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= F.U.C.K. - Fucked Up College Kids - Born Jan. 24th, 1993 - F.U.C.K. =
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They
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I hate waking up to the realization that I've lost something.
Particularly those first few moments of panic when I try in vain to remember
the last place I saw it. I backtrack mentally, through people and places and
time. It occurs to me that I can't remember when I last had it. The thoughts
whirl faster through my mind. How long has it been since I've seen it? How
could I not have noticed that it was gone? If I've gone on this long without
it, is it less important than I've always thought? How will I get by without
it? Will I ever find it, or is it gone forever?
That happened to me just this morning. I woke up and realized that I'd
lost myself. I don't know how long I've been gone, and can't remember the
last time I've seen me. Luckily, I have many other selves. Fitting into one
is as easily accomplished as stepping into a pair of jeans. Like jeans, some
selves are more comfortable than others. The self I wear depends on my
agenda for the day. My work self isn't very comfortable, the fabric is a bit
stiff and unforgiving. My family self is somewhat comfortable, but a little
too flowery for my taste, and too much pastel washes me out. My friend self
is bright and cheery, and so comfortable that sometimes it feels as if I'm
wearing nothing. But only sometimes. Then there's my alone self, the
techno-age me that hungers for knowledge and, given even a few moments of
solitude, submerges itself into a world of computers and networks and
protocols and code.While I enjoy the way this me feels, it's still not the
original me. I miss the person I used to be.
I was kind and considerate and giving. I would, and oftentimes did,
give my last dollar to a homeless person. They told me it was foolish and
called me an easy mark, so I stopped. I no longer give money to the
indigent. I no longer look at those people in their alcohol-stained clothing
and toothless grins and wonder what path they chose to lead them to those
ends. I no longer feel the pity and sympathy I once did. Instead I feel
contempt.
I was an idealistic dreamer. They told me to get my head out of the
clouds and act responsibly, so I stopped. I no longer stare at the walls and
daydream, my pencil tapping a relentless beat on the table top. I no longer
have the willingness to swallow my fear and take the risk, the risk that
quickens my heartbeat. Instead I feel apathy.
I was caring and selfless, and always there for those close to me.
Friends came to me regularly for advice, knowing I'd be there with a
shoulder to cry on and a willing ear. They told me to worry more about
myself and less about others, so I stopped. I no longer am able to offer
endless hours of advice and consolation. I no longer spend hours waiting for
someone's tears to dry from my sleeve. Instead I feel impatience.
I was open and honest. My soul shone through my eyes. I saw nothing
wrong with letting everyone know just how I felt. They told me I was leaving
myself open for hurt, that I was too vulnerable, so I stopped. I no longer
wear my heart on my sleeve. I no longer let you see how much your words
hurt. Instead, I show indifference.
They told me I'd change as I grew older, and they were right. They told
me that my perception were off, that the world wasn't the perfect place I
saw it as being, and they were right. I hate them for being right. Long ago,
I promised myself I'd never change. I'd grow, yes, but I'd never lose the
person I was. I was wrong. I hate me for being wrong.
Maybe I'll never again be what I once was. Maybe, in some apathetic,
indifferent stupor, I ripped apart my original self and used the fabric to
build the other, diluted selves. Everyone deserves a second chance, though.
So if you happen to see me out wandering in the cold darkness, please send
me home. It's lonely here without me.
krystalia
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