Final Post

Over the past two weeks, I've written quite a few blogs. They started out trying to b e about faces and how people (and myself) act around others. It worked for a few entries, and I tried to keep it consistant, but I failed. Whether is was because of sleep deprivation, pure laziness, or even just a sucky topic, I'm not sure. But I do know that I failed at being consistant.
I don't really like the internet, and I have a personal hatred for blogs and any kind of online communities. If I wanted to write about myself so that others can read it and critique me, then I would write an autobiography. But that's not what I write about. I hate writing about, talking about, thinking about myself. I would actually rather not. If I have to have anything at all to do with myself, I think it to myself so that no one else would have to read it. My life is my own, and it's not something that can just be read from pages or a computer screen.
It's all the same old sob story.
"My mom and dad are divorced. I had a bad childhood. I struggled with depression. I've been tempted to do some bad things."
Boo hoo. Welcome to the life of the American teenager.
This may just be my personal opinion. Maybe some of you enjoy this so that other people can give you advice to help you through some of your troubles that you're struggling with now.
But in my case, I have no troubles. I see no point in having troubles. I live at home with my mom and grandma in a nice duplex, which is amazing because men are gross and it's just us girls. Through the divorce, my dad has been paying for our mortgage, my child-support, and he buys me things every time I see him. We've become closer because of his guilt, and whoever says that money can't buy happiness was seriously disturbed. Me and my dad get to spend our quality time together when we go out in public, shopping. Anything he buys me is magnificent, and it makes me so happy. And when I'm happy, he's happy. And when he's happy, I've even happier.
Because of my failed childhood, I learned at an early age what not to do. I learned right from wrong. I learned how other people act and think and feel, and I learned how to manipulate or nurture those traits. I learned how to rise above others and strongly be myself. And my lessons in life like that only fully sunk in last year. It has shaped me into a better person, and I'm happy with who I am, how I look, what I sound like, and how I live.
And just because of all this, that doesn't mean that I want to waste my time typing it out in a depressing little white box on a computer screen, when my real friends are calling and texting me non-stop for help. I give out so much help, support, advice, that I'm sick of writing it, saying it, thinking about it. I don't have patience, I can't understand why people let things get to them [i.e. stereotypes, insults, relationship troubles], and I am not the person to go to if you're only looking for pity. I do not pity the idiotic.
So, as this is my final [hopefully final final] blog entry, I will say this. It has been great. I love ranting about other people and all that good gossiping junk {oh the sarcasm!], but after I leave this academy, I will probably delete or forget about my blog account. I will keep my facebook because my friends are making me, but I will not check it everyday. I hate computers, the internet, and people in general. I will be a hermit when I grow up.
In short, I am not an autobiographer.
Thank you, and have a nice day.

Cerberus

If I had to choose one god to be like, I would probably choose Cerberus. He's just the coolest thing ever. Now, Hades may be a little iffy, but if he's good enough for my Cerberus to protect, then he's good enough for me.

Ben Okri [A Way of Being Free]

Eight: "When we die in life, it's much easier to watch others dying too; it's much easier to murder the dreams of others, to poison the stream of their lives, to poison their innocence, their love. When we are all dead in life, we don't notice when little miracles die around us before our deadened gaze."

Nine: "There are many ways to die, and not all of them have to do with extinction. A lot of them have to do with living. Living many lies. Living without asking questions. Living in the cave of your own prejudices. Living the life imposed on you, the dreams and codes of your ancestors."

Fifteen: "If reality is also a battle of contending dreams, then our enchantments, our silence, and our highest love should do the fighting."

Seventeen: "Exile is a fleeing from one dream to another one. In the process we change, we metamorphose, and our new shapes are never settled."

Twenty-nine: "We should speak out, cry out, but not too much or we won't be heard for the monotony of our cry. -- We should be silent, and serene, and we should plan, but we mustn't be too silent or we won't be heard at all."

Unacknowledged

Have you ever noticed how natural people look when they aren't paying attenion?
On our way back from Cleveland on Saturday, as we all sat in silence on the bus, I realized something. I looked over at Grace, who was curled up on the seat next to me, asleep. I looked over at Steve, who was writing intently in his notebook. Both looked different than how I usually see them. Grace usually makes weird faces and is always grinning, but when she's sleeping, she's stoic, peaceful. Steve, who's usually trying to seduce his friends or crack a joke, simply looked focused and serious. Something we don't often see of either.
Now, I know I'm creepy for watching people, as I've been told a hundred times before, but no one can deny that it's fun to watch the faces that people make when they don't realize anyone can see them. In the mall, if someone's distraced or reading something, they can look focused or angry or sad. Depnding on what their face muscles contort to when they don't pay attention, people can get the wrong impression of them.
Cheyenne and I were talking the other day (sorry if you didn't want me to include this, dear), and she has the same problem. She said that she'll be walking down the halls at school, and her friends or just anyone she passes thinks that she's angry at the world. But according to her, she is not. I'm the same way. If I'm not focusing on myself, my nose scrunches up, my lips purse, and I look like I've bitten into a rotten, smelly lemon. It's not fun, especially since that realization came from my brother. [I hate my brother.]
Everyone is like that though. Some people look beautiful when their minds are elsewhere. Some look retarded. There's really nothing you can do about it unless you want to make sure you're conscious of yourself every minute of every hour of every day. And if one would do that, then there would be no life to live, really. Only consciousness. And if you ask me, I would rather look like a retard and just go through my life enjoying it than constantly worrying about what I look like.
I'm starting to rant about something else. Should I keep going? Should I stop? Eh, I've ranted about people's appearances so much, that it sounds redundant anymore.
All I'll say is, don't worry about what's on your outside. Worry about what's on your inside. [And I sold that cheesey, cliched line to Hallmark for a million dollars.]

Macabre

I'm not quite sure what my imaginary ancestry would be. My favourite writers are Emily Bronte (author of the great classic Wuthering Heights and an amazing poet), Edgar Allan Poe (father of short fiction and the writer of beautifully dark poetry), and Emily Dickenson (not gonna lie). I still don't know very many poets, and I know that there are hundreds more out there that I might fall in love with, but I haven't found them yet. Unfortunately. I need to start researching.
But I know one thing. Bukowski's Like a Flower in the Rain is not a good first impression on a person who's never read his work.
Edgar Allan Poe is like my father in writing. I fashion my writing into a style much like his, find his Gothic and morbid habits amazing. Insanity is a trait we both share. I don't drink, and I'm not at all depressing (in perconality, anyway), but I do tend to look on the darker side of things. Not pessimistic. Definitely not.
I suppose you could call this face Macabre, since my blog is on faces.
The sadistic, morbid, uncouth sort of face that I wear the most. Macabre has a sick and dark sense of humor [as all of us writers seem to have], generally dealing with ghosts, mutilation, mystery, nighttime, etc. Macabre is the very heart of my artistic madness. She gave me my madness, my weird quirks, and my self confident attitude. I was born with Macabre hanging over my shoulders, long before I had even heart Poe's name.
Why do I have friends? >>

Serenity

Have any of you ever noticed that it's really hard to become or stay mad when you're surrounded my beautiful trees and amazing rocks? It's like there's something in the oxygen that they create that fills our heads with calm. Now I know that if one inhales pure oxygen, then they're going to get just a little high; but is it really the same thing?
All I know is that since I was a little girl, I have loved being in the woods, surrounded by trees, away from the hustle and bustle of the modern world. Trees are the best monkey bars, in my opinion, rocks are the most amazing cots for taking cool afternoon naps, and the wind that smells so clean and fresh is what seems like all you would ever need for sustenance.
When I'm in the woods, alone or surrounded by people--it doesn't matter--, I am Serenity.
Serenity is a person that no one can hate. She doesn't try to impress people, she doesn't badger people, and she has no morals--good or bad. She just exists, in and of herself. No one else really matters. Now, don't get me wrong, she's not narcissistic. She just floats, in so many words. She does whatever she wants, whenever she wants, no matter who is watching.
I rely on Serenity whenever something is bothering me. She makes me forget about everything wrong in the world. I drown myself in her imaginary existence [I love oxy-morons!].
[I really don't feel like writing a blog or going into details. I have a story for Figler to focus on. Grr.]

The Zodiac

Once, a long time ago, there was a man.
For as long as he could remember, he had always, always, been by himself.
If he climbed down the mountain, he knew he would meet people, but he chose to be by himself.
Having the strength of a thousand men. Having the lives of a thousand men.
That man having a thousand memories, he knew that he was different from other people.
This man was afraid of other people.
He was afraid of getting hurt.
While he had so many powers, he was afraid of this self that he knew was so different from the world.
And so to him, the cat came one day.
This was a sudden encounter; another visiting him.
The cat bowed his head and said, “I have been following you for some time. You have a most unusual aura. I can’t help but be drawn to you. I realize that I am a stray cat, but won’t you please let me stay by your side? Please, ‘God’?”
Since then, as he said, the cat never left the man’s side. He never left for a moment and that made God so very happy that a thought came to him.
Perhaps I can get along with them if it was a being other than a human.
If it is with beings who have had similar experiences, then we can have a great banquet.
And so, God wrote out many invitations.
In return, twelve animals arrived to see God.
The thirteen animals and God had a banquet each night in the moonlight, singing and dancing and laughing with each other.
At the banquet for the first time, God laughed. Even the moon watched quietly over the beings who did not look human.
However, after some time, the cat collapsed. His life had come to its end and there was nothing they could do.
Every one of them cried.
Every one of them realized… Eventually, everyone would die, no matter how much you loved them.
The banquet would end, no matter how much fun it was.
Eventually, everything would stop.
Then God cast one spell.
He drew a circle in the water with his finger.
He had the cat take a sip of water. Then he turned to everyone else and said,
“Let us make our friendship last for eternity. Even when we die, let us be bound by our friendship for eternity. No matter how many times we die. No matter how many times we are reborn. Again, in the same way, no matter how many times, let us have another banquet. Everyone getting alone for all of time. Let us be in Eternal Bliss.”
Everyone nodded in agreement and the rat took the first sip.
Then the ox.
Then the hare.
Then the monkey.
Then the dragon.
Then the boar.
Then the tiger.
Then the horse.
Then the snake.
Then the cock.
Then the dog.
Then finally, the ram.
In their turns, the water was divided equally.
At the end, when the last drop was gone, the cat began to gasp.
“God…” he said. “God, why did you make me drink that? God, I do not want eternity. I do not want eternal bliss.”
Those were unthinkable words to say.
To God and all the other animals, they were rejecting words.
Everyone was sad to hear them, and they turned against the cat.
Even so, the cat said, “God, God, even though you are frightened, let us accept that all things end. Even though it is sad, let us accept that life ends. God, even though it was for a just a short time, I was happy being by your side. We were to die, to be reborn, and meet again. The next time, rather than in the moonlight, I want to see you smile in the sun. I want to see you, laughing, surrounded by people.”
And for the last time, the cat raised its tail and died peacefully.
But none of the animals cared about the cat anymore. Because everyone felt they had been betrayed by the cat.
After that, one by one, they all died. In the end, the dragon died last.
And so God was alone once more.
Eventually, the day came that God died too.
However, he was not afraid because his promise to everyone supported him.
“Again.
We will have a banquet again.
Once again.
Many times.
Always unchanging.
No matter how alone I am right now.”
On the other side of that promise, everyone is waiting for me.

[Short story snatched from the manga Fruits Basket.]

Braveheart

Everyone has at one time had a terrible experience in their childhoods. Some people fall apart, others block it out, and the rest cope. I was one of those weird little children that created people inside my head to help me cope and live through the days.
When you're eight years old, anything can be scary or traumatizing. Anything from watching a horror movie or hearing a scary story to getting lost in the mall or being caught doing something you know it wrong. But those are mainly because we're afraid for our lives--which none of us are really conscious of at the time--or afraid of whatever punishment we'll be facing.
But it's a different kind of fear when your father is drunk and screaming at your ill and sobbing mother. It's the most dreaded combination of fear and panic and determination that I have ever faced. You're too frantic to truly realize the magnitude your fear, you're too afraid to do anything about it, but you're determined to not let it effect you.
So when there's a little girl curled up on the staircase, too curious to stop eavesdropping but too horrified to continue, something has to be done.
That was when I discovered Braveheart.
Braveheart is what I named the face that I wear when I need to hide my fear and sorrow. It's a stoic face that no one yet has been able to penetrate. It's one of my strongest.
I know that I'm not the only one in the world that has a Braveheart--though not all of you may call it that. Everyone has something that they do to keep themselves in one piece. Some just let loose and bawl, but that's their own form of bravery; to be able to show free emotion, even if it's not intentional. Some people let it sink in and root itself deep inside of them; and while that's stupid, it's still brave. It could maybe help them later on in life, and they're willing to take that risk.
I created Braveheart because my mother was sick and forlorn, and my father was lost and angry. All the time. I didn't want my mother to get more upset by seeing me cry--she already had enough issues to deal with. And I didn't want my dad to see me afraid because he's a man that thinks of fear and love as the world's biggest weakness. I was genuinely afraid of him.
But my mask wasn't fool-proof. I would run upstairs and hide in my closet. (I had a sleeping bag and a box of junk food in there to sustain me.) And there I would let my terror and anguish and all my other emotions fling free, where no one would see me. I would bury my face in a pillow so that no one could hear me. And I would put the mask back on afterwards and emerge from my refuge.
Now, my family's all better now (to an extent). My father has moved out and he's gotten a lot better, even though I've still never in my life seen him sober. My mother isn't sick anymore and she's free of his verbal abuse and the stress that he made weigh heavily on her heart. I don't see Braveheart as much anymore as I used to, though I still use him once in a while when there's a death or something. It's a habit now, to use him when I feel the need to cry. But thank God that doesn't happen often. (I'm still single. Heh.)
But, anyway, that was how Braveheart came to be. If it weren't for him, my low points would have been beyond uprising. But we'll talk about those with different faces.

[When I put in Braveheart, how many of you were picturing the face looking like Mel Gibson?]

Origins

Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see a different "Me" is staring back. There are so many different faces that greet me when I wake up, wash my face, or check my appearance throughout the day. The face that I behold in my reflexion is based on the type of mood that I find myself in or the kind of people that surround me.
These are all strange faces, unique in their own special ways.
I have many different people living inside my mind, but it's not some mental disorder. It's just simply who I show to whom in a certain frame of time. If I am surrounded my people who cuss and smoke and drink, my responsible and mature face breaks the surface and I become somber, clear-headed. If something ill has happened that day, my cheeks become placid and my eyes are suspicious and agitated. If I am happy in the middle of the night, my gaze is mischievous and taunting, but full of humor and good-will.
To some people, I'm a fake. But what am I faking? In all of these faces, though the moods and thought processes are different, the real me is still there. Always. Like a Masquarade mask, when you can still see some of the person's real face.
It isn't like I'm purposely trying to be a dozen people at once. I've been this way since before I can remember. I don't think it's a medical condition, and it doesn't interfere in my life. I live a wonderful life. I love my life.
However, there is a reason that every face exists. Every "Me" has its origins.