Excerpts from Ambiguity's Diary

June 11, 2007

 

           Her hair is pinned as high as it will go. It gives her a headache, but relieves her from the intolerable heat of the day. She looks out as rain cascades down a second story window. The glass appears to be melting, flowing like a fountain, restoring the girl’s soul. Thunderstorms are tiny offerings of salvation from the summer heat allowing her to toss about her newly freed hair with a grin. The day could not be any more perfect. She is alone with her thoughts, but for once is not lost in a cavern of despair and depression.

Last week, she graduated from high school- the first on her mother’s side of the family. That day had not come a moment too soon for her. She had now joined the ranks of the adults, though her mind and maturity had joined and surpassed them long ago. Finally she would be recognized as a little less than equal instead of not equal at all. The young woman will not feel accomplished until she leads a life of her own, away from her parents in her own home paid for with her own money.

But until that future, she reflects on her past. Her thoughts wander into a corner where she hides the memories of an ex-girlfriend. She always admired that girl’s independence, ambition, intelligence, and strength. Over the years, she had finally become very similar to that former lover. Though she had turned away from her long ago, the best parts of her had remained. Many accused the young woman of forgetting her true identity, but she preferred to think that she had found it. This was her time of self-discovery, and she intended to take full advantage of it.

 

 

 

June 17, 2007

 

           I’m restless. I want to do something, anything, that involves talking with someone, anyone. There is only one person now that doesn’t know my secret. I’m just so damn afraid of being rejected. I drank last night. The most alcohol I’ve ever had in my system at one time. I didn’t let myself get drunk, of course, but I must say that my motor skills were becoming somewhat impaired. People are beginning to see me as an adult, as older than what I really am. Not that I began drinking to encourage their assumptions, merely to be part of their group. As the booze took effect on their brains, I became more and more of an equal. The age lines were blurred with their vision and for once they admired my mind instead of disregarding it. I actually got a chance to prove myself worthy of their time, and they opened themselves up to me in return. My god, I think I’m actually trying to fit in.

            I forgot my sketchbook at home, and now I’m craving a pencil to be in my hand bringing to life whatever it has on its mind. I want to draw a young woman with a young face sprinkled with freckles. I would make her hair blow in the wind and glow in the morning’s sunlight. I’m not sure if she would be the two-dimensional embodiment of the person I want to be or the person I want to be with, but she would be beautiful nonetheless.

            As I ponder the structure of this book, I began to think of chronological order being that this is a chronicle of sorts- a diary at least. But now I question the importance of the order of thoughts and events. Many of my days seem rather independent of each other. They only rely on each other in the sense that the sum of them is what makes me who I am. Sure, action and reaction apply. A person’s reaction to any given situation can be used to estimate the quality of their character.

            I used to believe that I was most artistic when ambiguous. Yet now I have come to think that expressing myself, my whole self, and all of my thoughts in their detailed entirety is what people will be able to appreciate most. Otherwise, no one will be able to relate to me. After all, who am I without my innermost thoughts and desires or even the most mundane nuances of my life? Without explaining my life to the fullest I am only what others make of me instead of what I make of myself. Someone once expressed to me that they hoped I would always be real in everything that I do and that I would always stay true to myself. That is exactly what I intend to do.

            I am a lonely and confused young woman. I am Pagan, or Agnostic, or Unitarian Universalist, or perhaps any combination of the three. My sexuality is equally enshrouded by its own shadows. I am most comfortable around homosexuals and have had my own homosexual experiences, yet am attracted to men as much as women and not ready to give up the dream of getting married and having children of my own. Perhaps in our modern world, living both of those lives will be possible for me. I am spiritual, but not religious. I blush very easily and love to laugh. I feel attractive when people check me out even if I’m not attracted to them. I’m a hippie at heart, yet love military history. I can be a hypocrite and contradict myself, yet often find ways to make my contradictions legitimate. I have issues with self-esteem, though my friends look to me for advice and often comment on my amazing confidence in myself and my actions. I love flipping through Victoria’s Secret catalogs and hate to paint my nails. I own nearly every rock or pop song that came out in the years of 1998 and 1999. Those were great years. I’ve only recently allowed other people to see me cry. I try not to see it as a weakness anymore. My best friend is gay, but sometimes admits that he is somewhat attracted to me. For some reason it actually makes me angry, but I love him too much to say so. I often spell words in the British fashion or even add an extra Olde English “e” to the end of some words. I’m very affectionate, but careful about giving it away to just anyone. I’m a work in progress and finally not afraid to admit it, but rather enthusiastic about progressing. And now I’m free.

 

 

 

 

June 23, 2007

 

            I can’t look into his eyes for fear that I won’t be able to look away. I can’t touch him for fear of being touched by him. Yet, I crave his touch though it should be given to someone else. He’s getting the best of me, and I hate and love it. I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m being so naïve and he knows it. Part of me believes that is the reason that he tries so hard for my attention. Perhaps he’s trying to take advantage of an inexperienced young woman, or maybe he’s just lonely and looking for companionship if only for one night. Either way, I can’t get him out of my head no matter how hard I try. I just hope that he can forget about me and me him before this becomes any worse than it already is. He’s too suave for my taste. His smile and bright eyes make me feel as though I am the only person in his world. But, his eyes are curtains so that I can’t read him. He won’t let me in. I know that I can’t trust him, and yet I confided in him. Idiotic, aren’t I? I love talking to him, but he knows that all too well and uses it against me. I just can’t win. I hear his footsteps in the room above mine and a smile comes to my face fueled by a warmed heart. How can I fall for someone like him? How could I have been such a fool to let him in? I can only hope that he’s too busy to think of me now. It’s been days since we’ve even seen each other- an agonizing blessing. I’m better than this.

            And so I’ve admitted that I’m naïve and have much to learn. I’m just grateful that I finally have the chance to gain some experience for myself even if it means making mistakes. To me- the only mistakes made in life are those that do not teach anything. So far I have no such mistakes. I’ve learned from everything that has happened to me or because of me. Therefore, I live without regret.

            I’m alone again. It feels strange not to have my baby brother either in my arms or lying beside of me. I love to cuddle with him on the bed to get him to fall asleep. Even though he’s so young, he still has a very strong personality and the markings of an old soul. It’s hard work taking care of an infant, but worth every moment. He now yawns when I do- a sign of empathy I hope. He’s even smiled at me now and loves to sit in my lap just looking around and making faces. That’s his way of playing and exploring the world. I love him as though he were my own. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I leave him here with my dad and stepmom. Though they are his true parents, I still feel that I should share the responsibility of raising him. There is so much I want to teach him and show him. My dad keeps joking that babysitting so much is the best form of birth control, but it actually makes me want children of my own even more. The reward far outweighs the sacrifice in my mind. I feel obligated to him, to do anything for him. I just hope that someday he will come to understand that.

 

 

 

July 24, 2007

 

            He’s anything but perfect, hence the nickname “Mr. Perfection”. He’s clumsy and inexperienced when it comes to women, but that is one of my favorite things about him. He’s too afraid of being like a character in some Romantic Comedy, but I find it adorable when he says the wrong thing only to stumble into an apology. He lets me hold him for a change and doesn’t mind giving me a little control. His sense of humor is as dry as the desert from whence he came, but he makes me laugh more than anyone else. What a sweet escape he is from my lonely world void of stimulating conversation. We haven’t kissed yet, but it is numbered one through ten on my “To-Do” list. How many times am I going to get like this over someone? I put up this façade of indifference toward people, yet inside I yearn for them with a passion. I’m afraid of appearing weak, yet my thoughts make me feel so even if I don’t express them outwardly. Even so, I can’t stop thinking about our connection, our unity of mind, his Italian blood and green eyes, quirkiness and agnostic views, political independence and ability to cook, love of music and willingness to teach me new things. It’s all I’ve ever wanted in a companion, but I know that it will never work. We are two people moving in two very different directions. And so, I enjoy his company for a little while knowing that it will be over soon. It’s just enough to get me through this last drag of summer.

 

October 21, 2007

 

            They don’t speak any differently to each other than they do to anyone else. Their love seems dull and dim- without passion and sometimes even without care. Their son is urged to observe his manners, yet is given no time to spend alone with his parents. Each person in the house has their own set schedule and a busy one at that. Their lives don’t even converge over dinner. Only in the early morning preparation for the day and the last hour before sleep is there any mingling among the family. It is all so very depressing.

 

 

Reviews

[roofatron]

I think you have a very strong style or "voice". I like your honesty and am refreshed by your soul searching. I feel that these musings could quite easily turn into a book. What form that would take would be interesting to see.

Keep trucking, keep expressing.