Stumbled across a blog today, quite unexpectedly, and found a little something more than I bargained for. Dark Sanctuary.
The more I read her posts, the more I see myself in reflection. So why? Why am I hypocrite?
Because my writing is so vastly different from hers. Of course, I do not expect to be like her. I do have the wits (or experience, more like it) to know yet that no two people can be the same.
Yet...her words, her stories:
"There would be times when I am too bruised to interact with people. Every word uttered is like a blow to my soul, every breath leaves blisters on my skin. I want them to shut up and go away but all I can do is smile painfully and nod. I prayed so hard for them to leave me alone that I must have trembled at some point. Or screamed. Or clawed my face. Or I could have just continued smiling and nodding."
"...But it's better that you can't see the darkness. Because then you wouldn't fathom the atrocity of my deepest thoughts. You wouldn't know that when I say I hate the world, I meant I would burn them all, all the occupants on earth - you and him and them and me. You wouldn't know that I dream of monsters, tearing and mutilating people with their fangs and their claws, only to realize that I am the monsters. All of them. Like zombie clones of me.You don't believe me, do you? That's alright. I terrify myself too."
...is completely me. It's like I'm talking through her. Like the song, "Strumming my pain with his fingers, singing my life with his words, killing me softly wth his song...". Sheryl is writing about my life with her words, and it is killing me. It's like, having found someone who's so like you, you reckon, after all these years that it's impossible to have someone live your life. It's unfathomable.
I always thought that when I finally found someone who is so essentially like me, I would leapt with joy. Soared with happiness. That I would never feel that pitiful loneliness again.
I guess I shocked myself when I had felt jealousy too. You see, all this while, I'd thought there's not a single possibility of there being a someone like me. Or even a soul who could even remotely understand how I felt. Heck, not even my family understand me that well. And they're supposed to be theonly one who could ever had a chance of understanding me. But then sprung out this person, this girl who just wrote it all. Say what I wanted to say for all my life but never did say. Here's a girl who's not afraid to own it, and who's just so like me in some uncanny way, that I'm no longer special. And she's better than me, and more special than me, because she said it all. She is being her true self. And I'm not. Never have.
Because I was presumptious to think that no one will understand, so refrain from ever forming the mere thought of even explaining myself. Because I'm vain to want to keep those secrets to myself, in a very sick and pathetic attempt to paint myself a mysterious and dark aura. Because I'm so self-indulgent and selfish to want to share. Because I'm a coward to share my fears. Because I'm a hypocrite, trying so hard to fit in, to pretend that I'm not a freak, enough that I betray myself. But, most of all, because I myself never ever truly understand me. At times, I can be brooding and dark, but sometimes I'm just sad or happy (can't even make up my mind on that one) and confused.
I cannot make up my mind about myself. It could have been loads easier if I could either be Dr Jekyll only, or Mr Hyde only, but I can't. So who am I? Just like Dr. Jekyll, I thrived on my saint, yet also feed on my demons! Oh shoot it, now not only am I a hypocrite, a coward, and a vain, self-indulgent, selfish bitch, I'm contradictory too.
Sheryl and I am no two same person. In fact, we are vastly different. She love her literature; she love her Armand. She's proper, dark, brutal and honest. I? I couldn't even be bothered with Pride and Prejudice because young-uns like me couldn't understand a word they're saying, and I've enough pride to stay away from it altogether just because I don't like any reminding that I'm not good enough. I devour cheap flicks ocassionally because it's slightly entertaining to watch them screw each other up, but mostly because they help take my mind off the fact that I'm pretty screwed up myself (yea, no need to say, I'm pretty pathetic); read way too much action, adventure, and inspector-solving crimes because there're lots of good ones out there (unfortunately, my opinion's not to be trusted) or even if you're so unlucky to stumble across a really bad one, there's always the action and gory details to distract you, or you can just laugh at the writer's painful mistakes all the way through (sorry for being mean). And of course because I can always, almost understand them.
The point is, we are totally different individuals. Even reading through her words, had me trembling with desire and longing so strong for her dark and oh-so-alluring talent. I'm literally salivating. Like that Big Bad Wolf in her story, Red Riding Hood.
I want it, I want it so badly, that it hurts. But I am not her. And I will never be, just as I'd learnt so many times striving to be someone who I'm not. Because I'm a hypocrite.
And so...I'm a hypocrite. Now...who still wants to be my friend?