I’ve always been somewhat of a writer. Guess the passion got lost somewhere during high school, when I thought I had the world figured out. Life has a funny way of bringing us back to our roots, huh? Even funnier, I never imagined I’d be writing a blog. Always figured myself to be the fantasy novelist type, creating worlds and shit. Can’t create a goddamn thing when my own world is a mess. Let’s face it, there comes a time in your life where you have to be brutally honest with yourself. That’s what this blog is going to be for me. This is not a ballet blog. It’s a collection of writing by yours truly, the most fucked up man in the universe. Hopefully through this I end up gaining a greater understanding of myself. Maybe it’ll help someone else as well. If not, fuck it. I tried.
Dance has become my way of escaping pain. But when dance is not available I always go back to my roots. Literature.
Last night I dreamed of my father. We were at the theatre to see a movie, and he left me to get us good seats. Along the way I ran into some trouble and all I could think was I wish my dad was here to get me out of this. It was a vivid dream, I still remember most of it. I don’t dream about him often, and it didn’t shake me the way that I thought it would. Is he trying to send me a message from some other place?
I think he’s trying to tell me that sometimes you have to deal with things on your own. Is that my big problem? A dependence on people to get me through my never ending sadness?
The first Cigarette was me trying to fill my lungs up- no. Fill my body up in your absence. You were mine but you weren’t available.
The second was to remind myself that I didn’t need the first. The guilt came rushing in. The third and the fourth, well those were just to satisfy my new hunger.
The fifth was a few days later, at 2am when everyone but me was asleep.
By the fifteenth, you were no longer mine. No longer my concern. I puffed, and I felt nothing.
The twentieth was me, leaning out of a second story window blowing smoke into cold winds hoping that in some way it’d find you- and fill your lungs up. Just in case you felt my absence.
It all blew back back into my face.
In which I ponder some very important things before bed.
Five years of loving someone and I think it’s finally time to let him go. Our time together was fabulous, regardless of all the ways that it’s hurt me. It’s not a question of whether or not he loves me. I know he’s grown accustomed to me the same way that I have to him. He doesn’t want to let go, but I can tell that he no longer wants to be with me. And it’s not his fault, even though it is in many ways. I’m sure he misses how often I used to smile, and how focused I was. I didn’t lean on him for happiness, and maybe recently my own problems have just become too much for him. It’s not his job to fix me, and it never has been. He doesn’t text as much, he doesn’t chase me like he once did. Love does mature, but it should never turn sour. I’ve grown to resent being in love with him, which just means that it’s time for us to spend some time apart. I sacrificed dreams and relationships for this one person, this one person who I’ve convinced myself that it would be impossible to be happy without. I need to be reminded that I can live and thrive off of my own happiness. I need to be reminded that I don’t need one single person to achieve the goals that I have set in place. I need to be reminded that I am in fact important. And I am the only person who can refresh my memory, the only person that’s obligated to uplift me. For far too long I’ve depended on others to make me feel better.
Once upon a time I didn’t need anyone.
Who knows if I’ll actually be strong enough to do it. My love for him could wrap itself around the earth ten times and still have room to stretch. But my future and my happiness both depend on this. I have the power to take my life back at my fingertips, and I can’t let a broken heart tear down every dream that I’ve hung up for myself.
Or can I? Will I?
Lately I’ve been thinking about what success is for a twenty year old.
How much can I expect from life when I’ve barely had a chance to see the world, to read the pages of my personal novel? Unemployment and depression leave a lot of free time for self searching, but this search is starting to feel like a lost cause. What am I doing wrong? I was in college but that proved quickly to be a financial impossibility. I can’t seem to keep a job, or upkeep any type of motivation. Once I had my dream job working with a local dance company. I felt great and grounded. Like I had a real purpose. Eventually I found a way to even fuck that up for myself. Yet I look at those around me, a network of individuals I was once so close to.. Most of them are doing great. One in particular is skyrocketing, but that’s no surprise. All of them are however, doing ten times better than I am. Working, getting out into the world, hell- smiling! I know it’s not smart to compare yourself to others, but there was a point in time when I was doing the best. When someone could write a think piece about my accomplishments. When someone could feel inadequate in comparison to me. What really happened to me? And more importantly-
What exactly am I doing wrong?
Have I let the chains of being in love and occasionally being hurt keep me off of my feet?
Is there a chemical imbalance within me that’s to blame? Is that what makes me want to curl up and cease to exist?
Or is being alive actually the pinnacle of success for someone my age? Surviving the streets, surviving a relationship, surviving the loss of cherished family members.
Am I doing okay, or am I just blowing in the wind, getting caught on all the rough edges of the world?
A lot of the people that I’ve leaned on through my dark ages are tired of supporting me. They’ve convinced themselves that I am the cause of all my problems, and the more I lay here and look at these four walls- the more I believe them.
I have a job interview shortly. I wrote this early this morning to release some tension. I usually don’t rhyme but it felt good to keep this on the simpler side. I won’t give it a title. It has to do with my own sadness and guilt, and a certain someone who I just can’t seem to shake no matter how sad I get.
Dancing in my mother’s tiny little living room
Is starting to make me sadder than it should.
The shows that I put on there
Aren’t doing any good
I try to let you go again
It never really works
There’s not enough soap here
To cover all this dirt.
Again the leaves are changing
And yet I am the same
Expecting he who loves me so
To buckle down and change
It’s always sunny where you are
It never even rains
It’s always cold here where I lie,
I am whose to blame.
Ballet of Poetry
With a pirouette of personification
She ignited her carousel of fantasy
As slow enchanting adagio verses
Freed me from my loveless tragédie
Under my spotlight ballon rhymes
Made my heart skip a graceful beat
With her assemblé rhymes floating
She slowly swept me off of my feet
Who could resist such choreography
For her entrée had me from the start
When my prima ballerina performed
A ballet of poetry in my aching heart
Photo from Google Images.