Just finished watching Donnie Darko. Haven't seen it for a long time, the dvd copy of it never played until tonight. The first time I saw it, I was stunned. So much so I went from my friend's house and hired it to watch it again... I understand it, but don't. It's given me a mood of reflectiveness.
I sometimes feel like I'm not part of the world. That I'm a visible tangible being, but not attached to everything here. I see things that I would normally gloss over, like a person walking past and suddenly being able to connect with their feelings, it's a draining ability, because it's never feelings of happyness, nor sadness, just melancholy I suppose. It makes me wonder where they've been, where they're going, and why.
I came to realise long ago that you can be happy or content, you can't be both. I guess you can't be both because I've not been able to experience both. I think you can be content with what/where you are, but not happy, I think you can be happy with what/where you are but not be content.
What you're reading here is me. I've not written for a long time and I fear that is because I'm happy, I'm not having to live by myself inside me anymore and that's kind of freaky, as in that place I am eloquent and have a comeback, outside of me, I'm quick with a comeback but can't be eloquent and it slows me down I feel.
I won't edit these thoughts, what you're reading here is a typical pouring of thought and thought process onto cyber paper. I sometimes wonder at these times if I'm actually dead and still able to view the world and feel the things I shouldn't be, like someone's thoughts and feelings as they wander past without realising I'm connected to them for those brief moments.
What are we and why? I can't answer that. I know I like being me, if I came back and had to do it over, I'd still be me I think. I love the fact that my mind is like a deep pool of emotion, silent on the surface but running fast far far below.
I like the fact that some people have wanted to work me out, but you don't need to go below the surface for that, infact you'd probably find it all on the banks rather than in the pool. I'm no mystery, probably not even remotely interesting, but I guess the fun is in trying to find the answer to the questions, right or wrong.
My need to write is going. It's like this always. Even when I was writing short stories, if a pen wasn't handy, the story was gone, never to come back. I'm sure I'm not responsible for my stories and that I get channelled by some frustrated dead writer, (wonder if he was famous). I loved the connection I had with "Him". I'd have a story down on paper from beginning to end and the only edit it would get was when it was going from paper to computer, sometimes not even that. The story was told, all said and done, it was spilt onto paper with nothing more to add. I loved the darkness of it all, the feeling of pulling something out of me. That feeling is going now and so I shall stop. Thank you for reading this if you have got this far, tell me you got here, tell me you understand, tell me anything, it'd be nice to hear.
