Don’t Waste Your Time Hesitating

For the past two years, the fleeting and highly subjective world of feelings was the purview of my life.

Defining Love & how people act within the confines of this state was a laborious, painstaking task. Let alone comprehend and make tangible to my eyes (and the eyes of my minions) the actions of many. To put simply, I was trying to do the impossible. The result of this overdrive (in trying to make tangible what is bleak) produces, however, is nothing short of magical. Whatever you read from this blog simply paints a picture of my personal reality, allowing you and outside world access into the deepest recessions of my mind. But what is reality? Isn’t all reality but one’s own form of fiction?

Due to recent events, I seem to have become increasingly interested in the role emotions play in our decision-making processes and in our self-image. At any given time, provided I am left alone, I catch myself wondering: What would it be like to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes? The shoes that makes another what they are. What if I had intimate knowledge as to what wove their essential character, their soul? From the first time I thought that thought, I had begun to observe people in a much brighter light.

What drives this curiosity further is fear. Which is exactly what I will be writing about today.

Let me create for you a situation. You’re in love with a man/woman who seems to have moved on. You want them back but you hesitate for fear of “losing face”. So, you pretend like you don’t care. You pretend and you lie to yourself that everything is alright. But are things really? This act of giving up and keeping one’s feelings to themselves  is what aggravates me. We watch countless movies where the X goes after the Y after all that has happened, and we say “aww” (my aww sounds rather satirical though) but we always envision ourselves to be the latter. The one who is sought after.

Why whY WHY 

One finds it hard to express his/her feelings for fear of rejection. That is what many say, but there is much more to this than its superficial counterpart. What does it mean to love too much, and why are we ashamed for being the one who is last to move on? Is is because X unconsciously harbours anger and pretends to move on only to provoke the same pain towards Y, and or possibly try to prove that Y is so insignificant to X that X moves on in what seems to be a short amount of time? I honestly do not know because 1) I have yet to do such a thing & do not intend to. These conclusions are merely based on observations. 2) I lack the vocabulary to fully coerce what my mind has formed out of these observations. Or I might just be having some word block -facepalms-. I think the current aspects of the society plays a part in this. Some of us  want to impress our friends and somehow that alters the way we act and or behave. This, however, is what I find most repulsive of the humans who inhabit the wasteland known as Earth. I have been in such a position before, however, rather consciously, and I grew weary and decided that people should take me as I am, or go lick bulls’ balls.

The point is:

Everyone seems to have a philosophy that they themselves live by puritanically. It’s not one, I don’t think, that they intentionally desired to imbue me with; but nevertheless, it was a way of thought that rubbed off on me. Kind of like a mosquito bug infects an unsuspecting traveller with malaria. Yes, a dis-ease. They say next time, someday, or in this.given situation, in the next relationship. But why not now? If you love him/ her, go and run after them, buy them flowers or pokemons and whatnots. 

I understand that only by having something does the threat of loss or destruction linger. But, so what if they reject you? What is there to lose because in fact, you will learn a few lessons, making you better for the next dude. In fact, you have tried and thoughts beginning with ‘what if ‘ will not plague your mind. In fucking fact, you are the bigger person who gathered his/her courage to be vulnerable; you were brave enough to expose a part of you that can be cut up and manipulated, a solid something susceptible to collapse.

Write that book. Kiss that loved one. Ask that person you’ve been stalking for five months out on a date. Tell (insert name here) that you love him/ her. Tell Bob that he’s an ass-bag. Buy those tickets for your gap year. Climb Mount Potato. Lick a “poisonous” toad. Try something different.

Someday is merely another way to say, “I like to comfort myself for my (self-perceived) shortcomings, and so, I contrive stories where the character I play will eventually fulfil all of my – ‘my’ meaning my very own – wildest dreams.” So do whatever that can be done, NOW. Don’t be afraid because it would mean that you are constantly hesitating. If you’re so afraid of falling, fall is all you’ll do, because you never gave your all to begin with.

I have traversed roads both near and afar, sailed across and above ravenous seas distending in both breadth and depth further than one could envision to become the person I am today. Often I have hesitated, and now I am full of regret. Take my word; Don’t hesitate anymore.

I hope that many won’t have to travel the paths I did to realise such things because it was tiresome and worst of all, lonesome. I also hope that whatever written on my blog helps you with navigating in this wasteland.

We are all on the same path, yet we each possess a different map. 

Anyone else like this?

I’m a pretty laid back kind of person.

There’s not so much that bothers me, or gets under my skin. Its the only way to get through this life, I think.

However, the above is only true from a rationalised, intellectual standpoint.

In truth, I’m an unnecessarily anxious person. The emotional pull my body is capable of is fierce & unforgiving. A typical love dovey movie can bring me to tears. A malicious comment can cause my entire body to freeze up. A single thought can shadow my entire consciousness in the bleakest of dyes known to humankind.
Detecting anger in someone’s voice, even if I can’t see the person speaking, can paralyse my entire being.

One of the characterising traits of my mind is that it sometimes (quite often) has little control over itself. The emotions a depressive mind experiences are like tidal waves, they know no bounds & see no consequences. When my mind fixates on a certain object, the object consumes me. My mind obsesses over this single object as if my life depended upon making sense of it.

Moreover, I often find myself caught between my own debates. As if I try to have logical reasoning within myself.
As if there was an immature me, & an intellectual, mature me, both fighting in what seems to be a court room…
I never considered this mental ping-pong as unusual. I always assumed that everyone naturally analysed their emotions to such an extent.
I also assumed that people were always this aware of their own emotional states, too. I only realised that this wasn’t the case when I entered secondary school, where it became clear to me that most of us react to our feelings without questioning why we’re acting in such a way.
This wasn’t the first instance I felt guilty about feeling in such a way, nor is the first time I remember trying to control my fleeting emotions. However, it certainly would not, & was not the last.

I would always punish myself whenever I felt in a certain way, especially when it somehow affected other people. Usually, I was the only one who felt the stinging puncture of my emotions. I bottled them inside of me. They would ebb and flow within my skin, hidden from the judgmental eyes of the outside world.

Now, however, though I still feel to the same degree, I’ve learnt how to manage my emotions .

The thing is, with minds like mine, feeling this sort of overbearing all-consuming emotion is unavoidable. I’ve literally been doing my best to assuage their fuel since I was eight (my first memory of trying to control my emotions was inscribed at this age).
Only just last year did I realise that one of the things keeping me at their mercy, was believing that I was responsible for their existence. Which is the same thing as feeling responsible for the fight-flight instincts built into us all. Quite a silly outlook, when you think about it.

The good thing though was that after a while, I’ve learnt to appreciate this crazy mind of mine. I embraced it, and accepted its existence.
Maybe it is because I’ve grown weary of fighting against it. Nowadays, if I’m overwhelmed by emotion, I just sit back, and watch the show. Indeed, there are still just as many shows to watch. The difference is that now, I’m able to detach myself from their play. I am no longer a puppet to their strings, but an innocent bystander, coerced into sitting through each of their acts.

I still get upset, though. Stupid love movies can still bring me to tears and my body still curls whenever I sense anger in a person’s voice.
But that’s just the way my body is. There is nothing I can do to stop this process. However, being able to manage these feelings is the key to living with them.

Learning to see these invisible entities for what they are, and then accept them, allows you the opportunity to handle yourself, and manage your emotions. My mind is strange. It is both beautiful and ugly. A blessing and a curse.
However, that’s me.
I’m done beating myself up over the way I am. I’m done unnecessarily adding more pain to the pain I can’t help but experience.

Because you need to accept the “negatives” to get the “good”.

Idk

I have no moral code.

I don’t claim to live by a certain “philosophy” that navigates my life’s course. I endeavour to go with the flow, and “aim” to live my life without any expectations, preconceptions, or guidelines. If there is one thing that I pride myself on, for lack of a more succinct expression, it’s that for me, the single purpose that governs my daily dealings with humans, with life, is that I always try my best to live my life outside my comfort zone.
When I interact with people, I do my best to always cut right through the cloud of politeness. Why is everyone so concerned with inadvertently crossing that hitlerdamned line. Throw that little asshat of a line into the garbage; deviate, and don’t you dare look back.
Of course this means that sometimes, people can take me for a bit brash, or rude. Many “normal” humans are taken aback by my antics. Often, they just don’t know how to take me at all. “This bitch just told me off & doesn’t seem to care about what I think, but she talks with hard words. This girl is funny AND eloquent. ” is the general response I get. ( I presume and sometimes I eavesdrop )

What a lot of people don’t know about me, is that what causes and fuels this weirdness, this inconsistent lifestyle i lead, are demons. My thoughts haunt me, consuming my sleep, leaving me to drink on the blistering lava concocted by negativity. If I don’t live according to their demands, demands that I’ve no real choice but to live by, it swallows me whole. This fear of being hurt gnaws on my every flesh & bone.
And it makes me sad. As if I’m not being “me,” or worse yet, afraid of being me.

Which was the case growing up.

I was never openly eccentric or weird or “me,” growing up. I was quiet, reserved and shy. I didn’t much like talking to people, let alone sharing my feelings or thoughts with anyone. I was still weird, but I was a loner, an introverted sort of weird. The sort of weird kid that you see in the corner, playing with leaves, staring at the sky and everything below it – completely detached from the world around.

I was always thinking about everything, but unable to focus on any one thing particularly. I came across as aloof because I’d always appear so spacey, even though I knew precisely what was going on. I was extraordinarily aware of my own self, and my surroundings, in other words self-conscious, practically incapable of switching off. Alas, I could never fit into my surroundings.

I was tired.

I am struggling to figure out how I can transcend this self-made bubble.
late last year, I realised that if I weren’t able to “escape myself,” so to speak, I’d go insane. I also understood that I was my own worst enemy. It’s not that I wanted to be so self-conscious; I loathed being shy and thought of myself in a negative light because of it. I wanted to leave my mind behind, so I could just act spontaneously. Im losing myself, paying careful attention to the limiting entities living inside of me. So far, I have managed to wrap my head around its form, and am able to very quickly grasp when they impact on my life detrimentally.

I’m starting to forget how good it feels then, to taste, to feel, to experience the “other side,” and I yearn to remember how relieving it is to connect with the world as it is, or seems to be.

I’ve decided that I shall live my life in this way, always. Because eventually i will figure out why. Not only for myself, but to promote this self-sincerity in others.

Maybe one day, the bubble will burst.
Maybe one day, things will get better.

Take me as I am, okay?

I am burdened by an inner-felt compulsion to share my mind’s perusal with the outside world.
I’ve a rather eclectic taste for life, & for the most part, I try to anticipate life or anticipate the actions of other people.
But the possibilities of human traits seemed to my curious eyes, endless. Trying to understand people has driven me insane. Recently, I’ve come to realise that people are not always what they seem. “All that glitters isn’t always gold”. With this realisation, I felt a peculiar unease; an almost impalpable feeling of inadequacy.
People sicken me.
Okay, no. Not exactly, what I meant was that I am perplexed by how people can say meaningless things without guilt.
Now, that sickens me.
(I mean of course I’ve done it a few times but this time, it’s different)

Now, because I’m… Well, weird, my imagination’s seeing eye is not bound by my conscious will, for “a thought comes when it will, not when I will.” All of a sudden, born from the synaptic connections fusing and shooting within the confines of my skull, comes the image of your face & the memories along with it.

Hell, was it sweet but such bitterness came after.

Sitting there, stale & obnoxious, in the besetting pulchritude have a penchant for sitting, commanding my attention, and demanding that I breathe life into it through a post.
How could something so beautiful… Rot? It was painful as first, but after a while, I realised that I should not waste any more time sitting around feeling sorry for myself.
I thought about the before & compared it to the after. Then I thought about humans as a whole. Within my mind, it was as if there were multiple mes, and together we formed a debate, addressing the larger issue of Why.
Does it not bother you how capitalistic natured, social-framework perpetuates this hypochondriacal mindset in the civilians it espouses and regulates ?

For those of you who’ve subjected yourselves to my diarrheic verbosity before, you should’ve have noticed that I truly don’t hold myself back in saying what’s on my mind. sorry not sorry. However, the only thing I consciously refrain from doing is slagging people off. No matter how vulgar or repulsive I find a certain someone, I would never slander them; their views perhaps, but not the person behind those views(okay, maybe sometimes…) It’s not that I’m above it, it’s just that it goes against my personal constitution regarding judgement.

I might at time come off as a little brash, or cheeky, or narcissistic, or Potato-like, I might swear unnecessarily and say things like, “..bitch, those are my tacos “.
But hell, that’s me.
And I am not changing for anyone.
Take me as I am, or go and lick some goat’s testicles.

Life as Shenna Knows it

The ripples in my coffee have a beginning and end, I notice. It begins somewhere in the middle of an opaque brown surface and ends at the ceramic brink. But these ripples have to be shaken into existence – stub the table leg with your toe or drop today’s paper somewhere nearby and the ripples will come. It’s nice to remember that every person’s life is as mundane, as exciting, as significant, as insignificant as mine.

I decided that a tattoo with a concept of balance would make me so. The Yin and yang – bold, outlined, pierced into my skin, with the avant-garde colour scheme of monochrome on beige – was itself balanced, and so I reasoned that its presence on my wrists would make me the message, incarnated. This morning, I can’t drink my Caramel Macchiato so much as stare at it because I am over-thinking .

With time, I realised, it is easier to pick out the false starts before they do any damage. There is at least one maxim regurgitated all too often: balance your life. For those of us who live in unevenness, this maxim is, at best, useless and, at worst, implies that we are not trying hard enough, that asymmetry is unnatural and symptomatic of weakness; Being balanced is difficult only because it’s impossible.

What impedes us from “perfect” balance is fear, and this fear manifests itself, quite slyly, in the seemingly innocuous two words: “What if?” We are products of our environments, and my environment says that if you’re a young adult and your life is in a mess, you’re going to be a disappointing failure working at a nine to five job.

The “what if” ricochets in the confines of my skull whenever I try to pick the errands I should run in the day, when I try to decide where to eat for lunch, when someone makes a pass at me. It worsens in the middle of the night when insomnia consumes me mercilessly whole, with the thought of soon to be permanent decision and its various potentiates. And my rational Self – the cool, collected Self that knows better than to indulge such fabrications – drowns out until I am saved by exhaustion. My mind has become awry from being weary. Why am I plagued with this poison, this fear, this curse of the subjunctive.

The “What if” became “what now.” I was no longer panicking inside my head but out of it, no longer dealing with the what-ifs and would-bes, but navigating my reality as it came. Each time life got hard or scary, the choice was mine to continue. And it was a remarkably difficult choice to make. Before I had began to make my own decisions, the tattoo was a potent idol, but as I struggled through life (so far), it was a tacky decoration. Wisdom and maturity cannot be summoned in the form of a popular trend formed by the buzzing of needles. Countless of times, I thought of how nice it would be to swallow a dozen pills and not waking the day after. As I thought of Death, I was also surrounded by it.

Death’s imminence has a way of shoving itself down your throat. It’s good at making itself known, felt. But with it choking me, I came to realise how trivial many of our so-called problems really are. When you muse over your impending insentience, the shit that gives us headaches start to seem excruciatingly petty. Your quibbles, the fights with your loved ones, holding onto grudges, the fights with your damn pets, stressing over decisions and promotions, or whether or not the cute guy across the cafeteria who keeps smiling at you is actually winking at you or someone else behind.

We’re all travelling towards death. Whoo cares? Let it be, make your move, forgive, and forget. Cést la vie!

God, we’re petty.

Death also forces to examine our lives. Assuming that you only have one shot at it coerces you to ruminate on how you spend your remaining amount of time in this crazy world. We should make the most of it, savour every fleeting moment, do our best to appreciate it, as it exists, start “living”. But living life like a fruit fly makes us rash and potentially hurt the people who love us, and being balanced is difficult only because it is impossible. Having fear and a disorganised – even if slightly – life indicates that you are a person. A person without the consciousness that produces at least a little fear or slack is delusional to a dangerous degree, if not psychopathic. I’d even say that it is fear keeps us breathing, and acting despite the fear keeps us most alive.

The choice to escape my toxic imagination is a rule, the rule, not an exception. It’s why I’m in between session of removing my tattoos, and I’m choosing to be so fearless that the tears rolling down my cheeks are due to something that went into my eye – I don’t know, like a a speck of dust or maybe a branch – despite its excruciating pain which I believe is ten-fold the pain I felt when I got tattooed. Living and making choices, to me, is kind of like being in love. You must risk the fall.

So I may be terrified at times (okay, almost all the time), but I’m just as courageous.

For the absence of fear means the absence of courage.

20131125-230755.jpg
No, I am not. I just thought it was a funny photo.

Subverting social mores

Today I had a dilemma regarding telling someone the truth, which could possibly break their heart. But there was something obstructing me from reaching my goal. That of which holds the power to put me at the bottom of the current social order. To put simply, there’s going to be a lot of bitching.
I took some time to think about the right thing to do & why was I so afraid to do it. I came to a conclusion that it is the fear of rejection from society or to be frowned upon, that was what put me in such a “stuck in the moment” position. However, I felt like that was a very superficial conclusion & thought harder. (I literally sat for a good hour thinking why, why is everyone afraid).
I came to realise that not only was I afraid of being alone (albeit doing the right thing), but I did not want to take away someone else’s happiness. I mean,sure it was completely wrong & he was being used
(the current matter at hand is personal & must not be talked about publicly due to my respect for the people involved & my rule about “bitching”- don’t do it because it is not right)
But i was not capable of taking someone else’s happiness away.
the truth hurts, & words cut deep.

Right, back to subverting social mores. To ignore what society has set as the standard for “normal”, it connotes (ostensibly) that people who have forgotten that they can be seen, publicly, at any time. Or rather, are blasé. Therefore, when they transgress social norms—by expressing physical affection for a person not visibly coded as the opposite sex, for example, or by being fat and rejecting social and bodily invisibility—they need to be reminded of this omniscient social gaze, and in the absence of institutional discipline, must be punished so they do not transgress again. This is the mechanism by which a dude who sees me in a dress that is ostensibly flattering (on me) walking alone as though I either don’t know or don’t care that I am defying bodily norms, feels compelled to scream “UGLY FAT BITCH” at me. He is applying social discipline and teaching me a lesson:
Everyone can see you, and your body and/or behavior is unacceptable.

So how does one transgress ?
Despite it being right thing to do? (Ostensibly)

that’s why it’s so hard. That’s why there are so many dreadful people

Stop it.

I spent my life wishing that I were someone else.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been discontented by my own existence.
Unhappy.
Yearning to live another’s life.
Burning, craving, & lamenting for a change of existential disposition,
My un-ease with my own self was so far reaching that I even wished I could assume a non-human life form.
Actually, anything other than myself.
I envied cats strutting without a care. I envied the computers at my school, because they were totally content with being told what to do, & didn’t at all seem to mind taking orders without reflecting on whether or not those orders were worth taking.

I started to idolise people outside of myself, wishing that I would one day amount to something more than myself. More than I was.
More than I probably could be.
I wanted to be John Green or J.D. Salinger.
I wanted to be intelligent.
witty.
Likeable.
What I wanted in exact preciseness was yonder vague & nonsensical. I knew I could never be anyone or anything but myself, but that didn’t help me. The only thing that I did know, beyond any reasonable doubt, was that I simply & utterly did not want to be me.

I wanted to be freed from my own self.

It got to the point where I started directly, & very consciously, craved non-existence. I never consider myself as being depressed; depressed people were weird and always thought of as outcasts.
I’m not weird, or an outcast, and I don’t want to kill myself, either. I would just rather not live. That’s all” – is what I told myself. It worked for a while, and I managed to get by. But underneath my not-so-cheery mask (I’ve never been good at pretending-until now, that is), I knew that I was headed down a destructive slide.

It wouldn’t take a Freudian character to understand this dejection of mine.
Which might, just maybe, perhaps, totally explain, or at least provide a single reason for why I spent so much of my life wishing to be somebody else. You see, deep down, I always knew I was a bit strange. Even though I’d deny it to myself, I knew that I was depressed, and I understood, more than I would ever lead on, how messed up my mind seemed to be, when compared to everybody else.

Knowing this then, with only my own self to confide in, drove me… insane. I hated knowing, all alone, that I was “broken,” and probably unfixable. I hated waking up every morning, wishing, wiling my life to somehow magically annihilate itself. Aside from the actual sensation that lives inside of depression – which is, for those of you “normals,” physically as well as mentally painful – it made me feel like an ungrateful piece of poop.

“There are so many people on this
planet who would dream to be in your situation, and yet you sit here, wallowing in your own proverbial faeces, wishing for nothingness. You make me sick.”

I reached a sphere of being where I was on the brink of total collapse. Which was, at least in retrospect, exactly what I needed.

I needed to hit rock bottom to finally force myself to look up. It’s very easy to look down when you’re falling; it’s almost a natural instinct. You longingly peer into the endless chasm you’re falling in almost as a way to lessen the blow once you’ve met with its gatekeeper; To familiarise yourself with the bleak fate you’ve found yourself being sucked into.

Once you reach this monster’s belly however, and have been afforded the space to look above you, and around you, instead gaping only at the empty space below you – an abyss filled with only your own self-pity – things somehow become lighter.

I realised that I was battling with my own battle. It wasn’t enough for me to just feel sad and depressed, I was making myself feel sad and depressed for feeling sad and depressed. Almost a sort of self-punishment for being the way I was. But when I hit this proverbial bottom, something inside of me seemed to say, “that you’re your own worst enemy shouldn’t be any more of an issue than it already is.” And from that foggy point onward, things started to change.
Not immediately, though. It wasn’t as if I experienced some immense life changing moment that recoiled in the face of my oppressive demands. I was still me, after all. That wasn’t ever going to change. But something inside of me felt more at peace with this indelible fact that I was me, & all I was ever gonna be. Despite all of my self-perceived flaws, mental poltergeists and infinitely regressing, depthless abysses weaving throughout my cognitive disposition, I was okay with this fact: I was accepting my own self.

Finally, I have reached a point in my life where I was happiest being me, irrespective of how hellish being me sometimes proved. There isn’t a soul I’d have traded places with.

So from now, I am not going to change this frame of mind. There will not be a single day that passes where I’ll think to myself, “Gee, well, look at that? I wish I were that girl (or guy, or potato, or thing). It looks so nice and easy, far better than what I have, and far more beautiful(exterior) than I am.”

Now more envy.
Because if I can’t accept myself, neither will anyone else.

I don’t take any pride in who or what or how I am. I don’t define myself by my crazy mind, & am not at all attached to it, like many people suppose depressed people are. “It’s an identity that people wear on their sleeves. They “need” to feel depressed to define themselves” While I’d assume that this is certainly true for many, it’s not true for me. I don’t get kicks out of being weird, or alternative; I don’t find joy in being depressed. For those who really do experience this beautiful disease, they’ll tell you that it is not a “thing” one feels joy toward.

However, I’ve come to accept me, for me, & for all that I am. I’ve stopped beating myself over myself; how I think, perceive, feel and see. I don’t enjoy feeling waves of depression flooding into the core of my veins without my will, but I’ve accepted that it happens. For as Nietzsche teaches, “A thought comes when it will, not when I will.” & as Alexander Ebert says in a voice like Jack Donaghy’s, “The earth is turning ’round you know, the wind is changing also, don’t you think the same laws might apply to life?” There’s no use in getting angry about the weather, in the same way that there’s no use in getting angry at our own states of mind and body.

So, for anyone reading this:
give yourself a break. You are as you are, & however that is and whomever you are, you are unique, and that, in its own right, is something special.
-insert satirical “aww”-

“Wake up from the slumber, into a dream of neither day or night,” where all that is, is. Where the abyss staring back into us, the starers, is left alone to exist as the entity it itself already is. And be yourself.

Humans are self-aware. But what exactly are we aware of?