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| There's something strangely serene about riding on a train. The rolling and ever changing landscapes. The soft, steady rumbling of the rails. The steady movement. The impression that you've set foot on all the places the tracks take you. I have no mp3 player with me, which is a first. But the train has its own soundtrack -- the murmurs of the wheels against the tracks; the hum of the air conditioning overhead; the occasional, subdued shriek of passing trains. Then there are the crinkling of newspaper, the clicking of opening and shutting briefcases, the sniffing of itchy noses, and the breaths of laughter from the few engaged in conversation. And let's not forget the announcer and her always polite, articulate voice.
"The next station is -- Woking -- please remember your belongings."
Then the shuffling of feet of passing and new passengers. A new orchestra is thus formed at every platform. The wheels begin to turn, the train picks up its pace, and the soundtrack resumes. | | |
| So the surgeon has seemingly quit her.
His desperate, wholehearted and patient attempts to fix her, to keep her there for as long as he could, has only resulted in her withdrawal. Again, and again.
His eyes pleaded with hers.
You can't save me, she would whisper. Again, and again.
So the surgeon has seemingly quit her.
And now, maybe, he no longer has to be anyone's savior. He no longer has to bandage her self-inflicted wounds and guard over her all too natural curiosity for the wilderness. He no longer has to bear the brunt of her denials.
She quit him long ago. And so the surgeon has seemingly quit her.
And now, her wounds have never been so deep. Her dress never so tattered. Her knees never so scarred. Her soul never so utterly and frighteningly lost. But she quit him long ago.
This time, she will find her own way home. This time, she will learn the limits of her damaging curiosity. This time, she will save herself. And she will walk back to the surgeon, head up high, unashamed and whole.
This time, she will love him -- not for his perfect crimson carvings, not for his soft yet unwavering words of hope, not for his healing hands that have too often administered to her pain.
This time, she will not love the surgeon for his art, but for the man: vulnerable, unselfish and flawed. | | |
| I don’t know why we take our worst moods so much more seriously than our best ones, crediting depression with more clarity than euphoria.
Tom Kreider's "Reprieve" is one of my favorite reads that I've had this past year. I've never had a stabbiversary, nor anything close to a near-death experience. On the contrary, my life has been a privileged one, free of any health issues, financial burdens, family drama, or deceitful relationships (somewhat). Like Krieder suggests, sometimes I wish I could have a brush with death just to understand the privilege of everyday life, and to free myself from all the petty worries of life that I seem to latch onto much too easily. But it shouldn't have to take that much truly recognize what you have.
In the past year, I've put myself through multiple reckless situations that have heavily weighed down on me, causing me to seriously question my beliefs, character and limits. It's difficult to explain why my time in London has been so exceedingly difficult -- not just to others, but even to myself. Maybe it's the fact that I'm realizing from a first-hand experience that everything I've always had and never really fought for can all be lost. I've sat here, multiple times, attempting to rationalize my thoughts mentally and on-screen, and nothing will come to me.
I don't think I've ever said this before.. but I am unhappy. And in admitting it, I've tried to convince myself that it's something I can change, that this feeling of unhappiness is something I can dissect and organize, and rearrange to put my life back into order again. It hasn't been working. Maybe unhappiness isn't something you can make sense of.
As fucking pathetic as I feel admitting this, I feel emotionally out of control here. I'm still trying to figure out if it's related to any drugs (non-recreational ones, that is) I've taken here. I don't know.
I feel like I'm an organized mess, if that makes any sense. I continually break down, but I do so discretely and systematically. The more it happens, the more I feel like I'm letting myself down, but I've definitely started to see the limitations of relying on your pride.
It makes me sick to say something so emo and helpless, but I feel like I've been drowning in my own misery. I only have five weeks left here before I go back to California to start an awesome new job at a new city, yet I'm still having trouble snapping out of it.
Someone hit me. Really hard. Please.
I need to snap the fuck out of this. | | |
| I'm still going to actively stalk a select few on xanga, so feel free to send me love notes.
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After 5+ years, I'm shutting this baby down.
I've started up another blog that I hope will be better, at least to me.
If you want the details, hollaaa.
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| I think I'm over London. At least in the sense of how I'm restricted as long as I'm here on this specific program.
I love London. I hate this program.
I think I'm too spontaneous for most of the people I spend time with here.
I want to meet new people. I need someone who can keep up with me during those quickfire moments. I mentioned that today over dinner to two American friends.
"At least you have foreign friends," Liz said.
"Who," I asked.
"X, and his friends. And Y, when you guys were hanging out."
"....Yeah. Because I dated them. They're not really friends."
And then I thought about Paris. I introduced a whole bunch of French friends to my American friends. And how did I do that? By dating a French guy.
If I'm dating you, you're not really my "friend."
Is this seriously the only way a girl can meet some fucking new people in the city? Why can't girls be more approachable. Why do most females gotta be such damn bitches to each other. English girls are especially crap.
How is it that my last entry is about being single and how great it is, and here I am, dating Mr. X.
I still think I should be single. It's hard to be a girl and to be single. Especially when you're trying to be as open as possible to make friends. Guys don't want to be friends, and girls don't want to be friends.
I need to get a move on with something. I'm restless.
I have a video conference interview with a major company next week based in California via the headquarters here. I am fucking nervous, and relatively unprepared as of now. I am so anxious to get it done so I know what the hell I'm doing next with myself.
London is becoming suffocating.
I have so many thoughts, theories, questions and uncertainties in my head. I've been trying to organize them into a decent entry in the past few months... and completely failing.
I'll get there at some point.
Maybe I'll switch to another blog and start afresh.
Hm.
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