I’m figuring out that I can’t be “normal” again. I have to just be me, just as I’ve know before. And me, right now, doesn’t feel like me anymore. I feel like I’ve lost my identity.
A part of you is defined by who you actually are: Who you believe you are. The rest is made up of what others think of you. This mixture of who you think you are and who others think you are makes you, you.
(Yes, it’s one of those vague posts. If you want to find out more, you can consult the source. Hah!)
But when those that have given your identity… those that who have given you worth in this world… those that you’ve loved…
When you realize that those people have started to care much less… that those people no longer put any effort nearly close to the effort you’re putting into…
That’s when it hurts the most.
I guess that’s my cue to stop. Stop caring. Stop all of it.
But of course, if I stopped all of it, I would refuse to exist. If no one sees or hears me, if I make no mark in this world, did I ever exist?
No. That fine line… that fine line of making new friends, as well well as keeping up with the ones that will one day figure out what they’ve done to me… I need to figure it out soon.
Ah, cathartic-but-vague-enough post, how I’ve missed thee. I must make you an entire category of your own.
[Cue dramatic exit with a poem]
Solitude
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow it’s mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
For those that are reading this and are concerned… don’t be. I’m not on the verge of suicide or something silly. On the contrary, I’m just ridiculously sad for those that will be missing out on the sweet lessons I’ve learned from all this mess. Your loss, peoples, your loss.
I think this will definitely end the personal posts for a while. Starting tomorrow, the technical posts return.
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