Life! The Universe! Everything!

It is weird to loathe solitude. I live in solitude, I breathe easy in it. Extroversion makes me shudder. But if there is anything I have learned over this break it's that there is a difference between self-imposed solitude and solitude you suffer because no one will see you.

I've never hoped for company before. Actually, I don't recall ever being able to recognize hope before now. But it is severely painful to disappoint hopes--and for some reason the instilling and destruction of hope is hopelessly beyond the control of the person suffering such ridiculous feelings.

Alas, I'm (rather unfortunately) human. And, other than sulking and sabotaging the world, humans always move on eventually. So, once I grow bored of sulking (which may take a while. I hold fantastic records.), I apparently have more life to look forward to! In preparation for such an event, I'm compiling a to-do list. Although I don't expect it to be completed before 2012, if that.

1. Finish an imitation of Franz Ferdinand's Can't Stop Feeling video with some friends.
2. Finish at least the first chapter of what is currently known as David Tennant's Face.
3. Prove to myself (and my home furniture) that I actually do have friends.
4. Find a job that will accept a teenager who still attends school and doesn't have a car.
5. Write something that has an end. (As opposed to leaving it somewhere in the middle.)
6. Become a vlogging Meliffany.
   

I'm sure there's more I'm missing, but I'll figure that out later.

Flying Above And Below

Because I breathe, do I live?
Is that proof enough for my existence?
Or am I an oddity among ghosts?
Does my breathing sustain life?
Or am I merely imagining?

Can I be real if no one sees me?
Is my beating heart just a mirage
Brought forth from a lack of acceptance?
Is my skin invisible,
Recognized by only me?

Can my existence not be confirmed
With human eyes?
Am I only a floating conscience?
Am I formed from the guilt of others
So that they might carry on unscathed?

Do I allot myself human actions
Just to fool myself?
Am I wholly forgotten?
Or was I never known,
Of no importance to anyone thicker than imagination?

This is what my room is beginning to resemble.

Of course, the writing is just a bonus. (A very honest one.)




I am, after all, a pretentious English snob. In the last two days I've spent nearly two hundred dollars at my local Barnes & Noble--and I spent a good three hours there each day. I may have a problem. But books make fantastic friends. Better than the people I know, at any rate.

What's more pretentious than classics? What have I now? Four Hemingway books, two Bronte sisters, H. G. Wells, leather bound omnibuses of Jane Austen and Poe. . . My room wreaks with a pretentious air. It's utterly spectacular.

And, to complete this brilliantly pointless segment of pretentious English media:

Yotsuba?

It's funny how little belief my words are credited. Alas, I suppose that's to be expected when you never lie--something about the truth frightens people.

My sister's afraid of moving on. In relationships and in general life. My brother's afraid of relationships, and sometimes just the opposite sex at all. My other sister is afraid of any change that leaves her devoid of a security blanket (the safety of home and such). These are sensible fears, common. But me? Sensible? No. I'm afraid of windows and of crowded spaces. I'm afraid of cars and of driving. I'm afraid of ridiculous things. And I'm afraid of being forgotten.

Have you ever just looked at yourself (mentally, not necessarily literally) and just been utterly disappointed? Sometimes it's hard not to realize just how stupid you are. (But then, I'm a apparently a pretentious person--are pretentious people supposed to doubt their importance?)

I'm fairly certain I can only be considered pretentious in school. At least, that's the only time of day that I'm called pretentious. It's hard to uphold such a title around family, I think. How can you think yourself so very important around people who claim to know you better than you know yourself (and constantly prove themselves wrong, mind you). How can you be assured that your presence could not be forgotten when you can cry into a couch for two hours and be thought sleeping? When you can have a migraine so brain-splitting that you can't see and just want to sleep until your body no longer knows what is and isn't sleep but are still denied the ability to go home where it's dark and quiet? And power? Oh, where is the power when if you willingly agree to edit something for a friend you are told that you have to edit something for some family member? To rewrite something so that it makes sense for this person? To read a whole bloody book and formulate and essay for that person?

Granted, I'm abusing the endless space of the Internet for my own ranting, but what teenager isn't guilty of that?

Alas, what selfish teenager doesn't brighten up a mundane blog at its close? (Now that would be truly thoughtless.) Unfortunately, I haven't really been able to formulate any of my own writing very well lately, so my weak verse I cannot use here. I have, however, been reading lately. Quite a bit, actually: Chekhov, Keats, Browning, Shakespeare, Whitman, Kafka, Adams, Bronte (Emily), Bizenghast, Yotsuba, Doctor Who fiction. . . The whole list is a bit pointless, don't you think? But, I must say (as a person who doesn't often read graphic novels (although Alan Moore is always an exception), Bizenghast and Yotsuba are absolutely fantastic.

If you're wondering, recommending books is how I brighten up the world. Am I a pathetic nerd? Yes, I really am. And I'm very proud of that. And, in case I wasn't clear, anyone who finds anything humorous in life should at least attempt reading Yotsuba.

That's nicely conspicuous, right?

What else? I'll be back to ramble another day.