I’m More When I Speak…

I’ve been thinking about this for a while. Ever since I read The Raven Cycle and Maggie Stiefvater added a little description about Henry that said he Was somehow less when he spoke, that he was more in thought. That his language was thought and it always felt like he was less himself whenever he spoke because he had to somehow put into words the entire universe that was himself in his head into a couple of words..  Of course that something got lost in this process. He was less of himself. He had to decide what parts to use and what parts to keep inside. He was never truly himself.

And I feel that… But I feel it in another way. I feel like I am more when I speak and less when I write.

I can speak for hours on end about anything at all.

I’m one of those annoying people who love the sound of their own voice… Though not really because my voice is annoyingly high pitched.

I’m never honest when I write. I can always regret things. Correct. Hide.

I am less of myself but more of this creature that must be perfect at all times. The creature that is reliable.

I’m not reliable.

I’m always going in ten directions at the same time and I hardly ever arrive anywhere.

I’m a mess.

So I have to make myself smaller. Easier to hear and understand. I’m always lying when I write… Because I feel like I shouldn’t be anything else.

I rmemeber one time I used my real voice to wrote and someone told me it didn’t sound like me… That I was better.

I am really, really not.

I wish I could speak for days. And I wish I could scream for even longer.

I am so much more when I think and when I speak than what I am when I write.

And I’m a writer!

I’m a verified liar and no one cares!

I was born to lie my way through things.

I wish this post hadn’t been a mess but well… I just thought I’d share this.

I’ll probably talk about this again when I have more time.

 

-L

 

I Got Too Excited… Oops!

Checking in again!!

Hello everyone, this is your not-really-scheduled update about my life.

First of all, I still haven’t gotten my computer back from the hopefully gentle hands that are fixing it. Aaaand I have actually sort of been working? I’ve been doing odd administrative jobs for my godfather for a couple of days now.

It’s funny. Like if someone were to ask me what I studied I’d have to say English Language and Literature, and if they were to ask what I’m doing with my major…. Well, not using it that’s for sure.

But well, the things we do for money, right?

On other unrelated news, I have a high school friend (yeah, shocking I know) that has been talking to me for a while…. Mostly to ask for things like translations and help with English stuff. Now, you may have realized already that I didn’t exactly have the best experience in school and therefore keeping anyone in my life from that time it’s kind of weird.

Well, I do actually have a small group of friends from school. We are a mismatched group of people, and our experiences were radically different from each other.

I must admit that for a while I did avoid them. I was very… Keen on forgetting everything about High school once I started college. It was like a fresh start and I didn’t want to think about the past.

And I also resented them a little about.. A lot of things that in reality neither of us could control at the time.

So I didn’t keep in touch.

If they hadn’t been the first ones to reach out I’m not sure if we would’ve managed to get back in each other’s lives.

Still, we’re very different from each other. And I don’t think we really trust each other the way my small but tight group of friends now do. Mostly I think we’re holding onto this thing so we can say that there was something good about school. To replace the bad memories or just pretend they weren’t there by using this bond.

I am never honest when I’m with them. There are parts of me that get cut or censored. There are a million things I wish we could tell each other. There are so many questions that hang over us in every heavy silence… I wish I could ask them if they knew. Could they tell? Can they tell now?

Do we even know each other really?

Can they see my scars? Do they understand them? Do they have scars as well?

I don’t think we will ever be able to discuss the important things. I don’t think my tongue will ever get unstuck long enough to ask her why she didn’t say anything…. Why did she share my secrets with others… Why did she pretend not to see me cry?

Why did I pretend not to see them?

Why were we hiding from each other at the same time we his from the others? Was it ever truly necessary?

There are so many things that will never make it past our lips. We are all trying to pretend to be the same people we were before. We’re carrying corpses the same way people drag costumes behind them. We are not honest. We cannot.

So whenever a small thing comes up, a bridge we didn’t have before, we hold onto it as strongly as possible because maybe this is it. Maybe this is the part where we introduce ourselves again.

Hi, my name is laly. I’m not straight, you know? I like poems and reading diverse books. I’m in love with The Foxhole Court because it gave me a story that wasn’t about coming out. Because it proved that I could be more than my issues… That depression and pansexuality didn’t have to be the defining features in my story. I am not a cautionary tale for others.

I was bullied in school but it didn’t break me.

But she was only asking me about pretty poems she could’ve used in a discussion with someone else. She wasn’t asking me to share the jagged pieces of myself that I’ve hidden in poems and stories. She didn’t need to get to know me again because to her I’m already someone. I will always be that someone.

So when she asked me about poems and I said BRENNA TWOHY IS THE BEST THING THAT’S HAPPENED TO ME HOLY SHIT READ HER POEMS she just nodded her head and told me “yes, but something prettier. Like Shakespeare but not old”. So I pointed her in the direction of Christina Rossetti and her poems about dying. And again they were not what she was looking for. So I sent her in the direction of Persimmons without explanation… But it was too long for her.

In the end I chose to give her a piece of myself that wasn’t myself anymore. So I sent her a short poem I read in freshmen year of college and told her I’d read it in Introduction to Literary Studies. It was good but it wasn’t me.

She told me it was too late for that… And yes… It was.

But not for the reasons she believed.

Still I laughed and said “Sorry. I got too excited.” And called it a day.

I realized that the pieces I could give her were the polished pieces she thought were the only part of me. The lie I held onto before.

No one wants the jagged pieces.

But still I try every time to give them away with different names.

Sometimes it works…. Sometimes it doesn’t.

Right now, these friends… The other friends from the group, they want to get together. They want to prolong the lie so we all have to pretend again.

“Let’s go away for the weekend! Let’s party and hang out for a while… We can stay at my place.”

And it doesn’t really sound like something I want to do. Something I can do now.

Not after knowing that I have at least one side that can be honest.

In all truth I just don’t want to have to give someone plastic pieces of myself when I know I’m made of twisted silver and spotted bronze.

But well… I’ve never been good at saying no to others… Just to myself.

I’ll let you guys know more about this as it develops.

 

-L