April 2, 2008

Woe, thy name is Misery when we dare to speak its name

You know, I've always wondered where that "woe, thy name is_____" line come from, and who I'd be referencing if I used that in an original poem :O but it's only going to a school newspaper.
So, Bloggity-blog, I am here with some journal copypasta and PERHAPS added content, just for show!

Today I got this journal prompt:

What do you think is your impossible dream? Why do you think it's impossible?

Well, my first answer was "becoming Prince". That's right, not A prince, but THE Prince. But after some (more) serious thought, I decided my impossible dream is the ever-emo sounding "getting along with good, decent people".

Oh, do let me explain children :P some events happened today that didn't outright piss me off (in fact, it was funny; they didn't really do anything wrong) but made me...wonder. It's not that I think all people are bad or the people that did these "things" are bad people, I just wonder why people are the way they are sometimes. We can be petty & selfish one day and loving & warm the next. Such, of course, is the juxtaposition of human nature and what makes us frustrating and great all at once.

Well, it's stuff like that which frankly makes me want to DIE. God, I won't go all dramatic and talk about how I'm being "betrayed" anymore since it's not true, I guess they either know not what they do or care as little as I do. Why do I seem to have this issue every week? Sometimes thinking about it makes me want to cry out of frustration. And I guess I'm angrier than I thought.

Simply, ugh. I just wish I'd stop meeting these damn wishy-washy people. Getting tricked and swindled by a few days of niceness and surprised by a few days of cruelty. I should be totally used to it, but it always manages to amaze me. It makes me a little sad, but as usual I suppose I'll just clean up the mess and move on. It's really all there is to be done :/ I still want to die, more for want of an easy solution to the suffering that being suicidal. Ooh, drama.

Perhaps its me? Perhaps I give more drama to things than warranted, but it seems like that's the way I deal with things. Maybe not making mountains of molehills per se but making stormier waters out of already stormy seas :P see? It's what helps me move on for some reason, because apparently I can't any other way.

I wish people could see my thoughts and realize I actually have feelings to be hurt sometimes. I'm not all jolly and joyful and "random LOL" like they think. But then at the same time, I don't care if they ever know the "real me". Hell, it's probably for the best because I don't think they'd understand anyway.

This all falls in nicely with a piece of An Essay On Man, part of which I'm reciting tomorrow:

From Wiki, Pope looking pimp as usual.

Created half to rise, and half to fall;

Great lord of all things, yet a prey to all;

Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurled:

The glory, jest, and riddle of the world!

And, just because I'm bummed out enough to do it, "Ode to Melancholy" by John Keats makes a special appearance :/

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty -Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine:
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

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