It’s Friday night, and I am typing this at 2AM.
Hello, fellow human being.
This is going to be a ramble. After all, ahem, I am Dreamerrrambling. In fact, you can just imagine it as a conversation with me, albeit rather one-sided. Well, I’m feeling lonely and bored, and if you’re feeling the same, then maybe this could help you feel less lonely and bored?
I do sometimes wish we could meet in person and talk though. Maybe I could push myself through my computer screen and reappear in yours, like some kind of interweb portal, head and neck protruding, pixelated from the waist down. Too creepy? Sorry.
This is probably going to be long and boring and discursive, as conversations sometimes can be. Especially one-sided ones. Yes, I will probably repeat myself. It’s going to be a stream-of-consciousness sort of thing. I know my thoughts don’t matter, not really, and that I’m just one organism in a sea of voices who happens to be born in a time period where I can splatter my neurological manifestations across a worldwide platform based on symbols constructed by human beings that resulted in the preservation of knowledge and the creation of literature and the mapping of human life and the human condition and –
There we go. Just gave you a dose of a typical thought current of mine. One seminal thought catches the back of my neck like a Bo-peep crook, and I’m off. So. I know that my identity has been very private on this blog, how I look, my age, and whatnot, and I do want to keep it that way. But also know how lovely it is sometimes to see your bloggers, to know what they look like, you know what I mean? But I haven’t put any pictures up, in case anyone in my circle of acquaintances finds this blog and then reads all of my inner secrets. Anonymity is kind of a necessity, at least until I leave all institutions and go live a hippie life in the forest. Until then, no photos. But I like to think that it’s my soul you guys see through these words, because most people are not like what they look like on the outside anyway. But, if you want to give your imagination a little kick, I don’t think I’m particularly ugly, and I don’t think I’m very pretty either. I’m just…extraordinarily average? I have black wavy hair up to my elbows and dark eyes. I’m not sure how to describe my other features, other than relatively pleasant in dark lighting (such as in bathrooms), and relatively boring during the day.
Look at me. Talking about myself. Yadiyadiyada. I hate being egotistical, and part of the reason why I try so hard to please others, and think about others, and love being empathetic and caring and loving and helpful, is because every time I stroke my own ego or comfort myself, I find myself odious. Because I know I’m an insignificant organism, and that the best thing I can possibly do is to unleash some art into the world and help other souls. I don’t know. When I feel like I have touched someone, who is perhaps on the other side of the world, reading my words, I feel like I could die of happiness, cry tears out of my fingertips.
I just finished watching the Corpse Bride a few minutes ago, and there’s this deliciously painful bittersweet feeling in my chest. The movie was so lovely, lovely, lovely, so wonderfully imaginative and strange I wanted to weep with happiness, and so touching, so full of humanity. Don’t you both love and hate that feeling? It’s like nostalgia. It’s like when you fall in love with a movie or book character, and feel that bittersweet sense of separation, the barrier of reality.
Actually, I did kind of fall in love with a character from the movie. The man in the movie, by the name of Victor, was incredibly endearing in his awkwardness and gentleness and politeness. I combed the internet a bit after watching it, and found many people found his character distasteful, too flimsy and spineless. Which got me thinking about the personality traits that attract me, as a idealistic, introverted and sensitive female. I mean, sure, looks are important to an extent, but for me, the person, the person is the most important thing.
Problem is, I often find myself idealizing people from afar, which usually results in me ‘falling in love’ with egotistical, extroverted guys. It’s so strange. Deep down, I know they are uncaring, not gentle, selfish, and completely wrong for me, yet my idealism hones in on that one time they patted a cat, or uttered a single kind word. There’s also the fact that I am attracted to extroverted, confident men sometimes because they hold traits that I do not have, and occasionally admire or am envious of. But what kind of man do I really seek? I think the truth is, someone like me. Someone just as idealistic, sensitive. Perhaps a little tougher, a little more grounded, but still able to experience the depth of emotion I sometimes experience. Still able to know and see the things I see. Another fellow old soul, perhaps.
I have not met a single person in real life who has been like that. And of course, awkwardness is endearing. I don’t find it off-putting at all – I’m pretty awkward myself. But kindness is honestly the most attractive trait on earth. I don’t know how to stress it, but kindness, it just melts my heart into a puddle of toffee goodness. I love, love, love kind people in general, not just kind men. Sometimes, I wish I could be kind to everyone I meet, help and love everyone I meet, but I end up repelled by the brusqueness and unkindness and cold indifference of most of the population. So I just retract my inner Mother Theresa and become hardened like everyone else. It hurts. I have so much…stuff inside my heart, and I want to give it out, I want to heal and touch souls, make them shine, until I collapse, but I don’t have an outlet at the moment. I suppose if I ever did have a child, I would pour all of these caring feelings into him or her.
I want to have children, one day. I think that will make me very happy. I actually love children, and their purity and loveliness, but if you spoke to me in real life, I would scorn them and denigrate them as being messy little buggers who are good for nothing. Because of my family issues, of having a terrible father who did not care for me, did not love me, and left my mother with nothing, and turned her into the pitiful, working-to-the-bone person she is today, and I have trouble introducing the idea of love and marriage into my plans for the future. But I’m romantic as hell. My soul yearns for romance, but the hardened exoskeleton, formed through years of heart-pain and crying into pillows and seeing my mother degenerate before my eyes, stops me from hoping, screams at me to not hope, because I’ll only choke on a bloodied heart. I’m nearly crying just typing this. I so want to love, to give myself up one day, to a significant other, to the prospect of happiness, but I’m so scared, like you wouldn’t believe, of putting in my all and having it taken away from me, and being left a shell of a person like my mother. That would break me, snap my soul in half, scatter the metaphysical shards into oblivion.
Ah. To live is to suffer. All words and thoughts slice through me with the pain of knives through flesh. Sometimes, I have romantic fantasies, like meeting someone who understands me in a bookshop, or even contacting someone through this blog, and then meeting in real life and eventually dating and then…a happily ever after. But I know they are just daydreams. That all I’m truly left with, at the end of the day, are my own thoughts, my own consciousness and body, and my words, my writing, my books. That’s what truly matters for me, at the end of the day, and I hold onto art so much, so much, even if it feels like I sometimes fail it. Even if sometimes, while writing, I feel like a monkey ripping out the pages of Shakespeare, trying to understand it while chittering and scratching my armpits. Like I’m too bad at writing to even deserve to write, that I’m never going to make it, that my stories are worthless, that I’ve got this creativity, this writing thing, sure, but it’s mediocre, and it’ll never take me anywhere.
But I can’t think that. Even if it’s true, I can’t think that. I have to believe in myself, because then there would be no point in living. Even if it’s true, I will make it false. That’s just the human spirit. We fight for so much, fight it with every fibre and cell of our being, sell our blood and use our bones to make furniture, and yet we’re still so little, yet all our efforts are still tiny little ant-scramblings on a tiny blue dot of a dust mote in the universe. Yet I can’t stop, because this is all I have. I am small, I am nothing, but I still keep on going, because there is nothing else I can do. The ants go on carrying food to their nests, even if they have an existential crisis, because it’s all the can do, we’re born to do, we’re made to do.
There’s so much we don’t know, and will never, never, never know. Perhaps there is a race of greater beings who look down on us the way we view ants. Perhaps they snack on galaxies for breakfast and swallow entire universes for dinner. Perhaps this entire universe like a water droplet in their world. It’s so big, so unknowable, and we can’t know. All we can do is live, and live, live, live, live, live, live, live, live…until we stop living. And then other people will come and live for us. And they will stop living. And it will continue until all life ends. And does anything matter, then? Will life still exist in some other universe, forms created out of complex molecules entirely different from those of amino acids, so they are like electronic creatures, or something else entirely, made of light or water, or perhaps not even life, perhaps an animation, an understanding, an awareness, dreams incarnated? I don’t know, and there is no point in thinking about it, because we will never, ever know. Live.
I’m going to wrap this up, because I feel unbearably tired. If you’ve read this far, I thank you. I don’t know. I just. Want a hug. I think that’s what I lot of people need. Just a hug, a kiss. To say that you are a worthy human being, to me, and I love you. And I know that if I say I love you all, it will sound pretentious and lame, so I won’t, even though I do. Well, I love the nice people among you guys. I’m not particularly fond of narcissists, or serial killers, or unkind people, so, not all, sorry.
Here’s to love, here’s to hope, here’s to romance, here’s to the beautiful souls out there who understood this post (and perhaps one beautiful soul who could be a potential partner, one day), here’s to not feeling lonely, here’s to more movies like Corpse Bride, and, finally, here’s to living.