anna begins

A hundred and thirty two times I have written and posted. Poems and rants and rambles, pictures and stories and narratives. I love this. I love this freedom. I love the power. I love the control. I love the words.

I went back to theater recently. It is going to be just a short fling, for old times' sake; old love, mad love, hard love. Familiarity is a wonderful old shoe. I am an actress. I am a ham. I am a performer. What is the most derogatory way you can say it?

It was surreal, how easily it all came back. How it all made sense. How it made you want to tear out your hair at the roots and run around wherever you were, screaming I want to be real! I want to be real!

It's a fine line, the one I seem to have drawn for myself. On the one side there is that intense desire to know self, true self, real self; and on the other is a desire for that perfect flawless façade. Lord knows I would like to know which one I would prefer, really, in those fabled recesses of my heart and mind. As with all really selfish people, I want it all. I want to eat my cake, and I want to have it too (it always made more sense that way, like socks-n-shoes instead of shoes-n-socks, nit-pick nit-pick i wouldn't change that one for anything in the world). I want to know, just for myself, who I really am. And I want to know how to be the person I want to be seen as, for everyone else. Everyone's happy, yes? Only no. Where's the line between reality and fantasy then? Already it blurs, already my imagination gets me into trouble that I can't get out of without pain and heartbreak. Already I retreat into a wonderful painless perfect world of my own creation whenever anything goes wrong. And it’s getting worse. The world I’m creating fits on all points with the one I inhabit in my waking dream more and more, and that’s the danger zone.

hmmhmmhmmhmmm.

Let me go. The imagination is not a dog on a leash or a bird in a cage. This mess I have to accept as part of who I am. I am not changing it. Yes, stubborn I am. Yes yes yes resistant to change, wise man. In this instance, though, I will fight you to the death to defend my right to insanity.

how to save a life

There's so much I want to tell them, both of them and each of them. But as always, I worry that whatever I think today won't be what I think tomorrow. That is the biggest reason I don't talk about my feelings about people. I never know how I will feel about someone the next day. I seem to treat all people the same. Exactly the same. That is morbid.

I can safely say I love them. I can say that, can't I?
I'm not ashamed to say it, am I?
No, on the whole, I think not. I love them. I want them to know that, too. That's a step in the right direction. The willingness to give someone my heart.

It is excruciating to see how slowly I grow up. It is also frustrating at how easily I'm swayed by an idea. Someone says this is how you are, and immediately, I see their point, and I agree; and then I take a minute to analyze, and I find a million points on which they missed the point, and a million things about me they don't know that would change their judgement. That's why I reserve judgement always. I can't make up my mind if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Is it good to always want to understand everyone's motives for everything? I don't mean second guessing them, I only mean understanding the underlying motive. Finding out what makes a person tick. How their mind works. Who they are.

And then there's my goddamn ego. The more a person thinks of me, the more I think of them. I realized when I first discovered this tendency that it sounds suspiciously like Atlas Shrugged, but it wasn't intentional, oh god I hope not.

Here is the situation, then.
Someone
tells me nice things about me
and I promptly fall in love with them
and I anticipate painful endings
and when the ending gets there I congratulate myself that at least, oh at least, I didn't get as hurt as I could have
that is pretty much the general scenario

A pretty picture, that. Now, whenever I meet anyone new, male or female, I wait to see what they think of me, and I cover all bases to make sure they think I think less of them than I do, just so that I have an ace up my sleeve. It would be better if I knew what exactly I thought of people. Wait, scratch that. What I feel for people. Because in my most honest moments, I have to admit that I love almost everyone I know. And I love nobody. And if everyone I cared about were to suddenly to drop stone cold dead, I wouldn't mourn them very long in my secret heart. There is no one indispensable to my life. Not even her, though she comes oh, close so close, closer than he did even.

So here's what I think. I think there is a plan. I think I'm changing. Slowly slowly oh very very slowly, but it's happening. It is.
So I will wait it out.

I wonder why people don't realize how much it takes to make a person. Well, maybe they do realize it, maybe they're just not really listening. Empathy empathy. I should be on the stage.

on a roll

Another thing is my choice of friends. More than friends. It's that stupid hero-worship thing. I can't compute it. WTF, I ask you. What the hell is the need to only hang on to those few people whom you know are going to beat the shit out of your self-confidence? Whom you know are just going to end up letting you down? Tell me, you dumb fat pig.
Hmmm. Abusing self feels good. You must be careful to do it as external wiser and better version, or you'll end up depressing yourself. Which one you are at the end of a rant is important. The failure, sunk in the despondence of her depravity? The nagging shrew with the shrill screaming?
What delightful choices, to be sure.
This is what I mean.
Stupid stupid man.
I hate him. I HATE HIM.

hmmm. did it work?
a little.
well.
congratulations, manipulator of minds.


:D happiness is convincing yourself that you are the best thing that ever happened to you.