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Jul. 8th, 2011 02:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rainspiritIt's hard to regret staying up this late.
I love the solitude. I'm tired as hell, but it's no longer a torture to be doing things beyond the last minute. I get it done, and I get it done fast - I have a routine and I go at it. It works; it brings me happiness.
Only problem is that I have little time for writing. Or at least, I leave myself little time. I want to do so many fucking things, and one of them is tied up with my paycheque, so that should be a priority… but no one's going to get me to do it but myself. And the only motivator that's worse than me is other people, unfortunately.
Another great board game. Wonderful surprises. Spooky music. Candle-light and dice rolls. And all the while, the occasional furtive glance. She flattered me before, a year back, and I took a shine to her, told her stories, made her laugh. She makes me smile, and I'd dearly love to tell her how honoured I am to know her… but any sort of romantic pursuit would be inappropriate. Too young, in body and perhaps in mind.
That's the trouble of working with teenagers in a school like this. Sometimes, one of them is bright enough to capture your attention, and then they're gone elsewhere, and you're there with your thoughts, alone to ruminate.
I'm learning to not guilt myself over such things. I'm finding my inner romantic again, the inner dreamer; not indulging in such desires, but letting it taste the sky all the same.
I'm slowly making another goal for myself. Priority switch; the goal now is not to find a girl, but to hold out long enough to reach twenty-five. If I get past twenty-five, the horrid beast which rattles its cage within my loins and sexualizes my every thought I have will die slowly, a war of attrition. It will always be there, but its influence shall dissipate and I will be a more studious, temperate individual. Of course my assumptions are forever destined to betray me; my whole life has taught me that, with the biggest deception being when I turned twenty-one. But is it a terrible thing to want goals, to have an idea on how to get through, day after day?
It's hard to analyze the mask I wear. Like everything about me as I grow older, it's settling down like caked mud upon the surface of my face. It becomes comfortable, and I question it less, analyze its use less frequently. I am inappropriate sometimes, and I am sometimes too hot-headed and fiery-tempered. And I indulge far too much in terror, in spookiness, in letting other people fear me. I try to be sweet, and I am sometimes, but it's not enough to dispel the bogyman. It's too enticing to use that powerful force of energy in my mannerisms to be ghoulish, to take pleasure in other people's fear and discomfort, and pass it off as a joke.
The pouch of stones my big sister gave me is nestled against my chest, just below my heart chakra. I love the paper she gave me; I read it through, and know that the precious minerals inside are exactly what I need. Sometimes I look into the mirror and see a bright, thin line of red streaking down below my shirt; the string that holds the pouch. It looks good; it makes me feel more open, as if it were a blood vessel connected to my spiritual self, breathing and colourful and awake to the world.
I won't hazard to guess what life will be after this. I know what I don't want it to be; gruelling university courses, aching self-doubt and unhappy familiarity. I want things to change, and they will in due time, but I must be the instigator. No more can I sit back and let others do the work for me; that builds only resentment. I must finally rise to it, no matter what pain there may be, and propel myself to accomplishment.
Big sister left the island today. I'll miss her; hopefully will see her and the folks in Toronto on Christmas. Think I should ask if I can make plans for that.
When did I start liking Toronto, I wonder? God knows.
Signing off.
I love the solitude. I'm tired as hell, but it's no longer a torture to be doing things beyond the last minute. I get it done, and I get it done fast - I have a routine and I go at it. It works; it brings me happiness.
Only problem is that I have little time for writing. Or at least, I leave myself little time. I want to do so many fucking things, and one of them is tied up with my paycheque, so that should be a priority… but no one's going to get me to do it but myself. And the only motivator that's worse than me is other people, unfortunately.
Another great board game. Wonderful surprises. Spooky music. Candle-light and dice rolls. And all the while, the occasional furtive glance. She flattered me before, a year back, and I took a shine to her, told her stories, made her laugh. She makes me smile, and I'd dearly love to tell her how honoured I am to know her… but any sort of romantic pursuit would be inappropriate. Too young, in body and perhaps in mind.
That's the trouble of working with teenagers in a school like this. Sometimes, one of them is bright enough to capture your attention, and then they're gone elsewhere, and you're there with your thoughts, alone to ruminate.
I'm learning to not guilt myself over such things. I'm finding my inner romantic again, the inner dreamer; not indulging in such desires, but letting it taste the sky all the same.
I'm slowly making another goal for myself. Priority switch; the goal now is not to find a girl, but to hold out long enough to reach twenty-five. If I get past twenty-five, the horrid beast which rattles its cage within my loins and sexualizes my every thought I have will die slowly, a war of attrition. It will always be there, but its influence shall dissipate and I will be a more studious, temperate individual. Of course my assumptions are forever destined to betray me; my whole life has taught me that, with the biggest deception being when I turned twenty-one. But is it a terrible thing to want goals, to have an idea on how to get through, day after day?
It's hard to analyze the mask I wear. Like everything about me as I grow older, it's settling down like caked mud upon the surface of my face. It becomes comfortable, and I question it less, analyze its use less frequently. I am inappropriate sometimes, and I am sometimes too hot-headed and fiery-tempered. And I indulge far too much in terror, in spookiness, in letting other people fear me. I try to be sweet, and I am sometimes, but it's not enough to dispel the bogyman. It's too enticing to use that powerful force of energy in my mannerisms to be ghoulish, to take pleasure in other people's fear and discomfort, and pass it off as a joke.
The pouch of stones my big sister gave me is nestled against my chest, just below my heart chakra. I love the paper she gave me; I read it through, and know that the precious minerals inside are exactly what I need. Sometimes I look into the mirror and see a bright, thin line of red streaking down below my shirt; the string that holds the pouch. It looks good; it makes me feel more open, as if it were a blood vessel connected to my spiritual self, breathing and colourful and awake to the world.
I won't hazard to guess what life will be after this. I know what I don't want it to be; gruelling university courses, aching self-doubt and unhappy familiarity. I want things to change, and they will in due time, but I must be the instigator. No more can I sit back and let others do the work for me; that builds only resentment. I must finally rise to it, no matter what pain there may be, and propel myself to accomplishment.
Big sister left the island today. I'll miss her; hopefully will see her and the folks in Toronto on Christmas. Think I should ask if I can make plans for that.
When did I start liking Toronto, I wonder? God knows.
Signing off.
no subject
Date: 2011-07-09 04:17 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-07-09 09:17 am (UTC)Love Dad