The Diary of Queen Mothy |
Another Analysis of My Life written @ 6:45 PM on July 14, 2002 There are some things you can never change with a simple, "I'm sorry. Let's start over." I think I always knew the dark truth, but today I at last consciously realized-- or rather admitted to myself-- that I hate this house. I hate this house. This is a house of pain. And anguish. And sorrow. There can never be any peace within its walls. This house can never be ours. It does not belong to my family. My room is not mine. There are dark auras and invisibile things in this house that are closing in on four trapped souls. There is a black cloud following us with each passing day. I have admitted to myself at last that I have cried more tears due to a wounded spirit in this house more than any other in which I have lived. There are spirits in this house, I am convinced, that want to see us fail. And there is nothing that a coat of new paint can change about it. Ashley once told me that she respected my perception of people because I see them as they truly are. I did not believe this at first, but after reflecting on this thought some, I think that I've learned to judge my life, and those around me, as if they were part of a story. Every character has its flaws and virtues, and the three main characters, three trapped souls, of my story are the epitome of what makes a novel as deep as "Their Eyes Were Watching God." There's the elder soul that is looking to fulfill goals and dreams left over from childhood and works everyday to achieve them, if only he could fully remember what they were, and if only he was not so void of all hope and the belief that only he could achieve it. And yet he believes if something does not go his way, it is the fault of others. In some way, he is a Greek tragic hero. Then there's the saintly soul, who thinks only of others before her own well being, who is smart and acute to others' talents and emotions and therefore knows what they want vs. what they need. But she also craves something more out of life that she cannot get in this house. And she knows she can never get what her heart wants, not while she's living here, and she knowingly sacrifices that dimming light of happiness for the cold love that keeps her here. She is the angel with broken wings. Then there is the Stoic. You know he has feelings that he represses. In some awful way you never know what he is thinking. You do not think he understands, or is insensitive, but you can never know. Not ever. It is not even certain that he understands his own thoughts and emotions. But he separates his relationships between people carefully, so that each time you look at him you see a different face on him. Tragicially enough, you fear he will one day become his father. And then there's me. I looked in the mirror today, and I wondered which ancestor I most resemble. I wondered which personality traits I inherited from the individuals I'm tracing through my bloodlines. I can see no resemblance in the others. And twelve years after I first developed my spots, the vitiligo continues to spread. It has carefully rounded my eyes, crawled along my jaw line, and reappeared on the back of my neck. Soon, my make-up will not match my true skin color. I am quite sure that unlike the other characters in my story, I see how things are truly are, and I only dream about everything good that can possibly be. I've prayed that these spots would go away, that I would one day be able to walk outside in the summer with shorts and with the satisfaction that I was just another face in the crowd, and for a while it seemed as if one of my greatest desires would come true. And yet ever since I moved into this house, the vitiligo has come back, slowly but surely. And the tears have flowed like an aging river. It's around my eyes now, curving upward like an Egyptian. I am so pale that you cannot see them at first glace; indeed, I did not see them myself until today. I can only wonder how long they had been there. And this, like so many things, is what makes me different-- the wild card of the family, if you will. I see things as they truly are, but I dream-- and know-- how they could be. That is why I cannot wait for college to come, when I can finally leave this house that has rejected all the love offered. I know I crave a life and possess an old soul, and that I cannot live here if I wish to evade the capture of the demons that have come here. I also think this is a selfish desire. Actually, a part of me cannot bear to leave this place because I feel obligated to set free these trapped souls. And yet another part of me thinks that I owe it to myself to never come back here after I am graduated, to get out of Ohio where dreams are as empty as the farmlands, that it is their fault that their lives are as they are. My greatest fear in all the world, more so than the coming of a death to end all life on the planet, is that my father, my mother, and my brother will realize too late that they are not what they wanted to become, that they missed all the life that thrived in their hearts. And they will shortly thereafter die before they can reverse anything. And there I will be, alone. I always thought that God gave me vitiligo to overcome a challenge of self-acceptance and vanity. Now I see it as a measure of how much spirit I have left in me before I am as broken as they are.
A Bit of History ~ And Onward! L'Amour Toujours! - August 08, 2005 |
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