If there’s
one thing that makes me itchy to my brain is variety. Let me elaborate: How come
that people are so so so dissimilar from each other?
If you
think about the infinity of things that there are for you to do, for you to be,
it’s exactly that: infinity. And you know what that means? It has no end. But
you know what ends? Your life. Your days are counted, counted by some kind of mathematic
formula we haven’t figured out yet/we are just yet to find the mathematic formula
for our own calculus.
And that…
that leaves me nights without seeing a sleep. Because I want to be it all. I
want to be everything. I wanna dress black and be colorful. I wanna be mysterious
but fun and out there and all over the place. I wanna be in around my fireplace
and be wrecking it at parties all night long. What a walking paradox. I am the
kind of girl that believes that I should ‘’save’’ myself for someone special,
only to deliver my lips to someone who who’d be worth it, but I’m also the kind
of girl that believes in instant connections and living in the moment and one
night stands. And I don't believe in churches or God but today I found myself walking into a church and lighting a candle and I felt good doing it, I felt closer and in touch with my inner being.
There’s so
much for you to be, there’s an infinity of things to be and a finite time for
you to be them. And that scares the hell out of me. It makes me cry just to
think about it. Here’s another: I have days I’m crying rivers with only the
idea of death, thinking about all the people I leave behind (as if you are
going forward) and how I will see them sad while I haunt their houses. But
there’s another days where it doesn’t matter to me, that I believe that dying
is just like sleeping, just that…you’re nowhere, you are…in fact, you’re not,
you are not, you don’t feel, you don’t see, you don’t haunt, you don’t have a
soul and everything in ‘’life’’ was just a random biological event.
I wanna
have more time. I want more time to be everything. I wanna feel that I’ve been
everything. You walk into a path and it’s full of intersections and you have to
keep choosing between roads – left, right. What if you end up always choosing
the wrong one? What if you choose the wrong one in the beginning and everything
is ruined from the start? What if the whole thing is so completely random? What
if everything is predestined? What if every step you take – being it right or
left, up or down – leads you to the same ending because it’s all meant to be?
This is tooooo much for me.
I also
divide myself between being born into this world to make a difference
(otherwise why would I be so anxious?) and change myself constantly for better,
shout for what I believe, show to others – because it’s not enough to change
myself, everyone should hear it.
But there’s
another days where I want to be free from that – because being ‘’good’’ brings
a lot of weight to your shoulders – I want to live it all even if it doesn’t
sound like the right thing, and I want to experience all because I don’t have a
lot of time, and, in the end, what does really separate good from evil? Who is
there to judge?
And to
think that there are people that never think of this… I am here, driving myself
crazy on a Tuesday night, and there are people out there that never wonder. How?
How do they live like sheep following the herd? But then again, who am I to criticize?
Who am I to think they’re erroneous for not inquiring? Deep down I do think
they should question the whole universe, but this is just my own beliefs. Who
says I’m right?
I was never
good with choices…even worst under pressure. And this whole life is a room with
4 walls that keep moving towards each other, and the space is getting smaller
and smaller. It is an hourglass with way too less sand. I don’t have time to open
all the doors, I don’t have enough life to walk all the roads, to make all the options.
And what does that make of me? A piece in a random giant chess game. But, wait,
the pieces in chess have someone to play them and I’m not sure if I believe in
faith. Some days I do. But if there’s one thing I do know is that I am curious
and restless. Yes, I’m 100% restless. No doubt. And I did not choose that, I
just am. There was no door to choose from.
I can’t
write as fast as my thoughts. I’m scared to be drifting, but it always smells
like ‘’I want more’’. Whenever I get to the shore, I just throw myself back to
the sea.
Tomorrow
when I re-read this I will feel silly to be on paranoid mode. I think that if
people could read minds I’d be alone by now. I’m here doubting all there is in
me, I’m afraid that I’ve been locking all the wrong doors. But maybe that is
just the way it is, just the way it has to be, and maybe, just maybe, we are
never one thing or another. Maybe we are always a mix of things, even if those
facts make us feel far away from ourselves. Maybe you have to have that doubt,
that leeway, maybe all the doors are half open, half closed.
And maybe there
are people that don’t question themselves. They are what they are and they have
known it for their whole lives. I don’t think I envy them.
And there’s
another thing: where does this all come from? The world, the people? Yes, Big
Bang bla bla bla, but how? What was here before that? Before ‘’life’’? what did
exist? Well, nothing, but does nothing exist? Isn’t ‘nothing’ something? Just a
hand full of nothing. And how come that from nothing, came everything? And now
we have cars and televisions and how did we do this? Maybe I’m just too trapped
in my human brain because clouds do exist and stars too, and humans walk and
animals have instinct, and none of this can be explained and maybe we don’t have
to know everything (but we do question everything) and the more I live the more
lost I get because when I was 3 years old I didn’t ask what the hell is a
thought.
Have you
noticed how spectacular everything is? Even the fact that you think is beautiful.
Fuck, the fact that you live is beautiful. It’s people that fuck everything up
later. We take the fun out of it. I will keep this. I will keep my 17 year-old anxieties.
I will read them when I’m 50. I will remember how everything is so beautiful
and I will cry with the thought of it. I will notice how everything must be
some twisted sick game and I will want to live again. And I will do it over and
over again until I run out of days. And we will see about what happens later.
Maybe it’s game over and I’ll have no more lives to spend. And that’s all fine
by me. C’est la vie. Or something else…
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