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Sep. 5th, 2002 08:49 pmIt is damp, and grey, this morning. The whole walk up smelt of horse dung. And the crickets are purring loudly today; they were at a pleasent volume on the way up, but the ones at the station are far too loud, interrupting my thought processes.
Three small children, seemingly unaccompanied, travel on the train every day to school. Two are most definately primary age; one of them seems to be Y7 this year. Yet 75% of people would not stop to help someone who'd broken down, and 75% of people who have broken down and do not have a cell phone or other obvious means of getting help would not want a stranger to stop and help them (according to some statistics Radio 4 that my mother heard, not the most but not the least reliable source of info). A few people can always spoil it for the rest; a few horrific crimes put the majority on guard despite the odds; we live in a paranoid society.
I did not come here to rant about society, pleasently distracting though it is. Attributing things to 'society' means that you can dismiss them as beyond your control, as something forced upon you.
I wish I wasn't so teenagery at the moment. Up one moment, down the next. No triggers or reasons behind my emotions. So worried about what people think of me. But I'm a chamelon trapped between two colours, not knowing which one to turn. (Or even which colour the third is, the one I should be.) And as usual, I always get things wrong. I hate an information deficit, but it always makes me a go-between, or even a betrayer of secrets. 'I know but I can't tell you' is alien to my nature, as hard as I try to keep to it in some circumstances. So not being able to say my own thoughts - keeping my own secrets, almost - comes even less readily to me.
I don't want to hurt others, and I don't want to get hurt. But I still haven't mastered the concept of hurting people a little now to avoid hurting them a lot later, or over an extended period of time. My verb definition is still so dreadfully current.
Who am I? My name points to the indescribability of God - what do you compare Him to, who is like Him. But I find myself difficult to pin down as well - or all too easy to pin down for characteristics I don't want, or do want but only appear to posess. I'm not at all sure there is a 'real me' under this writhing can of worms; maybe I'm all in the masks.
I haven't been able to write properly for *months*.
---
Sixty-nine percent of Melis's internal drive is used up.
I do not like having to pretend to be embarrassed of my reading material. Reading books with 'Sex, science and spin' as the first three words of the blurb is not a punishable offence. Neither are books with cover art of females in bikinis.
---
I'm brokened.
Blank. Dead. Lifeless. Can't write, can't code, can't talk. Stifled with crushing boredom, with heaviness and lethargy and laziness and lack of ambition. I don't know what I want to do with my life. I don't know what I want to be doing. But it isn't this.
My brain is dead, and my happiness is in hiding. I'm brokened and I can't get fixed. Two legs to stand on and no wings to fly. Two hands to type with and no reason why. My heart is still beating but I don't see why it should be, when it has obviously been eaten by something, and that's why I can't feel anything but this grey clinging shroud of hopelessness.
I need to be fixed, but I don't know how.
I wanted to make a difference, but I keep making the wrong differences, and wasting my time writing this horrible self-pitying drivel, then inflicting it on other people to waste their time. My fiction writing is so abysmally awful at the moment it's sickening. And everyone else seems to be perfectly content with wasting their time being shallow, which is driving me insane.
But I'm not insane yet - just brokened.
Yesterday I was angry and I wanted to say things to people, upsetting things, things to shake them out of their own complacency, or sometimes even just to make me feel better, to make out that other people were brokened too, really. I don't want to do that any more. Those things are childish and ought to be beneath me. At the moment, that's saying quite a lot, because there isn't that much beneath me.
What do people do to be happy?
I'm meant to be happy now... I have a wonderful family, I go to a good school, I get excellent grades, I don't have to work, I have loads of free time, I have friends, people even invite me to parties (which I'm too scared to go to). I have a good God who cares for me, even though I'm too brokened to hear Him properly at the moment. I'm intelligent, attractive, and my prospects are good. Just about anything material that I want, I can have.
But all that does me no good when I'm brokened.
It should pass. It's always passed before. But it shouldn't be happening now, it doesn't have an excuse this time. If I'm not happy in these two weeks, what hope have I got for the other two in the month? Anyway, I got brokened back at DWcon, when I realised that life was never going to be like XF, that there were scary people everywhere and the normal ones were the scariest of all. All my dreams have gone into hiding. My hope has fled; I can't find anything concrete to place it on until death, and if that's soon, there are troubles assiociated even with that.
I don't think I could feel more brokened if someone'd died or something.
Everything in life is just so... trivial. So worthless and pointless and useless. People do the same things over and over again, to try and stay comfortable. Life's pointless and then you die; at least I have something to look forward to over at that end. Unless all this stuff about how to kill your faith by failing to do anything and how the sheep are people who've done decent stuff and escaping through the flames mean I've screwed that up, too.
---
The belt of truth, that hasn't left me. And the sword of the spirit is in there - that'll be what's digging into my side. The breastplate of righteousness, I'm curled around that - otherwise I might curl up so tight I couldn't breathe. Shoes? Can't quite see those, I'd need to change position. Helmet? Still there, I think - it's hard to see a helmet when it's on you. As for the shield of faith, what do you think I'm curled up under?
Yes, I know this stuff's for fighting in, but I just haven't been able to get up again yet. The air around me seems to be heavy, let alone all this stuff.
Three small children, seemingly unaccompanied, travel on the train every day to school. Two are most definately primary age; one of them seems to be Y7 this year. Yet 75% of people would not stop to help someone who'd broken down, and 75% of people who have broken down and do not have a cell phone or other obvious means of getting help would not want a stranger to stop and help them (according to some statistics Radio 4 that my mother heard, not the most but not the least reliable source of info). A few people can always spoil it for the rest; a few horrific crimes put the majority on guard despite the odds; we live in a paranoid society.
I did not come here to rant about society, pleasently distracting though it is. Attributing things to 'society' means that you can dismiss them as beyond your control, as something forced upon you.
I wish I wasn't so teenagery at the moment. Up one moment, down the next. No triggers or reasons behind my emotions. So worried about what people think of me. But I'm a chamelon trapped between two colours, not knowing which one to turn. (Or even which colour the third is, the one I should be.) And as usual, I always get things wrong. I hate an information deficit, but it always makes me a go-between, or even a betrayer of secrets. 'I know but I can't tell you' is alien to my nature, as hard as I try to keep to it in some circumstances. So not being able to say my own thoughts - keeping my own secrets, almost - comes even less readily to me.
I don't want to hurt others, and I don't want to get hurt. But I still haven't mastered the concept of hurting people a little now to avoid hurting them a lot later, or over an extended period of time. My verb definition is still so dreadfully current.
Who am I? My name points to the indescribability of God - what do you compare Him to, who is like Him. But I find myself difficult to pin down as well - or all too easy to pin down for characteristics I don't want, or do want but only appear to posess. I'm not at all sure there is a 'real me' under this writhing can of worms; maybe I'm all in the masks.
I haven't been able to write properly for *months*.
---
Sixty-nine percent of Melis's internal drive is used up.
I do not like having to pretend to be embarrassed of my reading material. Reading books with 'Sex, science and spin' as the first three words of the blurb is not a punishable offence. Neither are books with cover art of females in bikinis.
---
I'm brokened.
Blank. Dead. Lifeless. Can't write, can't code, can't talk. Stifled with crushing boredom, with heaviness and lethargy and laziness and lack of ambition. I don't know what I want to do with my life. I don't know what I want to be doing. But it isn't this.
My brain is dead, and my happiness is in hiding. I'm brokened and I can't get fixed. Two legs to stand on and no wings to fly. Two hands to type with and no reason why. My heart is still beating but I don't see why it should be, when it has obviously been eaten by something, and that's why I can't feel anything but this grey clinging shroud of hopelessness.
I need to be fixed, but I don't know how.
I wanted to make a difference, but I keep making the wrong differences, and wasting my time writing this horrible self-pitying drivel, then inflicting it on other people to waste their time. My fiction writing is so abysmally awful at the moment it's sickening. And everyone else seems to be perfectly content with wasting their time being shallow, which is driving me insane.
But I'm not insane yet - just brokened.
Yesterday I was angry and I wanted to say things to people, upsetting things, things to shake them out of their own complacency, or sometimes even just to make me feel better, to make out that other people were brokened too, really. I don't want to do that any more. Those things are childish and ought to be beneath me. At the moment, that's saying quite a lot, because there isn't that much beneath me.
What do people do to be happy?
I'm meant to be happy now... I have a wonderful family, I go to a good school, I get excellent grades, I don't have to work, I have loads of free time, I have friends, people even invite me to parties (which I'm too scared to go to). I have a good God who cares for me, even though I'm too brokened to hear Him properly at the moment. I'm intelligent, attractive, and my prospects are good. Just about anything material that I want, I can have.
But all that does me no good when I'm brokened.
It should pass. It's always passed before. But it shouldn't be happening now, it doesn't have an excuse this time. If I'm not happy in these two weeks, what hope have I got for the other two in the month? Anyway, I got brokened back at DWcon, when I realised that life was never going to be like XF, that there were scary people everywhere and the normal ones were the scariest of all. All my dreams have gone into hiding. My hope has fled; I can't find anything concrete to place it on until death, and if that's soon, there are troubles assiociated even with that.
I don't think I could feel more brokened if someone'd died or something.
Everything in life is just so... trivial. So worthless and pointless and useless. People do the same things over and over again, to try and stay comfortable. Life's pointless and then you die; at least I have something to look forward to over at that end. Unless all this stuff about how to kill your faith by failing to do anything and how the sheep are people who've done decent stuff and escaping through the flames mean I've screwed that up, too.
---
The belt of truth, that hasn't left me. And the sword of the spirit is in there - that'll be what's digging into my side. The breastplate of righteousness, I'm curled around that - otherwise I might curl up so tight I couldn't breathe. Shoes? Can't quite see those, I'd need to change position. Helmet? Still there, I think - it's hard to see a helmet when it's on you. As for the shield of faith, what do you think I'm curled up under?
Yes, I know this stuff's for fighting in, but I just haven't been able to get up again yet. The air around me seems to be heavy, let alone all this stuff.
