Ardor No More

     They warned me that one of us would fall for the other, and it was me. My affection, so strong, cripples me. I am too feeble to tell you what harrows my mind. I fear that if I spoke the truth, you would leave me. And I’d rather endure the torture of unrequited ardor than lose you.

     You have been so cruel to me. I don’t exist to you except for in the dark, when it’s just the two of us. Under the radiant sun amidst a crowd of people, dare you not look me in the eye. You avert your gaze or don’t see me at all. I am not part of your world during the waking hour; my name is not associated with yours. Our relations are secret, hidden from the scrutinizing eyes of our peers. And initially, that suited me. I didn’t want anyone to know. But now, I no longer care. I want to obtain you, to be the only recipient of your affection.

     What a fool I was for beginning to see you in a new light. A glittering nimbus encompassed your bronze skin. You were so lovely, so kind. I grew very fond of you and tried to imagine you by my side always, as a romantic companion. And even though my visions didn’t seem plausible, I stubbornly upheld the belief that you were different from the rest. But you aren’t. And you don’t feel the same way I feel about you. And that has destroyed me, rendered me a mess of broken nerves and shattered optimism. 

Photos not taken by me. Click on them to be directed back to the original source.

About Your Funeral

     I have the loveliest friends, a supportive family, a beautiful home, a job, an innate intelligence, and so many other things to be grateful for. I am alive and healthy, creative and inspired, ambitious and thirsty for knowledge. I am young and anticipatory for my future. I am going to college to pursue a higher education, to better my mind and myself. I have a soul that is gushing with love, a mind that is brimming with ideas. I have my voice and a respected reputation. I am a prolific artist with an affinity for lovely things. I have all of this, but I'm still sad.
     I am destined to always be melancholy; it seems to be ingrained into the very fibers of my being. At the end of each day, after embarking on countless adventures consisting of photo shoots, shenanigans with friends, and laughter that makes your abdomen ache, I feel my sadness well up inside of me until it's unbearable. And I can't stop it; I can't stop it from consuming me. And I don't know how to cure myself of it; nothing I do will make it go away. My "happy" moments can alleviate and even make me forget about it, but it's always there, waiting to pounce once I am utterly alone. My sorrow thrives when I have only myself as a companion. I can no longer be by myself for long periods of time; I become stagnant, paralyzed by my unexplainable emotions. 
     I have accepted that I can never rid myself of this wretched sadness. It will forever fester within the abysmal depths of my heart and mind. And at first, it bothered me that I may never be completely happy but now, it doesn't really faze me at all. For my melancholy is a defining element of my person and I know that without it, I wouldn't have the perspective I do on the world and everything within it.  

Photos by the beautiful Kalaija Mallery. Click on the picture to be directed back to it's original source.

Indecisions and Revisions

     I see my future unfolding in two ways: being a writer or photographer. Both are artistic expression. Both I love equally. I feel torn when I dwell on either vocation. Even though I don't have to choose what I study in college or pursue as a career quite yet, I cannot help but think about both options. 
     If I were a writer (freelance, ideally), I'd spend most of my time in solitude; brainstorming, formulating ideas, trying to manifest what I have in my head onto paper. I imagine myself sitting on benches in parks with trees laden with fall, my notebook on my lap, my pen furiously scribbling, trying to ground thoughts fleeting as the dawn. I predict many hopeless nights spent under the harsh light of a desk lamp, plagued with writers block. I would doubt my credibility and talent and want to give up; there will always be someone who is a better writer than I. Why should I bother? And I envision entire days spent alone, wandering an unfamiliar yet inspiring place, trying to articulate my feelings into words. I'd be so lonely; but I would have my fabricated characters and stories to keep me company. I would discover fulfillment if I pursued this path. When I think of myself traveling the world, documenting my experiences with beautiful, wonderful words and publishing my work (and being successful!), I become so enamored with it. But then I think of photography, and how fantastic it would be to focus on that.
     I have attempted drawing and failed miserably at painting. Once I discovered my affinity for taking pictures, I knew I had found my medium. I excelled in it and discovered it was something I was passionate about. Now, I have evolved enough in my art for me to seriously consider it as a career. I imagine myself being hired by magazines and fashion companies to shoot their editorials and look books. I could take pictures for book covers, advertisements, newspapers. I could be hired to capture the excitement of weddings or commissioned to take portraits. I could do so much, and enjoy every second of it. 
     It seems impossible to choose. But then I realize that I don't need to go to school for either one; I can be a successful photographer while I write volumes of poetry and I can also publish books while attending art school. I shouldn't limit myself to just one medium. I just need to choose the one that I need the most guidance with. I still haven't made that decision and won't for a long time; but it's something I can't stop dwelling on.

Photos not by me. Click on them to be linked back to the original source.

Reflections

I've been spending too much time awake yet I've been doing nothing except stare at the wall. It's unhealthy to be conscious for all this time; I should sleep. My eyes hurt, my body is fatigued, and my mind has not had the chance to rest. I've been dwelling on my loneliness and my lack of faith in the world. I want to die. Perhaps this is just a phase, perhaps my negativity is dragging me further down into my self-loathing. I don't know, I haven't thought about the future at all lately. I'm just trying to maintain my existence on a daily basis at this point. 

     When I read what I have written in the past (such as the excerpt above), during a time when I was experiencing a lot of emotional turmoil, I am shocked at my pessimism. My life now is so different in comparison that it's difficult for me to relate to the person I used to be. I was shaken by the drama occurring in my life. I had lost faith in humanity; it seemed that everyone I loved betrayed me. I began to see the world for what it was, instead of the facade it originally was portrayed as. I was exhausted and depressed. I felt my will to live slowly dwindle away; the nothingness of death seemed more appealing to me than the harsh realities of life. I had spent so many nights alone, sobbing to the silence, begging some divinity to alleviate my misery. I had so many questions and no answers. Nobody knew of the storm raging within me even though it was obvious. I cut off all my hair hoping to feel something, yet felt nothing at all. I felt ugly, inadequate, hopeless. The promises of the future couldn't even pull me out of my agonized state. I was slowly dying while the world was blooming with life. 
      I eventually managed to pull myself out of my downward spiral; I don't know how, but I did. I'm happier now and look forward to the opportunities and experiences that await me. I am once again rejuvenated, inspired by the immense beauty of the world. And even though I rarely think about that awful period of time, I will never forget. For I have my writing and emotional scars to remind me of who I once was.

These pictures are not by me. Please click on the photo to be linked back to it's original source.

Cabin Days

     I grew more anticipatory as we neared our destination. I had heard a multitude of stories about the cabin and all the adventures my friends had experienced there; I felt like I had been there before, even though this was my first time. When we finally arrived, I stepped out of the car -- my back weighed down by everything I had brought -- and breathed in the fresh mountain air. It was so pure. At that moment, I realized I was far from home. 
     We were welcomed with hugs and greetings and I was lead throughout the little house all my friends so fondly referred to as "the cabin". It was cluttered and seemed like it hadn't been lived in for a while. Even though there were miscellaneous objects lying about everywhere and dust coating every surface, it was charming. There were lace curtains shrouding windows, glass vases, and pretty trinkets probably more sentimental than useful. I roamed about the small house, taking pictures and finding more and more lovely things. The base of the staircase was made out of stone, there was an attic that overlooked the living room, and cobwebs clung on to everything. I fell in love with it. And all the while, Auntie Laurie was frantically running about the house trying to clean for the party and wondering why I'd want to take pictures of such a mess. 
     As the sun descended in the sky, we explored the surrounding nature and took pictures of ourselves garbed in Halloween attire. We climbed to this plateau called the Heliport (the only place we could get cellular service) and as I looked out from my lofty perch at the endless sloping hills, I felt alive. Reality suddenly felt more like an illusion; here I was, in a strange and unfamiliar place that was so close to home but an entirely different world. Everything was so beautiful. The air was crisp, the sky clear, and the horizon seemed never ending. I was glad I had come, to say the least. 
     The night that ensued was characterized by live music, limitless amounts of red wine, Halloween festivities, and too many cigarettes. I hadn't laughed that much in a long time. When I awoke the next morning and walked outside, I was greeted by cloudy skies and a refreshing zephyr. I breathed it in, knowing that soon I'd have to go back to smoggy civilization. When we finally left, I was sad to see the pine trees and organic beauty I had just started to become familiar with pass me by. And now that I'm back at home, I keep wishing I could go back; back to the cabin. 

Pictures taken by me.

Wasteland

     The world is not to end from a natural disaster, a deadly virus, or a nuclear war. The world will end once humans are consumed by technology. We live in a society where materialism is acceptable and promoted; our cultural values have alienated us. Consumerism, the constant need to buy, has made us slaves to our desire; slaves to money and inanimate things that aren’t even necessary for survival.

     We are constantly bombarded by corporations, advertisements, media, and technology; told what to buy, what to think, how to perceive the world, and how to live in a society dictated by superficial values. Where is the substance? We have become a race of cyborgs, stripped of our mundane qualities and bewitched by the machines created by our own hands. We have lost our identity as individuals; we are no longer free-thinking creatures, but mindless drones. 

I did not take these pictures. Click on them to be directed back to their original source.