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bring on the slut factor reflecting all that's wrong
you call me tear catcher but it's just a fucking song
Created on 2005-06-05 10:06:47 (#7334175), last updated 2006-05-04
365 comments received, 581 comments posted
Basic Account [Gift]
93 Journal Entries, 2 Tags, 35 Memories, 0 Virtual Gifts, 3 Userpics
Basic Info| Name: | Desperate |
|---|
BioThe train was late today, and it was always early. No skin off my back, if you look at it, since I wasn't even waiting for the train in the first place. But think of all of the people whose lives are completely thrown off schedule now. Think of how much time will consequentially be lost because of those few extra minutes that they were stuck waiting for the train to arrive at their point of departure. As I depart, I see the panicked faces of these people, and it amuses me in the foulest of ways.
I really hate myself sometimes, I realize, walking through the gate and heading toward the exit. I don't have any luggage with me, and I'm almost out of cash. Once again, it doesn't really matter. I'm where I need to be. Funny how I don't feel lost when I couldn't be any more so. Funny how I feel the most lost when I know exactly where I am. Exactly where I am is never where I want to be. But this - this is. This is the farthest away from myself I've been in a long time, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I really hate myself more than just sometimes, I realize, walking toward the park. It's only a few blocks from the train station. I've never been there, but that's what the map at the train station read. Hopefully it won't look anything like the one back home.
Home. Now there is a foreign word if I've ever heard one. Deadliest four letter word in existence, yet nobody really seems to know what it means. Well, now, I really shouldn't give it the title of deadliest, since that belongs to love. Love is the reason I'm this far away from home. Or maybe it's the reason that I've come home. In all honesty, I still haven't decided whether I'm coming or going. Maybe I'm just going...and going...and going, and never destined to stop. I could grow accustomed to the life of a nomad. I'd have friends everywhere; I'd never have to fear not seeing a friendly and familiar face. That is the part I would miss most about being a nomad. Familiarity. Knowing where I am when I wake up. After a while, most towns would start to look the same, and smell the same, and it wouldn't matter so much. But part of me would just know, deep down, that it was some place new. Some place unknown.
The unknown is what scares me most. More than fear, more than consequence, more than anything. Which is why it is so strange to be at such ease here on this park bench. This place is the exact opposite of familiar. My brain is telling me to cower. It's telling me to run as fast as I can back to the train station and buy myself a ticket home, back to love. I don't want love. I want acceptance. But I can't even accept myself, so how can I expect anyone else to? If I could find even one thing about myself to accept, maybe it would open the door to a new life. A new love?
If I hadn't forgotten my watch, I could be sure of the time right now. I know I took the late train, and that it left home at ten. I think that it was supposed to be at the station at quarter past eleven, but I'm not sure. Either way, whatever time it was supposed to be there at, it wasn't. It was twenty minutes late. Maybe that's why no one relies on trains to make it to the hospital in a timely manner during labor, or when they're bleeding to death. Those extra twenty minutes weren't life-threatening to me, though. I really appreciated them. It meant twenty more minutes to convince myself that I was making the right choice, and, ultimately, remain undecided and afraid.
Stranded. It's better than being abandoned, but not by much. At least I know I did this to myself. At least I know that I am the only one I can blame for the way I am thinking, if not the way I am feeling. I can blame anyone at all for the way I am feeling. Abandoned. And, what's worse, is this night grows colder with each face I remember. I can practically calculate the drop in the temperature to the degrees fahrenheit and celsius. I am glad that I brought my lucky scarf. The one with the thick, green and gold stripes. The one that Gran knitted for me when I was a baby. The one I wore when I left home after college. The one I always wore on the first day of school, even if it was still warm outside. The one I wore when I met love. All right, maybe it isn't so lucky after all.
I already miss love and home, but what use would there be in going back now? I'm sure that they've already forgotten me. That's my greatest flaw, really; how forgettable I am. How I blend in with the crowd before you can even see me. I am a faceless drone, programmed to please everyone but me, and was I programmed well. Sometimes I can forget about even myself.
Is that what I've come here to find, then? Myself? Would I really come to a place like this? A place where...maybe even I couldn't get lost. A place where I stick out like the sore thumb that I am. I look like everyone else, but not everyone here. These people are not my people. Why, then, am I still discontent?
Because I will forever lack the acceptance that I desire. Who can accept what can't accept itself? Only someone like it. Someone as lost. Someone as despised. Someone running from home and love like it. Like me. I wouldn't want to run with myself. I would only slow myself down, my memories cementing my shoes to the ground they stand on. My fears tethering me to the home I grew up in. My love binding me forever to what doesn't love me.
It really is far too cold for a mid-August night. I should not be sitting comfortably in my scarf and hoodie while others walk by, hugging their arms because they are wearing just t-shirts. And then it occurs to me that I have nowhere to sleep. I don't know anyone here. I didn't plan this trip out half as much as I should have. That's what it's all about, though. Impromptu vacationing. The life of the nomad. I'll stay here until it's time to move on and no longer than that.
Then a face walks by, and my heart reconsiders. What if this place could be home? What if I could find love again? What if that face is my one and only chance to be happy? Do I really want to risk my new life in an attempt to go back to what I am accustomed to? Is there really even any doubt in my mind as I rise to my feet and hurry to catch up to the face that made something click in my brain? But what to say? How about an introduction? How about my name?
My name is Desperate. Her name is Hope.
I really hate myself sometimes, I realize, walking through the gate and heading toward the exit. I don't have any luggage with me, and I'm almost out of cash. Once again, it doesn't really matter. I'm where I need to be. Funny how I don't feel lost when I couldn't be any more so. Funny how I feel the most lost when I know exactly where I am. Exactly where I am is never where I want to be. But this - this is. This is the farthest away from myself I've been in a long time, and I wouldn't have it any other way.
I really hate myself more than just sometimes, I realize, walking toward the park. It's only a few blocks from the train station. I've never been there, but that's what the map at the train station read. Hopefully it won't look anything like the one back home.
Home. Now there is a foreign word if I've ever heard one. Deadliest four letter word in existence, yet nobody really seems to know what it means. Well, now, I really shouldn't give it the title of deadliest, since that belongs to love. Love is the reason I'm this far away from home. Or maybe it's the reason that I've come home. In all honesty, I still haven't decided whether I'm coming or going. Maybe I'm just going...and going...and going, and never destined to stop. I could grow accustomed to the life of a nomad. I'd have friends everywhere; I'd never have to fear not seeing a friendly and familiar face. That is the part I would miss most about being a nomad. Familiarity. Knowing where I am when I wake up. After a while, most towns would start to look the same, and smell the same, and it wouldn't matter so much. But part of me would just know, deep down, that it was some place new. Some place unknown.
The unknown is what scares me most. More than fear, more than consequence, more than anything. Which is why it is so strange to be at such ease here on this park bench. This place is the exact opposite of familiar. My brain is telling me to cower. It's telling me to run as fast as I can back to the train station and buy myself a ticket home, back to love. I don't want love. I want acceptance. But I can't even accept myself, so how can I expect anyone else to? If I could find even one thing about myself to accept, maybe it would open the door to a new life. A new love?
If I hadn't forgotten my watch, I could be sure of the time right now. I know I took the late train, and that it left home at ten. I think that it was supposed to be at the station at quarter past eleven, but I'm not sure. Either way, whatever time it was supposed to be there at, it wasn't. It was twenty minutes late. Maybe that's why no one relies on trains to make it to the hospital in a timely manner during labor, or when they're bleeding to death. Those extra twenty minutes weren't life-threatening to me, though. I really appreciated them. It meant twenty more minutes to convince myself that I was making the right choice, and, ultimately, remain undecided and afraid.
Stranded. It's better than being abandoned, but not by much. At least I know I did this to myself. At least I know that I am the only one I can blame for the way I am thinking, if not the way I am feeling. I can blame anyone at all for the way I am feeling. Abandoned. And, what's worse, is this night grows colder with each face I remember. I can practically calculate the drop in the temperature to the degrees fahrenheit and celsius. I am glad that I brought my lucky scarf. The one with the thick, green and gold stripes. The one that Gran knitted for me when I was a baby. The one I wore when I left home after college. The one I always wore on the first day of school, even if it was still warm outside. The one I wore when I met love. All right, maybe it isn't so lucky after all.
I already miss love and home, but what use would there be in going back now? I'm sure that they've already forgotten me. That's my greatest flaw, really; how forgettable I am. How I blend in with the crowd before you can even see me. I am a faceless drone, programmed to please everyone but me, and was I programmed well. Sometimes I can forget about even myself.
Is that what I've come here to find, then? Myself? Would I really come to a place like this? A place where...maybe even I couldn't get lost. A place where I stick out like the sore thumb that I am. I look like everyone else, but not everyone here. These people are not my people. Why, then, am I still discontent?
Because I will forever lack the acceptance that I desire. Who can accept what can't accept itself? Only someone like it. Someone as lost. Someone as despised. Someone running from home and love like it. Like me. I wouldn't want to run with myself. I would only slow myself down, my memories cementing my shoes to the ground they stand on. My fears tethering me to the home I grew up in. My love binding me forever to what doesn't love me.
It really is far too cold for a mid-August night. I should not be sitting comfortably in my scarf and hoodie while others walk by, hugging their arms because they are wearing just t-shirts. And then it occurs to me that I have nowhere to sleep. I don't know anyone here. I didn't plan this trip out half as much as I should have. That's what it's all about, though. Impromptu vacationing. The life of the nomad. I'll stay here until it's time to move on and no longer than that.
Then a face walks by, and my heart reconsiders. What if this place could be home? What if I could find love again? What if that face is my one and only chance to be happy? Do I really want to risk my new life in an attempt to go back to what I am accustomed to? Is there really even any doubt in my mind as I rise to my feet and hurry to catch up to the face that made something click in my brain? But what to say? How about an introduction? How about my name?
My name is Desperate. Her name is Hope.
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