June 6, 1999
Sunday

The eyes have it...

Fiona.No, not my sister...

The eyes are the windows to the soul...

 

Ok, gratuitous plug time, for those who missed Friday's sidebar, here you go:

Go here and look, it's a journal written by a friend of mine, so please go read and scribble in her guestbook. Plus the picture on the front page is yummy *L*.

Butterfli

Plug number two for me... I updated the Pictorial History page with a couple of ringers, take a look and before you come back to complain, I know it is a little much but I am the one uploading all this and doing all the work, so indulge me OK? I am allowed to be proud of my progress once in a while.

I never noticed how blue my eyes go sometimes. On occasion they are grey and for the most part a little dark bluish tinge, but once I saw the picture above I realized just how blue they really are. This relates in a bigger sense to how little attention we pay to ourselves at times. Maybe I am more susceptible to this than others because I am sensitive to the failing of egomania, but I think in general we are all a little too concerned with what is going on outside rather than taking care of what is inside.

The reason that things tend to bother us so much is that we attach too much importance to them. We are constantly haunted by our past, our decisions, the people who have affected us in a negative way and the feelings of weakness or failure that seem to creep in on us when we least expect it.

I am no longer a victim. I decided a long time ago that I wouldn't be affected by the actions of others. I have successfully managed to avoid bouts of depression or anger because of what other people have done, however the spectre of acceptance still hangs around my door. That's the reason I haven't really pursued J, it's the reason I can't make myself ask Nikki or even make a quality decision about Kara, a new prospect who has placed herself upon my horizon.

I am, admittedly, afraid of rejection. Not rejection in the traditional sense of someone not accepting an invitation, but rather the kind of rejection you get when you fall short of your own expectations when you can't make something work the way you want. I am scared to fall short of the chalk marks I have made on the wall. It seems the more I go on, the heavier my pockets get with ridiculous baggage and the harder it is even to try to make the grade.

However, this is not really about me, but rather about a train that is in fear of derailing form it's promise not to regress into the shadows of the past. Those eyes up there belong to a woman who believes (I think) that at least a part of her is defined by the happiness another couple shares. I can see in those eyes that a part of her doesn't want to be a victim of her own foolish insecurities and that in fact, she is above all the skeletons within that darkened closet. She wants to be, she wants to become, but until she releases the ropes that bind her to her history, she cannot hope to strike forth towards her future. She is in a position with which we can all identify, because at some time or another we have all said, or will all say, "the past isn't worth it".

In an odd reflection of my own fragile sense of want, I will admit that the name Mark sent a very odd feeling up the back of my neck. I guess it's never easy accepting that other people have other people just like you on the other side of their fence. I would be a fool to think that I was everything to someone or indeed that I was so unique that I could hold an individual's attention by my mere presence. It hurt when I read that Fiona was jealous of my happiness at the attention of Laurie, I guess I didn't realize that in my shifting of the spotlight, I had inadvertently left everyone else in the shade. I guess we all get pushed out of the limelight sooner or later, and so long as we understand that focus is merely a function of timing, then we will realize it's not personal. We are fragile at best, we humans. The worst of which is that like moths drawn to flame, the most delicate of us are enticed into presenting ourselves to the world in this, the most clinical and impersonal fashion. Although it protects us from the hurt of interpersonal relationships, it creates a dichotomy that is not easily resolved. That is to say that the emotion that goes into a word that is spoken ever so gently while a hand caresses a shoulder or traces the line of a delicate brow cannot be adequately reflected by pixels on a computer screen. There is often too wide a latitude given and taken by journal writers and their audience. The gap between meaning and significance cannot be straddled by technology, only the touch of flesh on warm forgiving flesh can adequately express the most subtle implications of our words. A touch, a look, warm breath on skin and the touch of lips upon your cheek speak volumes that this screen can never match.

Indeed, the eyes do have it...

 

"Danced together till the break of day

And I knew I'd never be the same

Now so many winters turned to spring

But where is the love that I thought they would bring

Sit and think about that girl from Spain

And how we used to sing"

-Prozzak, Europa

 

 

Taken from July 1998. My attempt to escape the feelings that I am being too hard on myself.

"The worst feelings of inadequacy, vulnerability and lack of self worth come from comparison with others, and is it not also logically true to say that our destructive and detrimental feelings and actions toward others come from that same comparison? Is it not
better, then, not to judge others by existing standards (especially our internal ones) but rather to take that item and to evaluate it based on it's inherent worth to the individual by whom it was created? My suspicions are that there is truth behind the masks of hate and love, and that criticism and comparison are servants only to the master who chooses to use them wisely. I cannot undo my mistakes or acts of neglect of the past, but I can attempt to regain some semblance of what it means to be me and to share that with those who surround me."

 

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