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mirazelle
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Name: mirazelle
Birthday: 1/1/1988
Gender: Female
Interests: travel, books, fashion, art, conversation, beer, running, academia, cities
Expertise: rhetoric
Occupation: muse
Message: message me
AIM:  ktbeebop
Member Since:
4/3/2008
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I can't help angst if it's there; pouring, rotting, painting the world and everyone in it with a sickly greenish hue. I'm sick of performing. There's nothing left for me to pretend with, I've used up all my resources and today is a bad day. Yesterday was, too. The rest of the days have been mixed. Normal, but at this moment I am tired, pathetic, and numb. Before it was all hysterics and mania, now it's resignation and it's easier to deal with, considering. Not alot of clean up involved after the fact. But it's more worrying because the stagnation could likely eat up my life by quiet increments, until boom!, there is no vitality left in this girl.
I feel beaten down. Like every time I got on my feet, I was pushed down. Defeated, tired, confused. After a typical argument with p, in which he berates me for thinking I know everything...'if you're so damn intelligent..', I did something non-typical for me and walked away. Quite literally; told him he obviously wasn't in a positive mood, and that we would talk later, and walked away from him during his lunch hour. I think I had just had enough, and that was that. I came to the shocking realization soon after that he often makes me feel useless, unintelligent, uninteresting. We went to dinner, and like usual, he spoke the entire time, as if it were his own private 'showcase' and he was performing for an audience. I felt myself get more and more disgusted. He never once asked for my opinion, never once tried to engage me, and never does. I am reduced to play the role of hero worship, and I will say before yesterday I was entranced by his mind, his wit. But yesterday, all I could see was ugly, writhing selfishness.
I feel...all wrong. I suddenly feel out of place. Confused. What am I getting myself into? What am I giving up?
So tired of these questions. So. incredibly. tired. But they won't go away until I solve them.
give me strength, this life was a hard path to choose and I feel like running as far away as my legs will carry me.
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| Back with Lelle.
Come and visit me there. I am back to writing in my usual style; which is, I must say, much more interesting than self depressive drivel. | | |
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I sit in Pere Lachaise Cemetery, in the same place I always do; to the left of one of the more decrepit mausoleums that sit staggered in the part of the cemetery that slopes upwards, where tight pathways wind through mausoleums and headstones that tumble against each other. Dangling legs, cigarette in hand, thinking.
My life is now unrecognizable from the life I had 5 months ago. I did it. All the frustrations and the raw need to experience some else, experience fire and passion, to uproot myself from anything and everything I had ever known and to stop simply existing, but to start living. Everyone tells me that I am so brave. That I have so much courage, to undertake something like this, to actually do something about a life I sought.
I light another cigarette (I’ve been smoking too much these days), glad for the strange weather Paris is having. Overcast, cooler, lightening storms at night.
But I expected anything but this. Paris ripped through me, gutted me; I have never felt so leveled, I have never felt such euphoria. Learning that I was not as strong as I thought. Learning that, no matter how mature people think I am, no matter how mature I thought I was, it was an easily shattered illusion. Beginning to build my identity with a solid set of foundations; realizing that what I needed first was to be de-constructed (by force, I am too stubborn) in order to become the person I wanted to be, the person I am, and not simply a suggestion of it.
And oh, I am in love, am I ever. And he infuriates me. And it isn’t easy. He challenges me, he loves me back fiercely and is intolerant if he thinks I am not living my potential. I hated him for that in the beginning, now, it is why I love him. I’ve found it, whatever it is, and it was worth every miserable hour I spent in anguish over myself and the truths I didn’t want to see that it took to get me here.
I smile; it’s almost time to meet him at his office, where I will likely wait for another hour or two while he works on his big project. Even I can’t compete with Chanel, at least not all the time. My steps are light; now that there is a plan, a path, I have purpose again. French classes at the Sorbonne this fall, back to UMW For 2 semesters to finish my degree, with summer in Paris in between. I walk down the paths and onto the main cobblestone walkway, taking my time, watching others walk by. I fell in love with Paris in the only way one can fall in love; hard, angrily, messily. Happy because I realize that although I am extremely excited about going back to the states for a few months in July, a wave of sadness washes over me at the prospect of leaving this city. Even only for a few months. This time I break into a near grin, which, looking at the terrified Parisians around me who almost never smile, gets even wider.
It was worth it.
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Halfway inside a dream; pouring a cup of coffee, the feel of a familiar chair under bare legs- all still new. The morning routine, never understood night people, don't get me wrong- late thoughts have the special quality of otherness, the select group that rewind when the hour ticks past midnight. But early mornings, when the mind disengages from rest, when the day is still ahead, there is no greater feeling than the hours in between repose and reality.
Relish these hours- the eternal, self focused window where possibility has the ability to mimic the essence of childhood hope, undeterred, boundless. I watch from one paned frame, across the courtyard, sky overcast- a grey screen that shuts out the reality of the elements. Past the railings, silhouette of a woman pouring--water? juice?
Cigarette between my fingers, shocking pink nails run over a body I forget every night, fascinated by the way my underwear sits on my hipbones, by the cold tile underfoot, the ash that falls into piles on the terrace.
Today I will be an illustrator
Today I will remember how to write
Today I am | | |
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It's all okay now. Because I completely underestimated him, myself. And to languish is no longer an option.
I can BREATHE! | | |
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