BF4EVER...or until I have to make an effort.

I remember having a conversation with my brother about seven or eight years ago. I asked him why it seemed that one of our mutual acquaintances had way more friends than me. He said, "It's because she is just more friendly than you; she has a genuine smile." I recall that it struck me as odd, because I never saw myself as unapproachable or artificial. Shy, perhaps. More likely to shake your hand than hug you, sure, but still friendly. I didn't have scores of friends. I had "best friends" and therefore counted myself among the other lonely girls who pretended that quality outranked quantity. Of course, my social horizon grew somewhat during my adolescent years. High school has a way of shoving too many people in your direction all at once, and then graduation occurs, leaving you exactly the way you began: friendless. It is one of the many transition periods one must go through in order to become an adult. If the human social life could be compared to a process in nature, it would be the transformation of the caterpillar into the butterfly. Only reverse that. We begin beautiful and vibrant and end up warped and trapped in a lonely shell of our own making. I digress. The point is, I used to be nice. I was blessed with the ability to have a real interest in people. I see people. I perceive their true emotions, even as they try their hardest to emit something else. I listen because I understand, and because for some reason, I'm extremely sensitive to the pain and distress of others. I am doubly aware of when I cause injury or friction. I feel it in a pause, or an averted eye, and can never quite cope with my own guilty conscience. But people like me have an even more terrible problem. We're expendable. I guess sometimes, I can be too quiet, too flexible, too eager to help. I've become the doormat for everyone's issues. Yet I don't mind listening, unless my attention becomes the only reason you call. I suppose people equate the ability to listen with stupidity. They assume I don't realize their pattern, as if it's really that difficult to figure out. Delayed communication, excuses, and finally the supposed deal-clincher: "But I miss you so much!" As if that impassioned statement is supposed to make up for months without so much as a phone call or a Facebook post. As I told a friend the other day, I am still genuine and friendly, but I've developed a hard edge, a dark side. The scary kind that may eclipse what's left of the good. If this happens, perhaps it will be comforting to know it was all for the sake of self-preservation. Yet if I strive to maintain a trusting spirit, totally willing to give rather than receive, who is to say that wouldn't hurt me more in the end? I guess I am just trying to figure out which method of self-destruction I'd prefer.

Love

He picked a fresh, throbbing brain from his own imagination and thrust it into the plastic head of his blow-up doll. She spoke words he thought he needed and for hours he held her, just clinging like a babe to its mother. She was the culmination of his every disappointment and fantasy. Staving off his desperate hunger, she fed his hopeless desire. She was the personification of a brilliant mind and a passionate soul. Lying awake for hours, they talked of dreams and the mysterious future. He said her eyes were like jewels lying hidden in a bright, azure ocean. Every time they pierced his he felt the thrill of a treasure found. Stroking her elastic arm, he wept and whispered, "I love you", holding her still tighter as the lie became evident. Because for a moment he felt the heat of her neck, the supple skin on her cheeks, and a velvet whisper in his ear. And in a moment, she would be gone, and he would be left with her cold shell, vacant of flesh and desire.

Validation

I was driving to work one day, feeling strangely morose, when suddenly I was struck with a haunting thought. "How much validation do I find in the leer of a man?" I've always considered myself somewhat proper, sometimes severely reserved, and very likely to ignore any whistles, elevator stares, or otherwise inappropriate affronts from strange men. What is the typical reaction of a female to the unabashed stare of perverted males? I've witnessed such scenes innumerable times and therefore have it involuntarily planted in my brain. She curls her lips in distaste, eyes narrowed furiously beneath the dark tint of her sunglasses. Instinctively, she straightens her spine, her stride becomes a strong, haughty march as she transforms into an irreconcilable force. Every attempt has been made to show her displeasure, and she finally mutters, "pervert", just for good measure. Yet I think if women were honest, most would be unable to deny a conflict of feelings when such things transpire. Disgust? Yes. Unbridled condescension? Of course. Humilation? Possibly. However, when she has finished processing this range of emotions, she may be left with a somewhat disconcerting conclusion: I am something worth looking at. And when this startling discovery is made again and again as these encounters continue throughout our lives, as we are conditioned to the feeling of shallow satisfaction followed by a leer, we come to expect and even hope for such attention. Because what is respect among strangers? She is not friends with this man. He is not acquainted with her. When interactions lack emotional or moral responsibility, what difference does it make if he garners some sick fulfillment from her body? It is this purposeful disconnection from humanity, from decency, which allows men to behave as degenerates and women to encourage them with silence and shorter skirts. Perhaps this issue can be attributed to our "microwave" culture, our "quick-fix", "I-want-it-now" society. Women are finding it impossible to wait for the attentions of a respectable and loyal companion. In Tennessee William's play, "A Streetcar Named Desire", no one is a more poignant example of this than the leading lady, Blanche DuBois. She is beautiful, sophisticated, intensely intellectual, and the picture of elegance and refinement. But there is a strange insecurity in Blanche, an unmet need that increasingly haunts her. She desires a husband; a man who like her, appreciates beauty and art and delicate manners. Yet having been subjected to harsh misfortunes, including her first husband's suicide, she becomes both prey and predator to lonely soldiers and young, vulnerable boys. She finds waiting too difficult, and the effort to hold onto the interests of one mediocre, subpar suitor too strenuous. Williams wrote "Streetcar" in 1947 yet Blanche's final declaration is still tragically accurate: "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers."

Ruby Red Slippers

I was sitting there and thinking, "isn't it about time?" Kept wondering, shouldn't this be it? Maybe tomorrow or the next day. Patience. Keep on hoping. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. How long have I been waiting? Isn't it about time? I'm tired of sympathizing, tired of patting everyone else's head and saying, "How awful for you." What about me? I don't want to be your case, your therapy session. I'm not a charity case. I'm a lifelong issue. One problem today, two more tomorrow, three next week, and so on and so forth. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I want to try. I'd like to improve. To move forward and abandon every burden. But what about everything else I thought I wanted? These desires that press me even now when I'm feeling so hopeful? Are they hurdles placed in my path simply to distract me? Or are they just as real as the dream to change? And what about your answers? I'm afraid you may be correct. About everything. In which case, I'm more lost than before. Contrasting previous thought with present revelation. Can I be expected to distinguish between which is best? Maybe I'm done with all of these questions. Or maybe I can't help it. Maybe it doesn't even matter. Just keep telling myself, "There's no place like home. There's no place like home." Oh wait, I forgot, no place is home.

Abrasive Thoughts Cannot Linger

How long can silence last? I do not mean external noise, like car horns or crying children or barking dogs. I mean the internal sort of quiet. The kind where the mind goes blank, and the beating heart neither increases nor decreases in pace. When someone says "hello" or the radio is playing a song and you barely notice. How obvious is this? Do the eyes appear glazed or the face numb? Can one even notice it in one's own reflection? It's like an empty, abandoned train station. Every element is there, the tracks, the ticket booth, the waiting platform. All reminders of what once existed. Yet without the train, a station loses purpose, meaning, a logical reason. At which point does a demolition occur? The glass and metal and wood all turned to rubble in the blink of an eye. Some kind of merciful homocide. Or will the old place just sit waiting? Waiting for the people to return. Waiting for the blast from the train's horn. A spark of life, or a small lump of sympathy from passersby. This, after all, is the mind. An old, decrepit thing constantly waiting for reignition. Oh, there may occur some small event, a brief break from monotony when existence is made to seem worthwhile again. A smile, an acknowledgement, maybe even a conversation. And suddenly the mind is freed from its constraints, and the heart can thump with vivor and strength begins to grow. Then it is over. The smile, the acknowledgement, the conversation. Where else can one go but back down? When light is gone, what else could there possibly be but darkness? Light does not come from within, that is foolishness. Perhaps the world might gain some meaning when people learn to shoot light from their own ass. Until then, inside is just as dim as outside, and silence is all the more bitter when contrasted with the loud joy of surrounding parties.

Hey Bus, Run Me Over!

I always thought growing up would take forever. You know, I imagined that all knowledge would suddenly jam itself into my brain at the age of 95. Or, that it would occur each decade or so. At the age of 20, I will have Maturity. At 30, I will have Worldly Wisdom. At 40, I will have Sympathy. At 50, I will have Menopause, etc, etc. However, it seems life appreciates small, subtle increments. Little bits of wisdom at a time. I have always said, "Learn something new every day." But I always say that when I'm told something completely uninteresting, entirely factual, and of little consequence. Furthermore, I have never liked the idea of learning from other people's mistakes. I grew up reading books about other people's sins and every time they explained how they were wrong, I think, "You just didn't do wrong the right way." Plus, there are some things that you just shouldn't try to explain and compartmentalize into proverbs and ideals. You just view them. Experience them. You can ponder, and analyze, but never come to a conclusion. Never attach a word or a label. It just is.
Maybe I am wrong. Maybe each new experience needs an organized space in your mind. The Good, The Bad, The Ugly. Yet when we live in a society that is constantly rushing past and never stopping to ask, "why?" is it really plausible to expect to understand everything? Life is like a plotless, silent movie. Compilations of short clips, some warped, some clear, and some more poignant than others. Perhaps through the someone else's eye the scenes might be interepeted differently. Which is why I will never go to a psychiatrist unless I want to be called crazy. Yet I have convictions. I will never go into the woods to find myself. I wouldn't go to a convent either. The only thing I'd ever find in those two places are poison ivy and scratchy clothing. The more I see of this world, the more I realize how little I know. So, is solitude and isolation really the solution to ignorance? Of course, "finding yourself" is basically a lost cause. I'm almost positive it never happens. Even on your deathbed, won't you lay there thinking about everything you never did or the things you rather wish you hadn't? Yet there is some comfort in being young. Being 19 is both blissful and chaotic. There is this constant onslaught of information and problems, but I'm still a fresh-faced kid. I still have a chance at life, at change. I look back at the past year and it is overwhelming to see how much I've learned. Can it be I have found optimism? As frightening as the future may seem sometimes, I look forward to progressing and seeing life in a new way as each day passes.

The Future Can Always Change

I suppose idealism has a downfall. I always like to distinguish the words "optimism" and "idealism" as two completely different things. Optimism is like a perspective that you switch on and off. If you are an optimist and things are going wrong, you will do your best to see the good in the situation. Optimism is a positive way of looking at one's life circumstances. Idealism is more ethical, if you will. It's when you look at a situation and say, "This is what it should be." In my mind, it has always been futuristic, sort of post-modern. I look at existence and think, "Surely, there has to be more than this." For this reason, I do not consider it a contradiction to be both an idealist and a pessimist. In fact, sometimes it makes more sense to be both. There would be no reason for idealism if bad things did not occur. There would be nothing to look forward to. Unfortunately, what my idealistic mind imagined five years ago as the future is now the present and it is a startling disappointment. I wonder if one's ideals can diminish to the point where they no longer exist. I have reason to stop hoping, but I never do. So, am I stuck in this endless cycle of ambition being born and then forcibly aborted? Or is this entire query simply reliant upon the decisions that I make and not predestination?