Yo no soy un ingrata-muerta

As the green meadows grace Sir Rant-A-Lot with songs of the wild, he ponders whether it is but the potion of a witch intoxicating him into a curse of the Green Ogre. Though he is at peace and joy, he cannot help but wonder to what end lies his journey. Where he sees the pixie no longer sings, the leprechaun merely broods upon his pot without a genuine smile gracing his face, the caveman retires to his dwelling far away from Sir Rant-A-Lot; it cannot be a surprise that Sir Rant-A-Lot starts to feel used. A tool of the trade. Yet, he cannot deny his great affections to the dandelions dancing in the sun. How shall he continue his conquest? Will Sir Rant-A-Lot summon his steed and be on his way?

Here in the green meadows Sir Rant-A-Lot finds kindness, friendship, and solace. Is he thus ungrateful to be pondering such thoughts?

Proof of a weakness is a greater weakness

I know who I am. I know that I am a good person, and that I try each and every single day to become a better person than I was yesterday. I know that I am dependable; that I am capable of taking the weight of the world off of your shoulders onto mine. I know I am stubborn; so stubborn that I refuse to admit that there are times when I am the one who needs a shoulder to cry on. I know that I get flustered easily, that I need an order to everything and everything to that order in order for me to function. I know that sometimes, all of this is a lie.

There are times when I look in the mirror and I don’t like the person looking back at me. I have to pretend and dress up as another just so that the reflection I see is one that I can accept. She is the one who is weak. The one who cries herself to sleep at night because of her useless thoughts. She is the one who is feeble. She is weak. She is the one to whom the world shuns and screams “You will never be good enough!”

There are times when the many voices in my head tell me a thousand different things and I struggled to understand even one. They tell me of the many evils of the world, of the countless good I have not done, of the feelings I pushed away, of the people I have wronged and the people who I have done wring by doing right. Sometimes the only way to shut them out is to drown them with my own screams and tears. Yet I never cry. I never cry.

I wonder if after all this, do I really know who I am? Or am I a confused imp floating the space that I call my world in hopes of achieving something; and yet understanding nothing. It is said that the more you learn, the more you come to the realization of things you don’t know. And I indeed, do not know much.

-         - Rantings of the non-delusional-