Confessions From a Sporadic Poet

Wow. I haven't written anything here in more than a year...

I'm not sure whether to apologize or come up with reasonable excuses out of the many my head is just thinking right now.

But because I am human, I must come up with language, in order to logically persuade the reader into accepting my behavior; although I think that's the main problem there.

I'm always depending on the external reassurance of my character.

But I think that the most important fact is:

I am just-- SO-- fucking tired of it!

It's not wrong to want to be accepted and loved. It's only wrong when I fully depend on it. I create an idea of what it means to be "perfect" and if I deviate from it, I consider myself a failure. This thinking is WRONG. And in my life, this WRONG is NOT RELATIVE. I write "in my life" because this may apply to you or not. By NOT RELATIVE I mean that it's not open for interpretation. This is seriously affecting my life in terrible ways. This is seriously WRONG.

I have been told I am very sensitive. A doctor called it "hypersensitivity." This is actually good when you are an artist, because you can write beautiful accounts of the human condition, or see what others overlook (this is why I like being a poet). But sometimes I can get too carried away by what something someone says or does to me, and I sometimes feel extremely hurt, saddened, angry, or happy.

I can travel two roads from here:

1. Thinking I am wrong because I feel that I do wrong. (Yay! vicious circle!)

2. Listen to what others have to say but then weighing down all options and make a choice.

I have been doing #1 most of my life, during those nights when I feel that I am a bad writer because I didn't write on my blog, or a bad poet because I didn't write that many poems (and the one that I did my best on was criticized harshly), or even a bad son because I didn't study physics. Whenever I feel like this, the vicious circle of hate comes along, and with him, all the remorse, depression, self-judgment, and even thoughts about dying (because it's always easier to escape than to face our inner monsters).

People always appear to have been born with inner reassurance of their character, and we as individuals separate ourselves from the ones we label "others." If we do this-- as I have-- we think everybody else is already perfect, while we're not, because our world is so small, perhaps even to the level of being pathetic, that we then believe we are inherently unworthy to breathe the same air as "those triumphant people out there who seem to have everything."

I'm starting to think they are suffering too...

Think about it:
If we isolate ourselves inside our problems, we can easily get lost in this separation of being, thinking we have never really amounted to anything, that we are gonna die someday, so nothing makes sense, and that our lives are simply between two unknown eternities separated by birth and death.

The problem arises when we feel like the only ones who think this way.

No job, hobby, relationship, not even any religion, can take away the fact that we are limited phenomena in a world we barely even understand. Those are simply distractions, in my honest opinion. Yes, there is a necessity to have a job in the world we live in, but this is not the main reason that we are alive.

I am speaking in a Buddhist sense, combined with my sense of philosophy and personal experience. Other people might not be so lucky to have my life, just the same as I'm not so lucky to have other people's lives.

Everybody is different, but we are all brothers in existence.

Knowing this, the comments people make about my life start to be less judgmental and more helpful. Critiques at my poetry become more florid, and less barbed. The power others seem to have over me diminishes considerably. The fact that I don't have a job, rest a lot, cry a lot, live with my parents, none of this makes me a worse or better person. These are just my choices and circumstances. I may not like them sometimes, but I know their solution. What everybody has told me before can only be important to me once I make the choice to listen or ignore. So, in the end, this life is mine.

And I am glad to be writing late, because this is the real me who is speaking.