Little Gal
12-08-2011, 11:24 PM
Life is such a strange place. It gives you experiences but does not tell you what you could do with them. Sometimes things just happen forcing one to make judgments. And then things happen which force us to take back our judgments or perhaps reshape them or believe them partly or become suspicious about our power to judge at all. I do not know half the time, how must I react or keep myself to myself in most of the various things that happen every day. Nothing seems very stable or trustworthy, sometimes incredible sometimes mundane. People are confusing and they amiably do things that you least expect, or refrain from doing those that you take for granted. Sometimes I feel like a little insignificant leaf. Fallen unnoticed and waiting in the middle of everything to be crushed by everything or to be taken up and sheltered or I do not know what. Possibilities and more possibilities come clouding like ants on a sweet spill.
At first I would just think of myself as a confused little young woman. But now when I have long left that age, and am still quite the same in many ways, I feel like asking myself, if at all I am going anywhere...anywhere strong and respectable...something that everybody sanely should expect of anybody. I am such a feel-like-running-away kind...and I feel it so often now that it seems like that is the only thing I am capable of. But then there is so much to do, there is so much will and determination and so much "lack" of it.
Perhaps everybody has felt this way some day or the other in life. Perhaps they have walked down the same bends, with the same fears and same senses of joy at having been able to cross it down. But nobody can ever tell me what is it like or how to go through it. Nothing is really what everybody says it is. Everything that is there, that is told to me, has another side, rather too many other sides for me to decide. And when I finally decide to do something, it is not seldom that I find other decisions cropping up and presenting themselves as better in every way to my hard-found decision.
I write. And it comes naturally like sun rays or the spring breeze or illness or anger to me. But it is rather too many times that I cannot understand what I must really write about and how. I begin, and sometimes I begin well enough. But then after sometime I do not know how to go on. The threads seem to trail off in directions that are too vague to follow. I cannot do anything with less care than I think it should deserve, and sometimes I cannot do things because I feel I am unable to give to it, that which it is worthy of. I may scratch down a piece of poem or prose, without wishing it sometimes, if I feel I am unable to give it a way to go or find words that would carry it.
These are problems and with each there are millions more, hiding and clinging, and making everything quite interesting and bleak, interesting because they force me to fight, bleak because I feel tired after a loss and even after a victory.
Sometimes I feel wicked about myself, indeed weird too, for I allow my problems to live cheerfully, the suffering becomes that which I need to push myself with, because I am a stagnant little pool, and I desperately need to flow sometimes, rather all the time. I need more thoughts and words, I need more light and sights, I need more to feel--around me, in me and with me. But I don't know if I really need all that, and no more, or less.
But I know one thing, it is not very helpful always but sometimes, such as this, I know if I write myself down in words broken and bent...I feel a straight line of light slowly making a path in my head and not stopping until it has crossed my limbs and mazes, broken all little hardened edges, and slowly it becomes a small half thing, I do not know what, it smells of nothing, but then I realize, I must write again.
At first I would just think of myself as a confused little young woman. But now when I have long left that age, and am still quite the same in many ways, I feel like asking myself, if at all I am going anywhere...anywhere strong and respectable...something that everybody sanely should expect of anybody. I am such a feel-like-running-away kind...and I feel it so often now that it seems like that is the only thing I am capable of. But then there is so much to do, there is so much will and determination and so much "lack" of it.
Perhaps everybody has felt this way some day or the other in life. Perhaps they have walked down the same bends, with the same fears and same senses of joy at having been able to cross it down. But nobody can ever tell me what is it like or how to go through it. Nothing is really what everybody says it is. Everything that is there, that is told to me, has another side, rather too many other sides for me to decide. And when I finally decide to do something, it is not seldom that I find other decisions cropping up and presenting themselves as better in every way to my hard-found decision.
I write. And it comes naturally like sun rays or the spring breeze or illness or anger to me. But it is rather too many times that I cannot understand what I must really write about and how. I begin, and sometimes I begin well enough. But then after sometime I do not know how to go on. The threads seem to trail off in directions that are too vague to follow. I cannot do anything with less care than I think it should deserve, and sometimes I cannot do things because I feel I am unable to give to it, that which it is worthy of. I may scratch down a piece of poem or prose, without wishing it sometimes, if I feel I am unable to give it a way to go or find words that would carry it.
These are problems and with each there are millions more, hiding and clinging, and making everything quite interesting and bleak, interesting because they force me to fight, bleak because I feel tired after a loss and even after a victory.
Sometimes I feel wicked about myself, indeed weird too, for I allow my problems to live cheerfully, the suffering becomes that which I need to push myself with, because I am a stagnant little pool, and I desperately need to flow sometimes, rather all the time. I need more thoughts and words, I need more light and sights, I need more to feel--around me, in me and with me. But I don't know if I really need all that, and no more, or less.
But I know one thing, it is not very helpful always but sometimes, such as this, I know if I write myself down in words broken and bent...I feel a straight line of light slowly making a path in my head and not stopping until it has crossed my limbs and mazes, broken all little hardened edges, and slowly it becomes a small half thing, I do not know what, it smells of nothing, but then I realize, I must write again.