My Monologue

I wrote my own monologue for the end-of-the-year exam in Drama class. I have no idea why I wrote it, just that I was hyped up on Shakespeare after having to memorize the first twenty lines of Hamlet's "to be, or not to be..." soliloquy. The first thing I inferred from it was that it was a moment in time, an instant in which a man realizes that his great leap in life was only the first stepping stone, and he resolves to continue his journey forever and ever. I showed it to my Drama teacher right after I wrote it, and he told me no one would understand it. I didn't even understand it; I knew what it was about, but I also felt a deeper truth lying beneath the words, just out of reach. Last night, I realized what that truth was.

How can I write something and not even know why I'm writing it, or what it is really about? Does my subconscious have such great understanding of the world that my conscious mind can't keep up?

I guess I ask a lot of questions. That's life, right? And now, a quote in honor of Mr. Frantz. I may not see him much after graduation, but he'll always live on through Faulkner.

"All of us failed to match our dreams of perfection.
So I rate us on the basis of our splendid failure
To do the impossible." ~William Faulkner

My Lunches

I hate school lunches. I usually spend them either with people I don't like, know or want to know. Or I just eat alone. It's not that I don't have friends; I just always have the opposite lunch as the people I like.

So on Friday, I was sitting in one of the worst places imaginable; with former friends who I don't get along with anymore. You can see how this is a problem? Anyway, these old friends are the kind who stay behind with the freshmen when it's time to grow up. They're the kind who throw spitwads and spraypaint cars weeks before graduation.

When I sit with my old friends on Fridays, they laugh and play and half-include me in their games. I was in a good mood during this particular lunch, so I chose to lean forward in my seat and take part. The guy next to me, Andy, was creating air bubbles in straws and making people flick and pop them. Everyone would laugh. I watched and laughed with them for a while, and my feet were becoming uncomfortable, so I sat back in my chair and pushed away from the table a few inches.

Everything looked different from those few inches away. The girl next to Andy, my former best friend, was putting fries in her neighbor's ear. The girls across the table were throwing food at Andy now, and the guy next to them was cutting up his lunch plate with a plastic knife. I had to look away. It was one of those moments I raved about earlier, when everyone around me seem to be raving lunatics, immature fools parading around here because they have no where else to go and this is where their friends are anyway. And there I was, away from it all, hoping they wouldn't notice that I was gone from them again, looking down on them, because I didn't want to make them angry and start another argument; another reason to feel awkward when I sat with them on Fridays.

But the anger and annoyance and anguish of it all started to feel stronger. It burned in my stomach as I watched my former best friend glare at a girl walking by. I wanted to stand up and leave, but I knew that the action would cause questions, and questions would lead to conclusions and they would be talking about me, my arrogance and my rudeness, for the entire rest of the day.

So I took a deep breath and scooted forward. I leaned back into the table and flicked at Andy's straw, popping it and causing the table to break out in giggles.

Does that make me a hypocrite? Do five minutes of indulgance, in order to escape from the annoyance and anger threatening to make me explode, mean I should be labeled the same as them. I don't know.

My Ideas

I haven't written anything in prose for a while. Every time I get an idea, now, I just write a quick little paragraph and turn it into a poem. It's much easier to get my ideas down, and still feel like I've accomplished something. I wrote this yesterday:

I've decided to stop talking.
The things I say
only make people
angry.
In fact,
this note is probably
making your blood boil
right now.
You'd better stop reading.

My Fear

Is anyone else deathly afraid of life in general? I know it sounds lame, but if I get to thinking about it too much (and by it, I mean everything) I start to kind of panic. Right now I'm working in a deli at a supermarket. Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to work there for the next year or ten years, never moving in position, maybe getting raises every so often, a pat on the back here, an admonishment there, and then find myself in the same spot at the end of the day. Not moving is frightening. I told my friend Leah once, "I'd better be a writer or something, because this working thing sucks." I didn't just mean that I was lazy; I don't think I'd be able to stand it if I was stuck in one place where nothing moved. I guess I need to find a job where there is progression, and where I'm working towards a goal, then a higher goal, then higher yet. Something to keep me moving.

Fortunately, I'm only just eighteen. I'm sure I can find something after college. Right?

My Head

You've probably realized, by now, how very strange my family is (if not strange, at least fractured). If you read my profile, you'd know that I write a lot. It's kind of what I do. I write, I smile, and I get annoyed. Sometimes, weird things inspire me. My friend was very angry in class once, just raving and pounding her desk, and I immediately had to have a pencil and blank sheet of paper in front of me. I didn't even write anything, I just needed it. The same thing happened when I saw an old friend driving a pickup truck down the street with his hand on his forehead. Small things draw out big emotions from me. Sometimes creations come of it, sometimes just long moments of unbarable restlessness. It can really be bothersome.

Sometimes, thing I do myself can inspire me. I once woke up on a weekend, rubbed my eyes, and stopped my hand in midair in front of me. I must have stared at my hand for half an hour, just awed by it, but the complexities of the angles and the narrowness of my wrist. It made me want to be an artist rather than a writer; it's so difficult to capture everything through words.

I must admit, though, that I am more often annoyed than inspired by people. Unneccesary fear or bickering can put me in the worst moods. I like people who speak through their actions: drawing, writing, working, creating, showing people what they think and feel without blurting it out before they realize how ridiculous it is. And it usually is.

Gosh, do I sound like a prick?

My Dramatics

Heh, the title is a bit over-the-top, I know. It's the name of a poem I wrote; I thought it was neat. Anyway, this is my first post ever in Blogger. I have my own website where I house my writings, drawings, etc, but I wanted a place to yell about things that I knew no one would ever read. Well, no one I know anyway. I think... So! I'm a senior in high school right now. I'm taking two college classes, getting mostly A's and B's (a C in Science ;_;). I can't wait to finally get out of high school: the people are starting to drive me crazy. I find it difficult to sit quietly in a classroom full of people my age who still pretend to be ten.

Anyway, I'm going to a community college next year because I'm poor. I have two brothers (22 and 2) and two sisters (13 and 16). My parents split up after my little brother was born of a different man (but we still pretend he's my dad's). Just before the breakup, my mom spent all of my dad's money, and we went bankrupt. My sisters and baby brother moved into a one-bedroom house with my mom, and I stayed with my dad and his new nineteen-year-old girlfriend.

Okay, I think that's enough family history for today. I'll write more later. You see, if I cared, I'd care. But I don't, so I don't.