Re-Inventing Me...

I'm re-inventing myself, finding and re-defining who I am and how I am. It's a challenge, but I think everyone needs a healthy dose of that, right? Right. Got some news that made my week and weekend, I have a feeling it jump-started the creativity in me tonight. And that's good cause I feel lost without its spark, you know? Just thought of this a few minutes ago, thought it was clever. Reminds me of the stuff I used to write in the beginning, those random scraps of genius...hoping to come up with bigger scraps of genius these days, in between insomnia, life and contemplation. Soundsgoodtome.

            "I analyze everything you say or do because I want to find the truth in the lies you tell me. I feel the need to read between all these lines, even if they're non-existent and invisible. It's just what I do, it's just a part of me and if that offends you, then you can leave, too, mon chérie."

Another thing I thought I'd add...it's ironic because it seems like my deepest thoughts have been in the form of social networking status updates..(What is the world coming to? An end, an end...)

"Things in life are always temporary, but there's beauty in that. It means that you can change where you're at, who you're with, what you're doing and who you are."

Listening to "Foolish" by Imogen Heap, the lyrics "You're so beautiful And you're so beautiful Cause you're all mine, mine, mine, mine, mine" just struck a chord.

So here I am again, giving you little pieces of a puzzle even I haven't completely put together yet.

(My life.)

I have to admit, it feels good to write something, even if it has little signifigance. Even if only one person reads it.

So here goes my contemplative little tidbit for the last...what, 9 minutes of weekend? Yeah, something like that..

Is someone beautiful because they're yours? Does the beauty reach beyond the skin they're in, does it kiss their soul like you kiss their lips?  And when you let them go to walk alone, does this person become ugly to you? Because I'm sorry, chérie, but if that's the case then it wasn't real in the first place.

So, until my muses come up with something really groundbreaking, breath-taking and profound, this insomniac is off to sleep.

"Where The Lines Overlap"

Smiling at my own ineloquence because it's perfectly justified.

"Tracing patterns across a personal lap and making pictures where the lines overlap." ~ Paramore

Saintly...

If I ever met a guy named Jude, I'm gonna ask him if he's into lost causes. I'm not lost, I just don't know where I'm headed at the moment. But I think that's okay. I think I like it better this way.

Madness Amongst The Sane

    That's what I'm thinking about today. Well no, I'm thinking of a lot of things but that isn't the point of this post.

    Madness.

    Insanity.

    Sickness.

    How do we know what those things are, how do we claim that one is afflicted with insanity, that they are crazy, when we call ourselves "sane" and "fine"? When everyday we lie to make others smile, when everyday we say things we don't really mean to say. I don't think that qualifies as "fine".

    Are you mad for questioning common knowledge, acceptance, and authority? Are you insane for the thoughts you think and the way you think them? Are you afflicted with a sickness of the mind when you dream the things you dream? And when you wake, does the affliction die with your dreams, your memories?

    Who's to say?

    And who's to judge?

    You tell me.

                                                                                      ~

     So I ask you, how do you know what you know?

     How do you know what is fact and what is fiction, how do you separate the truth from the lie when they're so deeply intertwined?

      How do you really know anything?

      Are you mad?

      Are you insane?

      Does something ail your brain, your thoughts?

      The question is, ladies and gentleman, are you a madman amongst the sane, or are you something in-between?

Well Don't I Feel Better?

    Yes, yes I do. And although I still don't know where I'm going in this life, I'm trying. One day, I want to look at life from every angle, review reality and everything I do, everything I've done and have yet to do. I'm not there yet, but one day, one day when I have a library of my own and a place to call "home, a place I belong, maybe I'll see what this is all about.
     You see? I feel better! I am better, better than I was, better than I have been in aspects of poetic thinking and viewing. I see. Do you?
    
      

"The Secret Life of Daydreams"

    I had to quote the title of this post because I didn't come up with that. No, it happens to be a song from one of the most beautiful albums I've ever heard. It's number 12 on the Pride & Prejudice soundtrack and has been helping this insomniac get to sleep.

    I want to use it as a muse but I'm not quite sure where it'd come in. I guess my character needs to sit on a swing and spin round and round the whole day, watching the world change from light to dark. Or was it the other way around in the movie? (2005 version) Guess I'll have to park myself on the couch and watch it again to see.

    Anyway, it's been too long since I've posted anything. I switched songs a second ago, the intro to "Darcy's Letter" making me want to type faster and faster even though I don't really know what I want to say... February 15th has gone and passed, and I don't feel any older. It's strange to think that I am, though. Age is but a number, they say, and it seems to be one of my dad's favorite things to tell me. So if this is true, I've decided that I am much older in my head than what I am in appearance. I write like I'm older, and I can talk like I am when I really feel like it. But most of the time, I don't. I feel like because I'm this age, people don't regard what I say as "important" or "meaningful". And who's to say it is?

    I'm going to quote another thing here, something I found meaningful. And maybe you won't, but that's okay. The beauty of life is that we all have our own minds, our own opinions as to what is meaningful, what is important, and what is beautiful. This is one of those things that I find beautiful, but maybe that's because it struck a chord. Maybe because in a way, I can relate...

    "Do you like stories, Papa? Well, let me tell you one you have not heard. It is my story, the tale of the tsar's youngest daughter, a wild, headstrong girl. A girl you named Anastasia. Your daughter with the light brown hair you said was so pretty and the blue eyes exactly like your own. Your youngest girl, who liked games and races and listening to her mother's tales. It is the story of my life as it used to be. A wonderful life.
    Until it was not."

    I don't know, that line just...captured me. It's from the novel "Dreaming Anastasia" by Joy Preble. I don't know why the Romanov thing interests me. I was named for meaning, I was named because I supposedly died twice on the operating table. Resurrection, that's what Anastasia means. So what do I mean, me, as a person?

    I've been told that I'm interesting, among many other things, and naturally I argue every time and tell the people who say so that no, I'm not. Is someone interesting when you fall in love with them? Or are they interesting from the start, before the attraction begins? What about a mother to child, when she hears it's pulse on the ultrasound, watches the little thing beat time and blood? When does the notion of someone become interesting? And when does the interest fade, if ever? Is it conceived when we are, or is it formed sometime after, when we're looking at the world with wide eyes, looking at the world around us for the first time?

    See, that's why I titled this "The Secret Life of Daydreams". I daydream, like Lizzie Bennett, though I am not spinning around and around on a swing in England. Sometimes, I wish. But sometimes, I'm happy with where I am...I have to think about all the things I've gone through to get to this point in time and I realize that maybe it's worth it. But oh, what I wouldn't give to be on that swing in the rain, instead of listening to it from my open windowpane...