It’s all about… well, not me.
For a change…
L'écume des blogues… Go see… click click click baby.
*I just noticed the link didn't work! Sorry! Fixed now. Go!
Kick out the jams MOTHERFUCKERS!!!
(If I could scream one thing in a microphone in my whole life, that would be IT)
Why not click here for the tune while you're at it?
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The obvious often eludes me. Trapped in my head. Trapped in my words. Buried under layers of dust that flew out of my whirlwinds to finally rest upon what makes sense. For real. What is obvious.
Percieved responsabilities. Chris, from Inane thoughts and Insane ramblings, pointed me to the right direction from his comment on a previous post. The direction I may have been avoiding. Or the direction I just didn't know was there all along. Not that clear to me.
I was able to dance around it. To feel it overpower me at times. For how long… When did I stop believe I was worth something, anything… When did my sense of self totally disintergrate… When did I start becoming who I thought I should be… Not because of someone, but because of what I perceived was right, expected, reasonable…
There lies the biggest responsability. Accepting that this is not anybody's fault. No one came to me with a contract, no one put a gun to my head. I. Perceived. Wrong.
Thus cultivating that image through other people's eyes. Thus making me less tangible as a human being, more real as an image of what I should be for them. My perception. Not theirs.
August 25th 2005. First post. First step. I can't say I've come a long way, that would be an understatement. I've been reacquainted with who was living inside but was hiding. Just standing by, watching the show, thinking she couldn't jump in, didn't fit in. Because of what she perceived.
Who needs fucking therapy when you can blog?
Stallée sur le bord d’la 30
je suis juste épuisée
finie
i've failed… i've failed… now, what am I gonna do about it?
même penser me demande trop
focussss… lost it. again
missed the exit
procastiner n'est qu'une excuse me dit-on
une fois le pilote automatique pèté, qu'est-ce qu'on fait?
du sable dans l'engrenage
du sable dans les yeux
la sécheresse. le désert. le vent. infiltration
j'm'en crisse pas mal du manque de cohésion, c'est plutôt la fin qui me préoccupe
la dernière sortie
si je fini par la trouver
toute seule
pour une fois
Volatile
Could it be, I wonder… Could it be that my only fear is to deceive? To not meet the expectations. To let down. To hurt. To not be liked… Loved.
Could it be that in all the decisions I make, too many things hinder my judgement, such as the fear. There is an order, a logic, a sense of responsibility that I'm not sure I can grasp anymore.
Shifted, all the bases I used to plant my feet and claim. Futile, all the reasons invoked to justify.
"If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character…Would you slow down? Or speed up?"
-Proof (from Haunted)/ Chuck Palahnuik
On finding solid ground, I have nothing to say. If only it would stop shaking… The one I'm standing on would do just fine.
Skimmamarinkydinkydink
Skimmamarinkydoooooo… I - Love - You!!
Yes, the Skimmer. That's where I'll try and showcase blogs I love, written in English (and French too). An effort to bring your words to others. And another occasion to practice your second language, whatever it may be!
Today's post I wrote in French. Starting next Tuesday, I switch.
My possible pasts
They flutter behind you your possible pasts
some bright-eyed and crazy some frightened and lost
Had I not erased a year in words, I'd be living in one possible past where I'd die. Of pain. Of being tired of being lost. Of being nothing but a memory, or a ghost, or a spirit. Awakened once in a while by some mystical incantation, to be used and then discarded. Put back in its vaporous box up in the attic of some stranger's good conscience.
I don't want to forget the possibilities ever. Not where I was headed, not where I wanted to be or go. Not the words, not the carvings on my skin, so tired and hurt already. And every time history will want to rewrite itself, I'll stick a finger in one of my freshest, deepest wounds.
Do you remember me, how we used to be? Do you think we should be closer?
Everything has a purpose. I've said this many times, meaning every word deeply. Every bad move, every mistake. To escape a possible past that I wouldn't want to live with. But ended up carrying on my back anyway, because it had a purpose.
But as my shoulders straighten, as my eyes open, as I make my way towards a path I haven't walked yet, the load gets lighter, the purpose finally guiding my steps. Next one will be different. Not better nor worse. A possible past, a purpose.