I’m constantly looking for myself.
From the wallpaper to the floorboards to the books in the book store.
I’m looking everywhere.
But how can they understand if I don’t understand.
And I don’t understand why they don’t understand what I don’t understand and it’s catch 22’s everywhere.
Phew, that’s a mouthful.
What is it about the search, the yearning, the crying and burning.
We look into the eyes of celebrity lives to figure out our truths that we look for in the cultural distance of the damned future.
The coffee sits in our cups as we wait for someone else to pour the cream and I mean that in a way that is refreshing because how else will we understand the damned that puts circles under our eyes and a ringing in our ears and we beg for it to stop but it never rains until we already have it figured out.
Or so we think.
What a dangerous dance we like to tango. Our thumbs constantly on point, ready to prove to the world that we have something to say when something to say shouldn’t be said to our peers but to our own ears because we don’t even listen to our own shit coming out of our disgusting mouths.
We look at the pinecones and say we don’t want to like them. There’s a million of them and they are ordinary. Well what’s wrong with ordinary? Shouldn’t we try and find the ordinary so we can appreciate the unexpected extra ordinary? That’s not what we do unfortunately.
We’re special. We don’t need the criticism. I’m special. But I don’t want the bullshit.
This bullshit we cry to the stars and we beg why it doesn’t fill the hole in our chest when we wait and whine for the day to die out so we can sleep in our Chanel beds until tomorrow when we cry some more and repeat the cycle.
I can’t believe this. Take in. Take in. Take in. Take in some more and shove it down your throat and shove it all down until you can’t breathe and then you’ll appreciate the ordinary life that this thing around us has given you.
I don’t appreciate it. I probably never will because I keep looking for something that isn’t myself because I don’t know myself and when I don’t think I know myself I keep looking until death embraces me in her gentle arms and I won’t have to look anymore in the physical and I can rest without a boss to yell at me when I’m about to walk out the door.
I’m still writing this for someone else, I never write for myself. I write this for you and you and you. To see the expression come and go and forget and then I fall into an already distant memory of your thinking patterns and I crave to be brought back to your surface so I brashly bang my fists on your coffee table and say look at me! But you don’t because you only look at me because you too are looking for yourself.
We live in a world where we constantly are trying to figure things out. If something isn’t the “normal” by what cultural standards have set, it’s our mission to fix it. Whether it’s keeping traditions or having an eating disorder (a bit extreme yes) or just growing up. We try and keep our normals in check when in reality, there isn’t a normal to begin with. I mean, it’s deeper then it sounds. Honestly it hasn’t hit me yet, but we are constantly try to fix what is wrong. There’s always something wrong. There’s a right way and a wrong way. I can’t help but feel I’m doing things wrong all the time.
Maybe that’s why there’s a hole. Because I always feel like I’m on the wrong side of the fence when it comes to decisions I make or when my normals don’t fit with someone else’s normal. I feel like I’m not doing things the normal way like other people my age. People my age are going to college for their second year, they’re going to parties, worrying about finals and relationships and not real world stuff yet like finances and housing. I’m not normal I guess and I feel shameful for not doing things the “right” way.
When it comes to writing, I’m constantly doing it to impress people. I’m doing it to get a reaction out of someone. And by reaction, I mean a good reaction. God forbid if I get a bad reaction because then I give up, shut down, and repeat the cycle with something else I do.
But it isn’t just that either. I’ve had people constantly compliment me on work I’ve done like paintings and poetry performances. But after I get their good reaction, that’s it. That’s all I do it for and I move on to feeling lost, unaccepted and shameful all over again. I don’t know if I’ve found that one thing that speaks to me because I don’t do it for myself. I do it to get a reaction. I guess I don’t understand why I can’t just do things for me. A wholehearted love for what I’m doing and enjoying it no matter what anyone else says. It’s way easier said than done.
Maybe it’s growing up in an age when we do work to please everybody. We do school work to please our teachers. We do music to please our pears. We aren’t taught to do things for ourselves. That would be a really good experiment actually. We do creative things for ourselves, document what it felt like to create something and not share it. Or something along those lines, just brainstorming right now.
Currently I’m reading a book called “Daring Greatly” about vulnerability and how we have squashed vulnerability into thinking that it’s a horrible thing. I’ve been really vulnerable a lot recently, but this week has changed somehow, I don’t know. I still feel stuck. Judged possibly. It doesn’t help that I surround myself constantly with people I compare myself with and who they compare themselves with and the communication gap gets wider and wider everyday.
I don’t know, I’m just brainstorming at this point. I can’t help but try to figure it out. There’s that first idea again, constantly trying to figure it out.
Now I’m thinking about the point of it all. It’s all or nothing with me. Either all of it matters, or none of it matters. No middle. Damn. I still feel like I’m writing for someone other than myself.
I wish I cared more. Cared more about all aspects of my life. My health, my job, everything. I think I might not care as much because I’m still in the mindset of putting peoples needs before my own. This is a straight up tangent now but it’s true, I put everyone else’s needs before my own. But when I try to put my needs first, I feel like people notice and they try and slap me on the wrist to stop me from doing that. They put me back in check. And they’re almost in checkmate.
At this point in my life, people are telling me that I’m young and I have plenty of time to worry about what I want to do. But still, why not start early? This thing that I’m doing is getting pretty insane, or pretty not insane. I’m not exactly sure actually. Between possible studio/publishing work and working as a server at a restaurant, it could go either way for me.
Blackbird was definitely an incredibly astounding journey. From starting off as a gun ho student to being homeless and living in a friends dining room is a 180 to say the least.
Currently I’m in a Starbucks, a cliche waiting for something great to smack me across the face and wake me up from this stupor of indecision and uncertainty. But most likely that isn’t going to happen. Correction, it won’t happen. You know why? Because the universe doesn’t work like that. You don’t just sit down and expect the world to hand you the life you want on a silver platter. This week definitely made sure of that. Emails, phone calls, that’s what makes the life you want. Go getters, which I’ve never been one to start with.
I’m now just playing the waiting game until Wednesday at 2pm when I have the meeting that will possibly determine my life. Scary.
Well let’s see, what to talk about. I’m interested in healthy things. I wish I was surrounded by organic food and vegan options. But living next to the poverty line that really isn’t going to provide that dream for me at the moment. Especially working at a Southern food restaurant where meat is 95% of the dish. Although that fried okra sure is damn delicious.
I also enjoy writing, although I definitely don’t do enough of it. God, who am I in this big big world? I feel like I’m constantly surrounded by this invisible box that people can see through without even having to squint or take a second look at.
Weeds is my favorite t.v. show of all time. The story telling of it all, the badass-ness of the characters, everything is gorgeous. I sometimes wish I was Nancy Botwin…scratch that. All the time I wish I was Nancy Botwin. Little boxes, on the hillside…
What’s the point? I’m asking a serious question. What’s the point of writing this, the point of trying to get a job? Isn’t happiness overrated? Or the act of thinking I’ll be happy in the distant future, doesn’t it make me sadder right now? Circles, I just keep writing in circles.
At this point in this whole free write, I know for a fact I’m still writing for others. I’m not writing for me. What does Stephanie Jean Moore want to write about? I mean, I should want to write about my life, my experience, beliefs, etc. But I don’t know anything. Cliche again, but I truly don’t. Who am I to be giving advice at 19? Nobody. Maybe this is more of a chronicling of my life. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck. Stuck.
Still writing for someone else at this moment.
Stephanie, what do you want to talk about?
I have nothing to say to be honest.
Then why are you still trying to say something?
Because there’s a hole.
Inside me. Something’s missing. I felt it while I was working today and I couldn’t think of anything to fill it. Not food, shopping, feelings, friends, anything. I mean, the closest thing that maybe could have possibly filled it was the video of my Nana and Papa’s house that I edited a month ago. And I can’t use that even because I don’t feel like there’s anything else I could do to it to make it better. I’m waiting for my parents to email me some home videos to add, but I can’t think of anything else.
Why don’t you find some inspiration?
That seems like such a simple question, easier said then done. I mean, I choose what inspires me, and I’m very picky. Not a lot of things push me to actually create something.
I just don’t! I don’t have a need to. Or maybe I don’t want to. I don’t know.
Are you okay?
To be completely honest. I don’t know, we’ll see.
Why all the uncertainty?
Because I can’t make a decision and I don’t know what I want. Please just tell me what I want.
I can’t tell you what you want. Go out and find it. Make something, write, find some stories. I think you like stories right?
Then find a voice. Write your story.
Okay…so I take it this is the beginning then?