 15th or later, and I’m not so worried, because college is what I make of it.
Also I can’t see myself past a couple years ago, and I know it will be new, and there is change, but the fear has hidden itself and I hope my becoming stagnant in different parts of my life, is not just my coping mechanism for the realm of possibly, that is, change. I still dream of the day that my sister comes back to live with me and my parents, in the home we grew up in. And my neighbors come over every day asking for me. And maybe I’m not the best at soccer, but I have friends and it’s a good break from school. Also I still go to church and sunday school and girl scouts, even though I’m losing interest with every day sometimes staying is better than contemplating ever leaving. But right now all of that is completely gone. It’s out of the question unless somehow I can bring back time, I think a lot of people wish for this ability. But I wouldn’t want to bring back time, I’ve already been trying to do that in my own fashion the past 4 years, and it does not do anyone or anything, myself included, any good. I feel like I’ve hit the pause button on the Netflix queue of my life, and I am so afraid to log on and press play.
What will happen now that it’s been so long since I’ve things that I love and like to do? Will I like them anymore? What if I don’t? Who even am I? And the existential crisis begins again. Well I’m slowly getting back to practicing this, even though it’s not exactly traditional I am writing again. OR at least thinking about something. And I read this quote, about getting outside yourself because depression is SELFISHNESS. But I also think selfishness can be a way to cope. When I can’t deal with all the sadness around me, I start over-thinking about myself, am i doing enough? what if it isn’t right? am I hurting anyone? aren’t I just making matters worse? Questions that I really don’t want the answers to, but I feel it is my liability to ask. I feel pity for others, and then I drown myself in the same thick viscous molasses of sorrow. But the truth is SELF PITY, does not get me anything other than a rewind. And it’s just that I care so much, and I want to help so bad. And I want to be the person someone is longing to be with you know? A significant other? I want to read somebody’s diary and realize that this life means something to somebody in the smallest and microscopic ways, that way I can go back and decipher my own blessings in life and keep going. It’s like some insight.
Maybe that’s why God keeps on making people, it’s entertaining to know about the lives of others, in such a way that only an omniscient presence can devour. Well now I think what I’m gonna do is buy a notebook, and write lots of anecdotes in it, every single day, and let it get lost. Maybe that will be on the inside cover? Just so someone having an unusually or normally horrible time or day or month or week, can read something that will leave a sweet aftertaste in their life. I don’t want to make anything or anyone a charity project but life goes on, and no matter what, we have to keep moving, because who knows we may get passed the ball we want and score...okay that’s cheesy but I never know how to end things. Also music makes me want to keep writing surprisedly.
hope your day has been superbly wonderful,
casey :---)
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