I just wanna talk. I don't want to worry about indenting, or punctuation, or sounding smart-ass and "intellectual" (whatever that means). I want the words to flow, as I don't normally let them. To bare my soul is not my custom. I'm not even sure if I'll succeed mildly at that through this blog post, but I just wanna talk.
But you know, I'm sorry, I just have to indent. Look at the worry about silly little details. But you know what? They're not silly to me. I have two planets in Virgo. It's important to me to organize my life, to pick apart and rearrange what's not working into something that is. I don't even care if this bores whoever reads it to tears. But I have to express. I want to do it publicly, rather than in my private journal, because it feels more like catharsis, more like a legit attempt at putting my real self out there. When I'm writing in my journal, I know whatever spills out isn't going to be seen by anyone (save for my marvellously crafty younger brother); it isn't going to find release into the open - I wouldn't be airing out my thoughts, I would just be locking them into an extension of myself even tighter. I have a hunger for communicating my thoughts. Sometimes I wake up at odd hours of the night and grab a pen and paper like those are my lifeline and start to write whatever the hell comes into my mind; when my mother left me in this new life that just sprang up out of nowhere, I had a poetry-composition binge, just to prevent myself from binging on something more sinister and potentially harmful. I try to quieten my mind; to be mentally silent is a necessity for good spiritual maintenance, I think. But there's Words, and then there's Me, and we're always either fighting a losing battle or having a desperate love affair. Yes, I am making love to speech, and to verbs, and ideas. I flirt with words, I turn them into something other than what I am - but they rarely, if ever, express the real me. I try. But I know I don't try hard enough to be honest to myself.
My times have definitely changed. I'm kinder to myself. I look at myself through the point of view of compassion, rather than hatred, as I remember doing so many times ago. I'm more capable in these moments of my life than I was during these last five years or so to hold my own gaze in the mirror for longer than a millisecond, and to actually smile with my spirit into my reflection, and know that there's love between us. I don't worry as much as I used to, or rather, not in the same unproductive way that I used to. Trust me, with my two planets in Virgo, "I worry a lot" is tremendously understating it. I feel lighter emotionally, gone back to the days when I was a child. So many things that I'd taken for granted earlier now inspire a childish wonder within my spiritual eye now. I have recovered the joy that was missing throughout the past few years. You know, I'm young, actually. I'm eighteen years old, to be exact. I have to keep reminding myself that, you know, "Hey, you're still a kid, everything doesn't need to be figured out right at this moment", because I've lost so much of my childhood. Sadly, somewhere along the line I let myself grow old, so old that I couldn't smile upon the little things anymore... I took myself way too seriously, and I took things with an iron heart. I've been through war - maybe that hardens one's soul a bit. Ever since I was eleven I can remember things not being quite normal in me, in the inner world that I so love and revert to consistently in times of emotional trouble. That was the year when there was a war in my country; I wasn't quite the same after that. I was so angry and hostile. I had so much ego at twelve. It's not wrong to have ego, just as long as it isn't inflated with empty hot air, ready to burst forth at the slightest application of pressure. That burst happened when I was thirteen. I was so goddamn miserable. A kid shouldn't have to feel that way. At first I lashed out, in anger, I'm sure, but more in confusion. Then I grew morbid. God wasn't far from my heart, He just wasn't there in the way that I needed. I cried. I hurt. I didn't want to die, though. Not really. I'm not too pathological, I was just frustrated with the way things weren't going. Fourteen. If there ever was a social ideal, I was That. Fifteen had periods of alarmingly apathetic depression spells. I took up a hobby, though, besides the usual music, which was more like an education path rather than a hobby. It helped, and it was nice. Sixteen was a horrible year. It was something of a half-remembered nightmare. My self-respect fragilified. I couldn't look into my eyes in the mirror without seeing hatred. It disturbed me. I remember the water burning my skin as I cried silently, but hard; the painful tears of a woman realizing that her sanity is fleeting. I was a woman then. I'm a sweet girl now, but back then, I was a woman. I self-mutilated, and lusted after this manifestation of my troubled daemons. It didn't just feel good, like an orgasm feels good, it just felt. I just felt. It helped me feel. I knew I was headed in the direction of losing my mind somewhat. And my mind lost itself, in its own dear way, at seventeen. I went crazy. It's a painful spot to open up. I don't know if I wanna do this. Let's just say I went crazy with pain and rage. It was a year of loss. I would love to see what in my birth chart indicates such a fate. My emptiness had no bottom. I spiralled into the darkness, until I learned to be comfortable without a light. I can stand in the dark now. I've seen my id inside and out, and I accept it. The contents of my id I won't share tonight. The id isn't meant to be analyzed. I've out-idded my id. I hope no one's getting the impression that I'm some freaky boozed-out lunatic who sits there laughing in the dark at ghosts that may or may not be there. When the day comes out, I'm a pretty friendly and personable charmer. And that's a real side of me. But there's this as well. I don't want to say I'm "crazy". This is my problem with words. The labels they put on me. The cancellation of my charming side that comes with saying I'm "crazy". I have so many faces I've given up trying to keep track of which is which. I'm an Aquarius, but the way I go on, you'd think I was a Gemini. I smile, and it's forced. Yet it's also natural, exactly in that same moment. I'm existing as a walking, talking "doublethink" derivative. This is so cool. But it drives my mind loco most nights. I've developed a habit of talking out loud to myself. I'm careful about not doing it in a conspicuously loud way; I live with people. and I don't want questions asked. Such an instance would be the first time I'm ever really silent about something. I'm lonely. I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't go out much (meaning for the most part I don't go out at all - don't fill in my blanks with your own petty assumptions, though - I'm not friendless, and I'm not ugly, and I'm not unintelligent - I am what they call a "loner by volition"). I'm chaste. I've been to strange psychological zones when it comes to sexuality, but I've come out a virgin like I knew I would. I'm a vegetarian. I'm an acutely boring person a lot of the time, because I just don't want to talk. And yet I love to talk. But only when I'm in a situation that's social by nature. When I get home, I just want to close off everyone, no matter how "dear" they are to me. I believe in my way of life, for me. It doesn't work for everyone, but it's what I want, and I wouldn't feel right another way. But you know, I've got some mega-curiosity. Everything I do is out of curiosity. Everything. I can be dogmatic and say that. There's always an experimental edge, I'm never sincerely in love with a cause 100%. I'm a little too objective.
Which leads me to the topic of sex. Notice I didn't say love. "Love", I have in my life. And it doesn't fill me. Love is meant to go free. I don't think love is supposed to fill anyone, it's supposed to be spilled out to the world, rather, through kindness and humanitarianism. But to have someone completely for me, is linked to sex for me, somewhere in that part of my consciousness that adjoins the id, right before tipping into it. Maybe it's the wrong kind of love. But what the hell does that even mean. "Romantic love", "brotherly love", "parental love"... it's all just love when you stop verbistifying it. And I don't like it. I even don't care. I say I do, and I think I do, and I even feel it back for those who profess to love me. I think of three people when that word comes to mind, and I believe that according to their own individual definitions of love, they love me. But I'm sorry, it doesn't do anything special for me, it doesn't transfigure my being into something higher up than just a mere mortal. It's actually kind of boring. What I feel is a vague unstimulation when dealing with love. Like I could be staring at a water-bucket... or something. Like fucking. I want a man to fuck me so hard my insides tear up a bit. I want him to control me, to take the lead, and make me want to submit. But then, after the orgasm and all that excitement is done, I want it to be over. We had sex, and I love you, but now I want to live my life, and continue on to the many other exciting things the world has to offer, both that of the psyche and that of what's out there. I think romance movies are a a little cheesy like that... you wouldn't want to stare into someone's eyes every day for the rest of your life... besides the fact that it is a creeper-tastic activity, you would get bored. Trust me. That I know. Even with the most pure and deep love. It's the way our spirits are made. We're not meant to be contained, or defined by something. You know, even though I write an astrology blog, I question the goodness of classifying someone as "Aquarius" or "Pisces" or whatever, when our souls are eternally mutable, and our experience constantly changing. When I think of this meeting one person and falling in love with only them for eternity to come, I get reluctant and scared, like I don't really wanna meet them anymore. My heart is extended in love to so many people that I wouldn't know what to do if I had to reserve it just for one man or one woman. I have more than one soulmate. I have more than one anything, with two as a preferred number. I have woman within myself, and I have man. I have a mistress, and I have a paramour. I am dark, and I am light. But I'm also gray, and blue, and yellow, and green. Why do you need to define me? At the same time, why do you need to undefine me? Why do I need to make sense? Why does sense need to exist to begin with? I've lived in anarchy and it's comfortable. It gets cozy, and you get used to it, and it's hard to break out of that mould once it's been broken into. I don't think this is my idea, that I want to find someone I can live with forever. Why, in passing, does the soulmate have to be someone you're romantically in love with - especially since romance is just a fabrication, an industry, an idea? I've had mates that fit my soul. That's enough of a round definition for me. If you meet someone and you're comfortable with one another and you don't need to talk all the time and feel empathy and know you understand one another, that's enough to qualify you two as soulmates, in my book. What if three people are all in love with each other? Does that mean that one pairing isn't a soulmates one in the true sense of the word? It's all just words - that's the problem, and the great joy of it. I can talk, but I don't have to do. I can fantasize about making love, and that's enough for me, at least for the moment. I can talk it out. I can communicate the shit out of it until it's useless for me to even go do something about it. When you're ever stuck in a pickle, just talk. It's good to hear your own voice, to make sure you're sane and all this world in your head can be hushed up when it gets too out of hand.
I still have so much to say, but I have to sleep, or else I'm not gonna want to function tomorrow. Well, hopefully there'll be more days of this beautiful life that I have, for more blog posts about what's coursing through my brain as the world rotates in its mad dance. And really it's all perfectly sane. Bla bla bla. Want me to stop talking? Okay. I will :D
I'm happy I wrote this, and shared it publicly. I need to see the weird roam free for once.
Signed, your friendly Water Bearer.
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