There's a website called 34things.com. I'd provide an actual link to it, but I'm pretty much too damned lazy to even do that. I'm practically too lazy to even type this out, but we'll see how this goes.
Anyway, this website, it asks you to pick 43 things that you want as life goals. I've picked out a bunch for myself, and one of them was write more. Or something like that.
You know what, I don't even think that was one of my goals.
Or maybe it was.
Anyway, I figure that I should write more.
So much, so so much, has changed since my last entry at the tail end of August. It's February, and that's about half a year later. Half a freaking year. Since August.
I feel like a different person. I really do. The Christine that existed in August, I'm not sure that she exists anymore. This new Christine though, I think she wants to go back to 2004. Or some other, more pleasant time when life was a lot more understandable, and easier to consume in small quantities.
I'm always self-conscious when I write in this thing. Which is why I probably never write in it. I fear who's going to read it, yet I secretly desire for people to read it. It's messed up, I tell you, messed up. There are too many painful things to even look back on that have occured in the past half year... I can safely say that this has probably been the worst half-year in a very, very long time. Very long time. Rude awakenings left and right, and I'm still reeling from the shock of it all.
You can pretty much say that 2006 sucked. So much happened to so many people that I know... so much heartbreak, so much stress.
I constantly have this little sick feeling in my stomach that refuses to go away. It's usually not strong enough for me to feel its pain, but I'm conscious of it all the time. I'm conscious of it flaring up at any moment, and burning my insides before I even have the chance to scream that it hurts.
My left nostril is also in a constant state of bleeding. I think the air is too dry in my room.
I can't sleep. I can't wake. I'm like this pale illusion, this shimmer of a Christine that existed long ago. Ghost, zombie, demon, soulless sucking vampire. I don't know what I am.
I feel like I'm constantly dreaming, that I can never dream, that I'm confused and don't know what I want.
WHAT DO I WANT WHAT DO I WANT. Ugh. Where is my mind. Why doesn't anything connect anymore? I had a little future planned out. Now it's gone. Where are my goals? What am I doing? What is this. No seriously, what is this.
It's threatening to rise up again. Memories are embedded in too many objects. I want to life in the past, but I can't help but crane my next to the future. And the future's just darkness, and I'm opening my eyes to see... just to see a little, but I never get a glimpse. I'm in this torturous tug-of-war with the past and the future, with the present just a pale, mocking shadow of what it's supposed to be, standing on the sidelines and watching with vacant eyes.
Going forward, advancing forward, but never reaching any true conclusions. It's like treading water - you're keeping afloat, but you're not going anywhere, and you're only doing so because you know that if you stop, you'll just sink to the bottom of the pool.
I feel that if I stop writing these words, I'll have nothing. I'll wander around my house listlessly, trying to solve my problems in the enemy patterns of Gradius and the dark dreariness of another Intro to Film movie.
Yet if I continue these words, I'll just be stuck in a perpetual writing motion, stuck forever typing about nothing in particular, and digging my hole deeper and deeper until the sides cave down on me and I'm buried alive by my half-truths and untold lies.
I feel like a bundle of secrets, even though I only have one or two secrets. I feel inpenetrable. I feel like someone will never know the real me, the true me, the me trapped under these horrible weights and being stifled by the crushing blows of the world. Where is she? Where is she, that Christine?
And secrets. Secretssecretssecrets. I'll admit, I'll have a few. But they'll never come out. Never. And it's sad, that they'll never come out. Unrealized potential. I hate it when you read things about secrets that if they would have just been TOLD at some point, that person's life would have been better, would have been more complete, but of course, that person lacked the courage to spill their guts, and lived just a normal, average life.
I live in fear. I live in paranoia. My head is my very own Panic Room, except this time nobody's getting in, and I don't need insulin for any sort of mental diabetes. Or maybe I do. Maybe someone will come along that will be able to break down these walls, to choke me until I'm gasping for breath and spilling my heart on the pavement.
Where are you, someone? Where are you? Are you reading this? I'm not talking about who you think I am. I'm talking about you. Do you even know that it's you? It's you. It's you. You you you.
