Saturday, October 25, 2008

Walking through a cold rain of sharp-edged leaves

Yesterday a boy pointed out that the way everyone in my family calls our dog our own different names only signifies the schismic issues in our overall communication.
Another boy I talk to has wormed his way twice into the ugly composition notebook that I am forced to write in for film class. I promised myself that I wouldn't use it as a journal, the way I sometimes use my preferred moleskin notebooks. Didn't want myself getting all personal for class, but I guess I've been having an overspill of emotions lately - I keep finding traces of them on those wide-ruled pages, even where they're not supposed to be. Those damn splotchy composition notebooks. Everything I write in them ends up looking like fifth-grade homework.

I'm at home right now, and it's really painful to be here. All the unhappiness from previous years living with these people has flooded back, whipping my migraine into a frenzy. I hate when people ask about my family. I'll give them all the conversational basics - I have a mother, father, two little sisters, and a dog. My dad's a professor. I like my mom's cooking. I don't actually like them. Please, don't delve further. It's really difficult having people trying to get to know me better. "Tell me about yourself," they ask. And I know what they want to hear. Each person wants something different, a new side of me. And I could give it to them, but I would rather have someone stare at my naked body than hear my naked mind. It's really hard for me to share myself. I have a clamshell instead of a skull and even I seem incapable of opening it except maybe to filter out the occasional thought or two. Naturally, this seems impairing and god do I know it. Help, I need to change.

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