If there’s one thing that makes me itchy to my brain is variety. Let me elaborate: How come that people are so so so dissimilar from each other?
If you think about the infinity of things that there are for you to do, for you to be, it’s exactly that: infinity. And you know what that means? It has no end. But you know what ends? Your life. Your days are counted, counted by some kind of mathematic formula we haven’t figured out yet/we are just yet to find the mathematic formula for our own calculus.
And that… that leaves me nights without seeing a sleep. Because I want to be it all. I want to be everything. I wanna dress black and be colorful. I wanna be mysterious but fun and out there and all over the place. I wanna be in around my fireplace and be wrecking it at parties all night long. What a walking paradox. I am the kind of girl that believes that I should ‘’save’’ myself for someone special, only to deliver my lips to someone who who’d be worth it, but I’m also the kind of girl that believes in instant connections and living in the moment and one night stands. And I don't believe in churches or God but today I found myself walking into a church and lighting a candle and I felt good doing it, I felt closer and in touch with my inner being.
There’s so much for you to be, there’s an infinity of things to be and a finite time for you to be them. And that scares the hell out of me. It makes me cry just to think about it. Here’s another: I have days I’m crying rivers with only the idea of death, thinking about all the people I leave behind (as if you are going forward) and how I will see them sad while I haunt their houses. But there’s another days where it doesn’t matter to me, that I believe that dying is just like sleeping, just that…you’re nowhere, you are…in fact, you’re not, you are not, you don’t feel, you don’t see, you don’t haunt, you don’t have a soul and everything in ‘’life’’ was just a random biological event.
I wanna have more time. I want more time to be everything. I wanna feel that I’ve been everything. You walk into a path and it’s full of intersections and you have to keep choosing between roads – left, right. What if you end up always choosing the wrong one? What if you choose the wrong one in the beginning and everything is ruined from the start? What if the whole thing is so completely random? What if everything is predestined? What if every step you take – being it right or left, up or down – leads you to the same ending because it’s all meant to be? This is tooooo much for me.
I also divide myself between being born into this world to make a difference (otherwise why would I be so anxious?) and change myself constantly for better, shout for what I believe, show to others – because it’s not enough to change myself, everyone should hear it.
But there’s another days where I want to be free from that – because being ‘’good’’ brings a lot of weight to your shoulders – I want to live it all even if it doesn’t sound like the right thing, and I want to experience all because I don’t have a lot of time, and, in the end, what does really separate good from evil? Who is there to judge?
And to think that there are people that never think of this… I am here, driving myself crazy on a Tuesday night, and there are people out there that never wonder. How? How do they live like sheep following the herd? But then again, who am I to criticize? Who am I to think they’re erroneous for not inquiring? Deep down I do think they should question the whole universe, but this is just my own beliefs. Who says I’m right?
I was never good with choices…even worst under pressure. And this whole life is a room with 4 walls that keep moving towards each other, and the space is getting smaller and smaller. It is an hourglass with way too less sand. I don’t have time to open all the doors, I don’t have enough life to walk all the roads, to make all the options. And what does that make of me? A piece in a random giant chess game. But, wait, the pieces in chess have someone to play them and I’m not sure if I believe in faith. Some days I do. But if there’s one thing I do know is that I am curious and restless. Yes, I’m 100% restless. No doubt. And I did not choose that, I just am. There was no door to choose from.
I can’t write as fast as my thoughts. I’m scared to be drifting, but it always smells like ‘’I want more’’. Whenever I get to the shore, I just throw myself back to the sea.
Tomorrow when I re-read this I will feel silly to be on paranoid mode. I think that if people could read minds I’d be alone by now. I’m here doubting all there is in me, I’m afraid that I’ve been locking all the wrong doors. But maybe that is just the way it is, just the way it has to be, and maybe, just maybe, we are never one thing or another. Maybe we are always a mix of things, even if those facts make us feel far away from ourselves. Maybe you have to have that doubt, that leeway, maybe all the doors are half open, half closed.
And maybe there are people that don’t question themselves. They are what they are and they have known it for their whole lives. I don’t think I envy them.
And there’s another thing: where does this all come from? The world, the people? Yes, Big Bang bla bla bla, but how? What was here before that? Before ‘’life’’? what did exist? Well, nothing, but does nothing exist? Isn’t ‘nothing’ something? Just a hand full of nothing. And how come that from nothing, came everything? And now we have cars and televisions and how did we do this? Maybe I’m just too trapped in my human brain because clouds do exist and stars too, and humans walk and animals have instinct, and none of this can be explained and maybe we don’t have to know everything (but we do question everything) and the more I live the more lost I get because when I was 3 years old I didn’t ask what the hell is a thought.
Have you noticed how spectacular everything is? Even the fact that you think is beautiful. Fuck, the fact that you live is beautiful. It’s people that fuck everything up later. We take the fun out of it. I will keep this. I will keep my 17 year-old anxieties. I will read them when I’m 50. I will remember how everything is so beautiful and I will cry with the thought of it. I will notice how everything must be some twisted sick game and I will want to live again. And I will do it over and over again until I run out of days. And we will see about what happens later. Maybe it’s game over and I’ll have no more lives to spend. And that’s all fine by me. C’est la vie. Or something else…