World of Make Believe

The world seems not the same
Though I know nothing has changed
It's all my state of mind
I can't leave it all behind
I have to stand up to be stronger

I have to try
To break free
From the thoughts in my mind
Use the time that I have
I can say goodbye
Have to make it right

Have to fight
'Cause I know in the end it's worthwhile
That the pain that I feel slowly fades away
It will be all right

Lyrics: Pale, Within Temptation

I don't frequently intersperse my entries with song lyrics anymore.
Once upon a time, I did. I did this frequently both at in my former
Livejournal blogs as well as my diary-x blogs. Often times, I felt,
these songs convey my feelings more accurately than my own words could
ever dream of doing. Now, upon a bit of reflection, they didn't convey
them any more accurately than I could have. I was just lazy, unwilling
to have to work through and dissect my own feelings.

Is this kind of thing, really, that all these "adults" in our
society deem as being 'teenager-itis'? In the end, does is it honestly
just chalked up to an unwillingness to be introspective before the age
of, say, eighteen? Perhaps so, but this argument would be so much
stronger if so many adults did not act the same way as the 'children'
in society do today.

To move back to the original topic of this all…when I first began
blogging, I almost instantly developed a fondness creating entries
based around song lyrics. I could sit down, open up whatever client I
was using to script an entry in whatever journal I was using at the
time. It was so astonishingly easy, I felt. Someone had created these
words, these lyrics, for my personal purposes of detailing my life in a
journal entry. All I had to do was transcript the songs, and I was
finish. The entry was completed, and from there, I could easily store
it into a box and tuck it neatly in the extensive bookshelves of my
mind.

And until such time came that I wanted to think on these things, to
reflect, these thoughts and feelings could sit there, on the bookcases
(in alphabetical order, mind), never to be dealt with again.

Bookcases can only hold so many items, though. Philosophically, one
can argue that any space, in and of itself, is both infinite and
contained, because no matter how "full" something seems, there will
always be more space– whether it is for the tiniest sliver of paper or
one millionth of an atom– because space has the potential to be halved
and divided infinitely, no matter the circumstances. These bookcases,
however, would grow to be as full as they could be in the pragmatic
sense. Too full. And the bookselves would fall the boxes would break,
and the contents fell to the dusty and dirty floor.

Then, I would have to clean it up. I have to repack and place all
these boxes back on the bookshelves. Many would consider the height of
this scenario to be the collapsing of the bookcases, the spilling of
the contents. They were all wrong. It was never that. The explosion
would come as I was kneeling down, picking up the pieces, having to be
confronted with everything I had stored away for so long. As I cleaned
up this disaster, dusted the bookcases, it was a calm serenity. It was
not until I began repacking the actual contents that it would become
too overwhelming, and the real explosion would occur.

It would be the true breaking point. Confronted by the shadows of
fear, the green cat eyes of jealousy and envy, the red silk of
sexuality and seductive sins, the blackness of fear, the spots of rage,
the blinding, flashing lights of confusion and chaos. All at once, all
attacking.

There were few, if any, good memories.

And there was never any peace. There was never any serenity.

Those flashing lights, the shrieking voices, the screaming of
desperate tears. A dusty floor surrounded by everything that was once
hidden and never fully realized until this point in time, and that's
all I had. And would be all I knew, until I could handle no more. All
would fall silent, then, soft cries of despair, regret, and anger at
myself. Everything would magically fall back into their boxes, only the
boxes would be so much, much smaller now. They would be clean, and
sealed again, and would hold in them a less intensity than they once
had. They would never again hurt as much as they once had.

I would forget. I would move on. Others might, they might not. Some
didn't, some couldn't. It would take work, but it was okay now. My
bookcases were picked up and relatively empty again. I could handle it.

But it would repeat itself.

And again, and again. I would forget, again and again. I wouldn't
remember until I revisited the past. Not through the bookcases, but
through the written contents of them, stored physically in journals.
Many, many journals. I never blogged in the same place for long.

You, too, would have run away.

Years later, I still have forgotten. Eight of my journals are gone,
now, fallen with a slain server. The rest are still around, journals no
one will ever know about, and journals of not only my life, but what I
put those around me through with the dusting of the contents.

I still revisit those journals. I will, as long as I can. I have no
physical memory of what I have said, what I have done. All I have are
the words that I once wrote, whether or not I remember writing them. I
own them, I claim them. I am ashamed, but I claim them. I am sorry.

Please know, however…I will remember this.