and realizations
[mar 08 2007, 22:40]
well, and after watching the thing, we went to have some ice cream. and while i tried to push the play out of my head (only half-heartedly, i admit), i noticed something about myself, something that perhaps the play made me... no, not realize, but verbalize.
i can't let go anymore.
when you see me, i'll be smiling. i know, because i almost always am. it really rarely happens that i'm not. it's not because i'm happy all the time (by reading this diary, you'll probably have found out that i'm not). it's just because my facial muscles have forgot how to do anything else.
i remember the first role i had in a theater play. it was a rather shallow thing (but a classic nonetheless) and i was playing one of the inevitable lovers.
there was one scene where i had to be really mad at my dad. shout at him. curse at him. and i remember that i couldn't. i had been the nice guy for so long that i didn't now how to believably depict someone who was mad at someone else.
and now, it feels the same way. when i'm with people, i try to pose, to act. i try to be enjoyable, i try to be funny. but truth be told, i have no idea what i'm doing.
sometimes the facade slips. and i notice. because i'll have just been staring at someone or something for just a second too long. then, i've started thinking again, fallen back to the old behavioral patterns. mostly, the others don't notice (or at least i think they don't). mostly, they're too busy enjoying themselves to notice. and that's good.
because heaven forbid that they might get me, see me for who i am.
there's not much to me. there's a shell that's a mile thick and even i don't really know what's underneath. i'm so wrapped in styrofoam (and this is a quotation from the play which is why i'm writing this now) that i've rendered myself unable to feel the outside world for what it is, unable to touch or be touched.
you can't beat me. i'll always stand up again. i know. that's who i am. make me fall down and i'll be back up. but every time, the shell gets thicker, the lies more elaborate, the disguise a little more perfect.
this is a crack. this is who i am, or who i think i am.
charon
i can't let go anymore.
when you see me, i'll be smiling. i know, because i almost always am. it really rarely happens that i'm not. it's not because i'm happy all the time (by reading this diary, you'll probably have found out that i'm not). it's just because my facial muscles have forgot how to do anything else.
i remember the first role i had in a theater play. it was a rather shallow thing (but a classic nonetheless) and i was playing one of the inevitable lovers.
there was one scene where i had to be really mad at my dad. shout at him. curse at him. and i remember that i couldn't. i had been the nice guy for so long that i didn't now how to believably depict someone who was mad at someone else.
and now, it feels the same way. when i'm with people, i try to pose, to act. i try to be enjoyable, i try to be funny. but truth be told, i have no idea what i'm doing.
sometimes the facade slips. and i notice. because i'll have just been staring at someone or something for just a second too long. then, i've started thinking again, fallen back to the old behavioral patterns. mostly, the others don't notice (or at least i think they don't). mostly, they're too busy enjoying themselves to notice. and that's good.
because heaven forbid that they might get me, see me for who i am.
there's not much to me. there's a shell that's a mile thick and even i don't really know what's underneath. i'm so wrapped in styrofoam (and this is a quotation from the play which is why i'm writing this now) that i've rendered myself unable to feel the outside world for what it is, unable to touch or be touched.
you can't beat me. i'll always stand up again. i know. that's who i am. make me fall down and i'll be back up. but every time, the shell gets thicker, the lies more elaborate, the disguise a little more perfect.
this is a crack. this is who i am, or who i think i am.
sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole, just like a faucet that leakswords fail me.
charon