or, Why I Care About My Writing So Much
or, My Half-Assed Attitude Toward School and How I'm Determined to Finally Change It
or even, A Prime Example of Why I Should Sit Down to Write a Piece in One Go and Not Come Back to Finish it With a Complete Emotional Change...
OR PERHAPS, The Post Where I Really Should Realise That Only One Title is Necessary, Not Three, or Four (but I will realise no such thing ;D)
In the feedback I received last night from a teacher over an essay draft, he made this comment - "you write well". Now, I assume a normal person would be pleased with such a remark. I, however, take offence. Well? Well???
I don't want to just write "well". I want to write amazingly, brilliantly, magnificently. I'm not even kidding. I would, it's true, be disinclined to believe someone who would tell me such things, and yet, that is what I desire. I want to write fabulously. I want to write a novel that will one day be a classic, that other Year Twelve English students will do their major individual study on. I have lofty aspirations, and yet, when it comes to putting in the hard work now, a lot of the time, I just don't do it. The necessity of it doesn't quite strike me. I am doing better this year at school than last year, in some subjects at least, but still, far too often I allow myself to be distracted when I should be studying or doing homework, and procrastinate until it's too late. I am making changes to correct this, slowly.
[I'm trying to write about you here less.]
I used to be a highly conscientious student. At some time early in my high school career, I negligently let that slide. As a result, my grades for quite some time have been abysmal, appalling. Every time I try to make it right, I grow slack and let other things take priority, little things, like a favourite TV show. If there is nothing I can use to procrastinate, I will search long and hard in order to find... something. It is rarely anything useful, either. On occasion, my procrastination will take the form of household chores, but that is far more the exception than ever the rule.
[That doesn't mean I don't think of you.]
The most disappointing result of this has been my low grades. I love my parents being proud of me. I crave acceptance by others, all others, a little more than can be healthy. However, it is not only that. I disappoint myself because I know I can do better, I know I can do really well, if I were better organised, if I put in more effort. It is through no lack of ability that my report card has too often had "C"s and even "D"s printed on it. I could achieve the "A"s and "B"s, but I let myself down.
[How could I not?]
This time, though, I am determined. It is Year Twelve, and I only have one shot. I will not repeat and do Year Thirteen. I do not need to waste another year of my life. I will not be shown up by my younger sister. I will get myself organised and do as well as humanly possible for the rest of this school year. I'll be so organised I will even have extra time to revise and study, and will actually do so. I will actually get a decent amount of sleep, keep in regular touch with my friends, practice my flute, and start going for runs. At least, that's the plan.
[Sometimes I almost wish I could forget you.]
I have terrible will power. Shockingly terrible. Somehow, with the support of my wonderful friends / other randoms, I will get there. You have permission to beat me if I slack off. ;)
[It would be so. much. easier.]
So, let's recap. I suck at school. Now, when you think about it, I suck at a lot of stuff. I'm not good at anything. Sport - horrendous. Music - average, would be better if I practiced more, but still shocking at theory and aural. Can't sing. Dance - completely uncoordinated, hopeless. Cooking - terrible. Friendships - Oh, I'm great with those [/sarcasm]. Basically, in most aspects of life, I'm average to shocking.
[And yet, I could never give up the memories of the good times.]
Writing is the one thing I could do well. And there are so many people who are better at it than me, which makes me sad. I don't just want to be good at it, I want to be very good. I want to shine with raw talent, to amaze people who read my writing. Because I am not good at anything else and I want to at least be good at one thing. And if I'm only good at one thing, I don't want to simply be good. I want to be amazing. I want to stand out for something good, rather than standing out as the last one to always be picked for a team, as the worst who just cannot be taught and so even the nicest of P.E. teachers give up, I don't want to be left alone, worse than unnecessary but actually having a negative impact.
[I will forever cherish them.]
And... right now I'm just flat and tired and I feel thwarted, defeated.
I'm not even going to explain why. I can't, I can't keep putting these things to words. Just, something that I was looking forward to has been taken away. You may not see it here but I am so often fighting to see the positive in a situation, and I just, don't want to anymore. I hate how much this taints everything. Every single thing. I hate how its poison has infected me so deeply that I would run like this. I want to move on, move past it. I want to keep what I have.
[And forever regret losing the chance to make more]
But how can I, when its tentacles manage to creep into everything, wrapping around and choking it, cloaking it in this inky blackness? I can't fight it, it is inescapable. And this monster is mine, I created it, unwillingly though it was.
I know I'm over dramatic but all I can feel is like I am the character in a play of tragedy, with every good thing snatched away at the last. Everything tainted, everything warped.
It is a tiny thing, but it was important to me. Sometimes I just want to scream "fuck the world" with all the self absorbed, dramatised teenage angst I can conjure, rebelling, but not against a stereotype, no, rebelling as the stereotype, angry, defiant, but simply because I'm lost.
I'm hurting so bad that I don't want to have to take it, I want to be selfish and see just how much I can hurt you too, with every word I say, but even if I let myself, would you take it? Because I can't stand anything more leaving, I'd get down on my knees and beg if it would convince you to stay; I want to make you smile, not cry, I need you to need me for whatever reason you can find. I don't know who I am, where I'm going, what the fuck i'm doing but i'm sure that if you go, my heart could not bear it
I'm terrified of being alone, stranded in a pool of merciless light, surrounded by the darkness. Even now I feel the shadows stretch closer, dancing on the edges of this unprotected space. I'm too fearful to move, but if I did it would be to drop - fall - into a bundle, curled up so tightly on the ground you'd mistake me for a heap of rags... Trying to pretend, as children while parents fight, as soldiers while bombs fall, breathing "it's okay" though I know it's a lie. Whispering it in my head instead, trying to drown out the noise - or is it the silence? - of being so alone. Creeping closer, tendrils caressing. Not long now.
It's the agony of waiting. Knowing already the inevitable end.
Fit to burst, the panic tightens the chest, rising, rising.
Ever rising. When will it begin? can'ttakeitcan'ttakeit
the shuddering, violent gasp, the shock of a harsh night air suddenly in the lungs,
skin so tight, pulled taut by expanding ribs,
pressure moving outward, upward; threatening to snap
bones like twigs, Crack. Crack.
Heart beating? no,
rather a pulsing of the blood, from temple to fingertip, fingertip to toe.