Hermann Hesse said: "Whoever has happily reached the age of seventeen in good health and with nice parents has the best part of his life behind him in many respects. If his life ended too early and did not assume the form of a Beethoven symphony because he has not endured much suffering or many harsh experiences or gone through wild phases, it could still be considered a small Haydn chamber concerto, and you cannot say such a thing about many people's lives."
Well, I'm eighteen now, and I'm (for the most part) pretty healthy, and my parents were kind to me, i mean, they got me the help I needed, they kept me alive until I turned eighteen and moved out and had to start feeding myself and medicating myself and reminding myself to breathe. If Hermann Hesse is correct, then, well, my life thus far has been beautiful-comparible to a Haydn concerto. Music. Melodies. Rhythm and rhymes. All that has been achieved. So why do I feel incomplete? Why do lights glow so much brighter? Why is the static so much louder? Why is every element of my existance much more garish and distracting than it once was?
I cannot see, I cannot think clearly. And I know that my eyes are not blind; I know that, most likely, I have lost my mind. Again. And again. And again. Still, I share my secrets, I un-tangle my tongue. My friends, God I love you, you hold my heart and my secrets safe. And for that I owe you everything. And even if one day my trust is betrayed; my secrets spilled; my heart broken...Well, I consider myself lucky to have experienced these brief moments of bliss. I've opened my heart. Opened my mind. Taken steps I once considered impossible.
My thoughts are not entirely my own. I cannot take credit for the things I see, and feel, and write down. I'm not sure what to do. For now I coexist. I get by. I write things down and disregard time.No matter what I do, no matter how many chemicals bleach, dull, or numb my brain-IT IS ALL THE SAME, AND WILL ALWAYS BE JUST THAT. This medicine is a lie. This doctor is a quack. This clinic is a labyrinth of broken promises and over-priced, vulgar din. You are not my savior. You are not the Son of God. Climb down from that pedestal you've been placed upon so gracefully; you speak so eloquently, your words fit together so well.
My odd quirks and nervous tics startle, draw attention, create laughter. my shaking hands. my fumbling words. my tweaks and stutters and clumsy movements. I cannot sit still, i cannot stop myself from staring. I am distracted easily. I am caught up in irrelivant things. I am in my own world, I am lost in my own mind 99% of the time. Missing out on real life. Missing hours of my time. It all just passes me by, without leaving so much as a blur before my eyes.
THE WORLD MAKES SO MUCH SENSE TO ME BUT I CANNOT SHARE IT WITH THE ONES I LOVE,BECAUSE THERE IS NO WAY THAT THEY WILL BE ABLE TO COMPREHEND THE WAY MY MIND WORKS.
IT'S IMPOSSIBLE. IT'S FRUSTRATING. IT'S EVERY DAY.
I've gotta slow down. Before all of this is gone, and I'm left wondering
When did that happen?
When did I say that?
What time is it?
What day is it?
Where are we?
Where am I?
Where am I going?
Where have I been?
Will I ever get the chance, to go back again?
Rest awhile.
Lie down and sleep.
I just want someone to sit with me,
And hold my hand.
Watch it all, even if they can't see the way I see.
