What is it about parents that holds so much sway over us, even as adults? I've been my own person (emotionally) since I was old enough to even form an opinion, but I will always measure myself by the yardstick of my father. He is the only person that can get into my head and shake me. It's telling of how much I love him, I guess, but it's still something that drives me to over-react and lose control.
Sometimes I regret how I've lived because of how I feel I've disappointed him. He shows me nothing but love and greets all my problems with a smile and a helping hand, but I carry this stuff with me anyway. I guess I use him so that every time I'm pissed off I can imagine it's him who I've let down, and not myself.
What's more twisted, that I'm such a self-loather or that I have managed to victimize my parents for loving me? When that other shoe drops, I'm gonna have quite a few years of real trouble, and then I guess we'll see what I'm made of.
manic to a fault
Tonight I paced slowly across teeming oceans, free enough in my mind to forget the things that bind me to my (it means frightened and weak-willed) life as I know it.
With the skill and patience of a young Frank Lee Morris, I search daily for my way out of reality. Now, I am not an abuser in any traditional sense, but I know the gene is there. My excesses themselves are mostly pitiful. But I remember when...
So when I come home, I look for that place. I like the words, and the way she uses them. She is a stranger, because they all are. But that doesn't mean I don't know her. If this is confusing, then you get the faintest glimpse of how I walk through this world. I would equate a feeling with a place, and try to make sense of it for you(me, later)- but what's the point of explaining something that you just want someone to understand? It is, at its core, a disappointment so big, so dramatic, that mere tears cannot explore its sadness. I want to reach out, but I have no consolation to offer.
If there is a moment in a film when I am inevitably disappointed, it is when the final scene fades to black. It is that fake, not-dark-enough movie black that settles on me when I have to go back to being in the action that really tears me down. There has been nothing in my life thus far that would really constitute two hours of screen time, and I still unravel the scenarios that I am faced with according to a codec of 24 fps. The magic of movies owes itself to something called persistence of vision. I see nothing if I don't keep watching.
And I end on this note: we all mean something to somebody, even me. And every one of us underestimates how much that something is. But it doesn't make it easier to take the sunrise. I think I know why Robyn isn't sleeping.
manic
