Go out and get a job.
Quit shooting each other.
Quit having illegitimate babies."
Now, the part that was intended as advice was, obviously, the first two lines. But we both liked the entire excerpt, and as such I include it here. What he was telling me, as one history major to another, was to get my head out of the bloody clouds and do something practical. This permanent state of chase that I find myself long ensconced in is very much fanciful. As I say many times, over and over, I was born seven years behind. That's a huge head start that my goal had on me. Unreachable really. As a result of my constant attempts to reach something far beyond my years or myself is what you have now. A girl who knows beyond herself. Eyes that are opened beyond the usual plane of perceptions, and ears that are listening for what remains unsaid. It is only possible to hear as much as you are looking for. If, and when, you open your senses to an infinite plane of possibilities it is likely that you will begin get infinite responses in return. As such, I am far more perceptive than the average person. There are seldom things that escape my attention. I've trained myself that way. The level of conversation I am capable of holding is beyond my years as well, because I constantly and consistently aspired to a level far beyond me, and often did quite well.
Despite all of this, I do make mistakes on frequent occasion. These mistakes are usually grievous in degree because they come to fruition as a result of my ego. As much as I see, I am also blind. My sense of self-importance buts blinders on my vision, and though I notice things, I often misinterpret them. So, what Taylor was telling me was to come back down to earth so that even though I may lose sight of some things (my fancy and my creativity for example) at least I'd be able to objectively interpret those things I did see.
I didn't listen. And thank goodness as well. These last months since that advice was given to me have included some of my most grievous mistakes that could have been avoided. But they also harkened the creation of some of my best creative work in my life. From my writing, to my drawing, to my performances, and even to my research, my ability to open my mind beyond the plane that my physical body resides in has given birth to amazing possibilities. I took those possibilities, nurtured them, watched them grow, and sent them on their way, as all parents are ought to do. I shaped them and gave them form, but beyond that they are not mine. They came to me in their entirety, and I turned them into something that this world could see, hear, read, and understand. In a way I feel excited, as that makes me something of a conduit for this kind of creative energy; and as parents are proud of their children's achievements, so I am proud of these creations.
My paintbrush has painted the way my skin feels when I think about some of my memories. Dead and cold. The lack of warmth and the desolation I feel sometimes. But it has also painted the brightness in eyes that are not my own. The happiness brought on by the simplest of acts and moments. From the very best to the worst, my brush has been there and reminds me every day why I wake up in the morning again. My pencil has sketched the lines of the people whose faces refuse to leave my mind. It traces the edges of the lips I have kissed and laments sadly on how some of them are lost to the person who holds the pencil now. The whiteness of the teeth that nipped my skin, and the curves of their fingers that once ran through my hair. My charcoal, smudged across my skin and the paper recalls the softness of the skin and hair that I myself touched. The charcoal on the paper and on my own skin brings the moment back one more time. My pen writes the words I never knew my mind had the capacity to even think. The kinds of darkness' that I refused to see for so very long. But given voice, those same blackness' make themselves beautiful. The kind of sombra that I usually spend my days looking over my shoulder for, comforted by it's strangely ominous presence. Peter Pan did not miss his own shadow until it was gone. I will not make that same mistake. It is a comfort in odd moments, its 2-dimensional actions mirroring mine at the oddest of angles and perspectives. The eclipse that falls over my own eyes as my hair sneaks free of its restraint and makes itself known over my face. My pen hears all of these calls and gives them the words to speak for themselves. And so those same shadows, darkness', sombra, and eclipses are given their own moments to shine (even though they cannot, in fact, give light as that would destroy them entirely) so that the world might see them and acknowledge them.
If my head were not so far beyond this physical world, these things would remain elusive to me. I would not know in fact how very much I miss the characters that are now written on my page. For they are all people, and the things that these characters do are things that these very same people have done. I would not know how deeply I had fallen in love with the one now called 'Tony', and I would also not know that I am in fact, also 'Tony' myself. There is something almost sordid about that arrangement. For my 'Tony' is in fact a real person separate from myself. And I did, indeed, fall for him. Tony in my writing reacts much the same way that the one in real life did. but at the same time, I am very much Tony, and as he goes along with his life I realize that I not only fell in love with another person, but also with myself. And, more importantly, I fell in love with the person that this person saw me to be. It's a sort of menage a trois, in which I am in love with two people, one of which who does not return the sentiment, another who does, but that one who does is in fact myself.
So, by having my head in the clouds I have been able to distance myself from the very personal situations I have created for myself. As I analyze these things more and more patterns creep up that I don't exactly want to see. I recognize pattern and theme in everything. Even in myself and my life, in the places and way that I don't want to see them. The patterns of what I allow others to do to me. How I allow them to use me, is not just scary, it's downright sinister in it's very nature. So the dreams that haunt my mind's eye at night when I really sleep for the first time in weeks are faces that I've seen before, and faces that I hoped I would never see again. But I do, when I close my eyes at night to sleep, I dream, and I dream of things that I wish would leave me. They do not. They have something they need to tell me in these moments, and I have not yet made myself ready to hear them. I'm not so sure there will be any peace until I do.
There are two sides of me debating at this moment. The first is my so-called practical side. The side that tells me that I should just deal with it, all at once. Rip the band-aid off, if you will. This is also the side that very nearly demands me to talk to people about everything, that tells me to "go get help." What does that mean anyway! Go get help? I'm not dying, well except for my incurable condition called life. And life itself is enough of condition to drive anyone insane.
The other side of me wants to patiently wait it all out. Take the dreams as they come and let them do their job. You do not interrupt a play and ask the actors to move straight to the end, you let them go through the scenes and acts and then it comes to you in a more complete picture than if it had been handed to you in the first place. This fanciful side believes the need to feel the process completely and encourages me to give voice to the despair of it in my creative endeavors, let myself feel the pain and sadness of it, because that itself might be the message. The strength can only come from the effort and pain of the experience. It can't just be given. Unless I use steroids, and I know that's not really a real option.
I feel powerless as this experience as this tragic journey has its way with me, for none of it really seems to be in my hands anymore, but if I could control it, it wouldn't be the same at all; and that would be a shame.
So, the only advice my twins can seem to agree on is this:
Take back the right to dream
Fight the dream so that you may take back the RIGHT to dream
And with that, you may one day earn the right to live again