Wildsee Reflections in the Dolomites, Italy [3840x2400][OC] - Author: Bulky_Translator_209 on Reddit
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Wildsee Reflections in the Dolomites, Italy [3840x2400][OC] - Author: Bulky_Translator_209 on Reddit
Insert cliche from cliched rock band. I haven't found it because I don't know what it is. Had a panic attack. That morning played in my head, and I couldn't stop the tape. What is the real purpose nostalgia? I long for times that seem better in hindsight, but it also brings a sense of sadness, and I have plenty of that now. It basically makes me want things I didn't have, and now certainly have no chance of obtaining. Malaise.
Gloom in the middle of summer
I suppose it doesn't matter what time of the year it is, or what the weather is like outside, melancholy is going to hit when it wants to. There's about a 3 or 4 year period that I seem to have romanticized, and I can't seem to shake it off. I was a hormonal mess. Mentally, I was falling apart, but I also have so many moments I've encased in an unbreakable shell of nostalgia. They probably weren't as great I've built them up in my head. I had friends to talk music with. Cute girls that actually wanted to be friends with me. I was more spontaneous. I played a lot more guitar. Was a bit more confident in the way I dressed. If I'm being honest, that was the last time I truly felt independent. Alive. Free. Sure, my mental health wasn't great, but, to be fair, it's more or less the same now, only I don't have all that fun stuff to cling to now. Going to shows with Abra, or Mandy. Spending hours at Katy Mills mall. Spending the night at Mikey's, watching anime and Underworld. Meeting those twins in Austin, the brother having a ridiculously awesome VHS collection. Grabbing a cup of coffee at that TBI staffer's shop in town. Christmas dinner. I wore eyeliner, Mandy looked gorgeous. Laughter. Tears. Cups of coffee with acoustic guitars on the racetracks. Listening to Bright Eyes in Abra's car. Worship in the hallways of I-Dorm. The big meetings we'd have before breaks. The dorm rivalries, the dorm games. Doing things for our sister dorms. Road trips. Lots of music. Bad poetry. I miss it. I miss feeling like life has so much potential. I'm halfway through mine now, if I live to the same age as the rest of the men in my family. And, to be fair, I feel like I really only lived in that short amount of time. I need change. I need to travel.
The shapes
Hair covering his eyes, hood of the jacket he’s wearing covering his head, Brandon walked down the sidewalk. Mind swimming in a sea of thought, propelled by the energetic 00′s emo in his headphones, Mike snuck a glance over at the girls’ dorm to see if she was there. Mildly disappointed when she didn’t appear, he did his best to hide the sag in his shoulders, and kept walking until the sidewalk ended. “Should I continue walking, keeping up the ruse that I was just out for a stroll, or should I go back to my room, and possibly have to endure jeers from my idiot roommates,” Brandon thought to himself. A loud *BOOM* in the air over one of the staff houses shook him out of his malaise, and Brandon, like everyone else spilling out of the dorms and on the sidewalks, craned his neck in the direction of the sound. What Brandon saw took a while to register in the rational part of his brain: right above The Mohawn’s house, a silver, almond shape object roughly about the size of the house (which wasn’t exactly a smell residence, being a two-story, pseudo-Victorian affair), hovering in midair. Occasionally, a pulse of light moved horizontally along an invisible seam in either direction from the point to the rear of the object, but the object was otherwise perfectly still. Stunned silence had overtaken all the usual chatter, and the students all stared, transfixed. It wasn’t until two more loud booms preceding the sudden appearance of two similar vessels on either side of the first, that the students began to show signs of life. At first, it was a slow twitch in the direction of the cafeteria, then a shuffle, and then outright panicked run, followed by cries of shock and terror. Brandon still couldn’t move.
I can still feel them
I bump into them from time to time. Voids. Shaped like people that used to be here. They inhabit my thoughts and dreams, sometimes. They have names too, but I dare not speak them right now, lest I reopen the wounds all those that care about me said time would heal. I do, however, often wonder if they ever felt fulfilled before becoming memories? We always say “I wish I’d had more time,” and I’m sure they would have loved more time, but one can’t help but wonder if there was peace in the end? Did their life flash before their eyes, and they decided “that was a good run?”
Repetition
Why can’t I just let the past stay in the past? Why do I feel the need to dig out old apology messages, because, let’s face it, I’m selfish and always have some apologizing to do. I wish I wasn’t so broken. I wish I could just figure out whatever the hell this malfunction is, this stumbling block, this curse. I feel an intense longing, one that seemingly will never be satisfied. I’m a puzzle missing a piece/peace. Getting close to finishing school, but my self-destructive tendencies are catching up to me again. I’m feeling quite blase about school, about the new job I’m starting on Friday. Already feel overwhelmed, knowing that once it really kicks in, I will not have a single day off in weeks, between work and school. Lord, I need strength and rest, and I fear I will have neither, rather quickly, before it’s all said and done.
Sabotage
I can’t seem to break this cycle. I fall into this trap of, I don’t know, disinterest, depression, disillusionment, and I sabotage the work and progress that I’ve made towards building a brighter future. I suffer in silence. Nobody will understand, they’re all from the “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” generation. I disguise it with a sardonic sense of humor. Wit. Deadly wordsmithing. Heavy sarcasm. I have nobody to discuss the things I love with. Nobody else shares that love. Even been trying to revitalize my spiritual walk, and at least I’ve developed okay habits again, but I seem to be making no real headway in my struggles, mentally speaking. Hope I can make it.
Slivers of life
Ever feel like you go through chunks of your life where you just “want to get through it,” and work to get to the other side of whatever conflict you’re facing? Like, you’re whittling away pieces of wood to reveal the “inner beauty?” It just seems like there is so much time spent just trying to cope, life continues to get whittled down to nothingness. Why is the pile of slivers and shavings so much bigger than what you actually wind up with, some laughingly call “the finished product?” Have we been lied to? Is all the suffering truly necessary?
Racing
There’s never enough time, and too much to do. I can feel the blood pulsing doggedly through the veins, marching at breakneck speed. It’s odd how the frantic pace doesn’t match the lethargy that I feel, almost as if I’m walking under water, with feet stuck in the mud at the bottom of the creek. I occasionally come up for a breath of fresh air, but I get dragged back down by the undertow. It’s getting harder to find the surface, the breaching point, the light. I forget why I even need to reach for it anymore, until I think about something that I wanted to accomplish before I stop fighting the waves and sink below. I’m not sure if this is enough to motivate me anymore, but I have to put on a brave face anyway. There are a few depending on what little reserves of energy I have left to nurture themselves. I feel selfish, but more than anything, I feel tired. I don’t want to fight anymore. I am getting where I can’t afford to. Not sure which is wearing out faster, body or mind. It’s summer, I’m not even supposed to be feeling this way, right? Never been good at following the proper societal standard practices, for what it’s worth. I just want to smile again, and mean it. I want it to last longer than the time it takes to catch my breath after a joke. Come to think of it, has it ever lasted that long? I remember my naivete and spirit being crushed as far back as when I was a child in Kindergarten. Children are cruel. No sense of diplomacy. I still remember the mortification.
Is This Thing On?
I guess I forgot I had this thing, at least until I felt mopey enough to want to complain online where people may or may not read this. So, yeah. Here I am again. Yeet. Or whatever the kids say.
Another day spent drowning
There are hearts everywhere. Happy couples. Bogy told me I’m terrible at being a human. He also gave me advice, or attempted to, by goading me to do something that is terrifying, uncomfortable, and something I’m somehow not ready for, but still should consider doing. It’s high time, too. I should consider it, but I’m currently in a fog, being pricked by the color red, giggling voices, and an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Another playlist was born, as a result. It’s pretty melodramatic, which means it perfectly encapsulates everything about me.
Floating High Above
Nostalgia for things that haven’t even happened. Wistful. Playing that song again, I wish to create something, and then not share it with anyone. Don’t look at me. Don’t read my words, don’t hear my songs. I want to be a figment of the collective imagination, paint a mural, and let them all marvel and wonder. They would ask each other “who did this?” They would take pictures. And I will say not a word. Another face in the crowd, just watching the other faces. And now another song fills my ears, and I see abstract shapes, colors, and occasional patterns, as a last breath gasps out. And then, it is silent. Ghastly, unfair. But it’s a microcosm, is it not? It’s a reality we’ve come to live with. I find little pieces of whimsy in unexpected places, and am flooded with memories. None of them are my own. I wish to close my eyes, and perhaps awaken in the frame of a happy picture. Mis-en-scene dictating my every move. Confined to a 16:9 aspect ratio, Precious, says the cynic. Wonderful, says the dreamer. An entire life, conflict resolved, in the space of an hour and a half. Then it’s back into the cold.
A Breeze Becomes a Hurricane
Involuntary glances towards the entrance, I sit waiting. For a familiar face, for acknowledgement, for a future, or just a change to walk through the door. I pound my thoughts out on a keyboard, as if some form of technomancy will bring to fruition everything I desire.
If the will alone could get us what we wanted, we’d all have won the lottery and become miserable in our various mansions and luxury cars, surrounded by objects and people we resent, and feeling claustrophobic and alone. To desire a breeze in the heat of summer, to crave more in the face of perfection, these are the sins I dare yearn for. True, squalor leaves much to be desired, but the breeze, much like the flight of Icarus, could become tempestuous.
Yet there’s something sickening about being told to stay in one’s own lane. We’re told to dream big when we’re young, then told to be practical when it’s time to mete out our allotment in society. Paintbrushes give way to gavels. A breeze becomes a hurricane. Are we truly the movers and shakers? Or is docility a more desirable attribute? Should I make a wish when I extinguish the flames?
Ultimately, you can’t grasp something new without letting go of something else. Sometimes, it seems preferable to remain empty-handed. Absence also means painless sometimes.
Composing
It’s important. More than any of the other obligations. If I don’t finish it, I won’t be able to get my life together. Exploring the past all over again, for research. Gotta get it just right. THAT needs to be done. It’s important. More than the grades and assignments and tests and stories and papers. If I don’t finish it, I won’t be able to look myself in the mirror. Exploring the ones and zeroes that served as the score for my youth. Gotta find everything I remember. THAT will help it all make sense. It’s important.
Non-committal
As the building shrank in the rear-view mirror, he knew he couldn’t just turn back around. There were responsibilities, and the weight of them was crushing him, but there can be no tapping out. No matter what that spot in his mirror represented, there was no going back. The cold and wet made the decision all the more difficult. The aching chest and deepening despondency didn’t help either.. “If I could just go to sleep,” he thought. But sleep wouldn’t come for a while yet. There would be precious little rest, and now the dot was gone.
A wick sinks into the melted wax and the flame goes out. Summer gives way to Fall. Pensivity.
I have been younger in October than in all the months of spring
W.S. Merwin, from The Love Of October in “Migration: New & Selected Poems” (via adrasteiax)
I feel this