14. Love. Fall in love and stay in love. Write only what you love, and love what you write. The key word is love. You have to get up in the morning and write something you love, something to live for. -Ray Bradbury
Wow, what a holiday break. It felt like one of the thoroughly longest breaks ever. I loved every moment of it; the banal and the exciting. Like every winter or holiday break, including weekends, I perused the shelves at Barnes & Nobles and Borders for that one lovely book that would ensnare my thoughts and feelings, if only for a fleeting holiday break. I found it, but I have yet to finish it twice. I read and re-read it. I don’t understand it first and off the bat. Though merely journal entries from a beloved author of mine, I still find it difficult to follow emotionally, physically, figuratively and literally.
I did not read Wuthering Heights again. I stopped this cold and cutting ritual of reading one of the saddest love stories ever written, (in my opinion), and it made my break a little brighter.
As I write this, I’m wasted on coffee, roasted peanuts and water. Going from eating every four hours with my siblings and parents because we’re simply the happiest when gathered around a table and food to fuel the long talks about times when my dad wore bell bottoms, my mum mercilessly permed her hair and when one of my brothers permed his mullet. 🙂
I’m wasted on a high that was low too. My holiday break was a time I cried, I laughed, I wished I were dead and a time when I was reborn. Like every time I’m alone with my thoughts and my philosophy on life, I realize I am too much this way and not enough the other, I am always doing this, when I should be doing that. Life like this should not be shared, it simply cannot be. I walk alone in the fields of what I perceive idealistic, hedonistic, safe and disgusting. Polarities seem be what I am made of, so does this mean I, too, am made of hypocrisy. Yes! I am too much in love with who I can be or want to be or want people to perceive who I can be. Selfish love for myself, my dreams, my aura is something I realized I am too much involved in. I write for what? So others can read. I talk so others can listen, I teach so others may learn from me. Why have I self-indulged my vanity and cloaked and hidden it behind a sheet of idealism that “life can be better if I achieve my selfish goals”?.
When can my words ever be sincere to me?
I have not exhausted this subject, but must return another time to it. I am at a loss for what I want to express and do not want to half-ass the rest. I am too weary.
This morning, waking at an ungodly hour to catch my flight and not sitting down to eat for almost 10 hours has caused not only my mental acuteness to whither, but my stomach to be in an uproar.
I am still feeling the time change and must take rest in the dark caverns of my bed.
I have so much to say about beds, the thoughts are fluttering in my head, but my net is broken from travel and from wear.
For now, as this night passes I think of the friends I made here and I think, soon, we all will be sleeping like we were babies under the same starry sky, we will rejoice in the slumber of our dreams or cower in our nightmares.
I leave this note from Emily Dickinson,
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain.
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.