A Confluence of Thoughts

 There’s a man or a boy that we all know
Though “know” may mean we simply see him
His life is private, yet a show
And none of us could wish to be him

He wears a smile on his face
And clings to sympathetic souls
Wishing somebody would erase
His pain before it takes its toll

His one desire is to laugh,
But in private he just cries
He’s lived a life to less than half
But already wants to die

Is there anyone in his sad square
Brave enough to drop pretenses
And offer more than a hollow stare,
But give his spirit new defenses?

No, and there’s no certain blame
To be placed for his heart’s failings
If he had overcome his shame
His life may have become smooth sailing

It’s natural, in some strange way
As though he was the proper sort
That he’d not see the joy of day
Preferring to cut his life short.  

When I was in high school, I excelled primarily in one subject: English. And from the moment I began attending Highland View Academy, I wanted to win the English student of the year award. My first year there I angled for it, I suppose, by always maintaining an A grade, participating actively in class, and writing what had been my clearest, most eloquent work until that point. I lost to my sister, who was graduating, and wasn’t perturbed at all. After all, my sister had a 110 in her English class, was a marvelous writer whose gifts came more naturally, and was leaving, so it was only right that she win it. But I told myself I would win it the next year. I told myself I’d try even harder. 

Then the next year came. I had it planned: do what I did before, only in the honors class and with greater passion. But there were unforeseen issues. 

My finances and credits were in disarray nearly every other day, and the stress of it all took my grades to new, horrific depths. But I still had my natural proficiency to keep English afloat, right? Not once the teacher who had nurtured my talents left the school. I tried to adjust to the replacement, and felt that I might be fine, but yet another teacher came and it all went down the toilet from there. I had miserable marks in my favorite subject, and at the end-of-year awards ceremony I saw the award handed to someone who won it by telling other people to be quiet. I can’t determine exactly what it did to me, but I would be different had I won the award. 

And now I discover that had my old teacher stayed on for the whole year, she had planned to give the award to me. I don’t know what to think. Who would?

I would like to think
I’m destined for greater things
But all my heart tells me
Is to take a nap
And watch television

optillusions:

Pareidolia is a phenomenon whereby random visual stimuli, such as clouds, are psychologically interpreted as animals, faces, or other significant images. In this picture of random foliage, some people claim to see the head of Paula Deen.

I am not who I am.

As of late I’ve begun to realize that as a human engine my output has stagnated. I am no longer as social or creative as I used to be, and I have never been as social or creative as I could be. I feel insincere most of the time, and I think an internal urge to conform and renewed introversion has started killing what my time in high school had helped to build.

I’m taking Developmental Psychology right now, and we recently studied Eriksen’s stages of development. Those stages are divided into certain internal conflicts every person experiences at different periods of his or her life—the one for my age is “intimacy vs. isolation.” And as I sit alone in my room on this beautiful Sabbath afternoon, my only friends elsewhere, I realize that I am sliding rapidly toward isolation.

Needless to say this is not the way I want this stage to end. I’m always feeling like I haven’t lived enough, and now I’m living less. Thing is, what do I do? I must reinvent myself, probably. Not to come into compliance with everyone else, as I’ve been doing for a long time now, but to finally bring about changes in my life—which will, hopefully, bring about any sign of life at all. In college I have been following the imperative “get busy living or get busy dying” by, unfortunately, dying. I don’t have a real fear of death, out of both apathy and religiosity, but I do wish I could start enjoying the life that comes before it in some special capacity.

I guess I should make a stronger effort with people, as insanely difficult as it is for me to create relationships. I should write every day, instead of once a week or less, and I should make connections—go to social events, join clubs, go on trips, help people. I should be me and stop being a silent manifestation of society. I should be living.