That Was Then

I was rifling through My Documents and discovered this blog entry that I wrote on Thursday night/Friday morning. Writing it at the time seemed like a great idea and I desperately wanted to post it. I read it now and it seems so dumb. I remember talking to Shan about a book that I got from her, a book of poems and short stories, of love and hurt and broken-ness and hope. I thought it was wonderful and I couldn't stop reading it or touching it.

I didn't ask for an autograph but she scrawled Beware! of bad writing on the cover and This book is shit Please do not share! Disregard what your parents told you about sharing! all over the inside cover and I am too embarassed to sign bad books. on the dedication page. I was a bit upset, amused and confused by this. I did get an autograph in the end, one of those unique and valuable kinds, and I loved the book, didn't she? I've discovered since that most writers don't like their old writing and are sometimes embarrassed by it. I've felt that way before too (see third sentence), but not being a Writer, it doesn't count. It's silly to cringe I think, you wrote what you did at the time because it's what you felt you needed to write. And I have no doubt that it was sincere and honest. So, putting my moola where my mouth is, here's the entry that I wrote when I was obviously way too tired and extremely emotional (there's your warning).

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Friday April 8, some time about 1:30am
No Hero In Her Skies

and so it is
just like you said it would be

You were given a glow-in-the-dark star today and they told you that you shone, that you stood out because you were bright, you simply glowed. You smiled because it was cheesy and trite but it made you feel good about yourself nonetheless.

life goes easy on me
most of the time

That light you emanated just a couple days ago flickers now as you sit listening to The Blower's Daughter on repeat, all made up with sparkly eyeshadow and red lipstick from your performance tonight. You feel like your hormones and your emotions have banded together and gave birth to a PMS monster that will eat all of your rationale and strength. Listening to sappy Damien Rice songs enhances the fact that hormones have taken over your body and the slightest mention of a certain ex-boyfriend's name will send you into a reminiscent fit of sadness tinged with a slight depression. Mentioning a certain crush's name will do almost the same thing, but not to the same extent.

and so it is
the shorter story
no love no glory
no hero in her skies

You're a bit melancholy. You will not receive a dozen roses this year after the show (the ones from last year are dried and still hang from the curtain rod over your bed) nor will there be a loved one in the audience who is so proud of you that he records your monologue with your shiny new camera so that you can have a digital copy ready for whenever you need it. You're tired. Your performance was off tonight, but no one in the audience could really tell - so many years on the stage has taught you to recover well. And you think to yourself, Why can't I recover well in real life?

i can't take my eyes off of you

You wonder if anyone else out there thinks that their life is a movie, or could make a good one. Someone once told you that they always pretend that there's a camera to their left at all times. You thought this strange at first (your life is one big act?), but later fully realized what he meant. Last September, running across the road with tears in your eyes and how it reminded you of a scene from a(n unmade) movie, but there was no car to hit you. Tonight, as you stared at the glowing elevator buttons, you imagined a camera closing in on your blank expression and what it looked like to a viewer. Would this make a good scene? Indie films seem to like elevators. On the soundtrack would be Alanis, The Cranberries, among other songs that make you feel artistic and deep.

and so it is
just like you said it should be

You have an exam at nine tomorrow morning, but you haven't done readings for the class since January 19th and you're writing a blog entry though it's past one ay em. You don't particularly care and this bothers you a bit.

we'll both forget the breeze
most of the time

Your roommate wanders into your room with tears in her eyes. She nervously pulls at her oversized sweater. She just watched a sad video and she's crying now. You smile at her and wonder, What's become of us? Why do we rent and watch stupid, sappy, romance movies until two thirty in the morning? Why do we talk about being sad so much? Why do we waste our time and emotions on these asshats? You know that emo sucks.

and so it is
the colder water
the blower's daughter
the pupil in denial

You feel disjointed. Your body aches and your thoughts are a jumbled mess of randomness. But this isn't the kind of randomness that people will find remotely sexy and you laugh at the mere prospect because it is so utterly ridiculous to you right now that you really can laugh out loud. You can do whatever you want because like Counsellor Lindsay said in the fall, People don't care. And you're starting to believe her.

i can't take my eyes off of you
did I say that I loathe you?
did I say that I want to
leave it all behind?
i can't take my mind off of you
my mind
'til I find somebody new

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That was then. This is now.
11:06 am