Of blinding lights and hope.

I'm not really the dramatic sort, like those kind of people who make a tragedy out of seemingly nothing. I was working at my new job as a waitress today, working my ass off and generally enjoying being the 'shiny new toy'. One of the more experienced waiters, thirty something with maddeningly orange hair and freckles everywhere, complemented my 'excellent performance' at work.
It made me smile sadly, though. How I long to hear those same exact words in another context, you have no idea. Preferably while the spotlight is still blinding me, the stage creaking with movement and everywhere is roaring applause.
But I feel there are so many endless small steps before you ever get to the important ones, that you get lost in the way. Your dream looses brightness and then starts to fade, so that ultimately what you'll be left with is a vague idea of a wish and a memory of longing.
So this is what I ask. How do you not lose yourself in the way? How do you not ask yourself 'what if'?
What do you do to keep your dream alive?

Dysfunction is a four lettered word.

Unbelievably disgusting. I was talking to my mother, Brigitte about weird fetishes, because yes, Brigitte and I have very weird conversations on a daily basis. She suddenly turned serious, which in turn made me listen carefully, because my mother doesn't do serious very often. Brigitte got to know of this girl who wasn't feeling very good, subtly, for some reason: no specific symptoms. At the clinic where she went to have tests done, the doctors kept drilling her, asking her who she was having sex with. The girl had left her boyfriend of eight years some nine months prior, hadn't had sex with anyone since. The clinic called the boyfriend and asked him who he was having sex with. Cue 1940s black and white gasp!! Turns out the guy, who worked as a grave digger, was fucking dead people. No shit. The poor girl contracted some terminal disease for which he was only the carrier. So he can go carry on fucking with/ the dead and she's got only four months left to live.
This is what Heisenberg calls The Uncertainty Principle: it has as much to do with quantum mechanics as it has with every-day life. This principle states that it is impossible to know both the position and velocity of a particle. The more precisely one property is known, the less precisely the other one can be known. It's a catch 22 with no definite results. Roughly, this translates in that the more you think you know something, the less you know because your knowledge automatically cancels out on principle. The more you think you know someone, the less you really know. You'd think your best friend sees you in a certain way only to discover she has an entirely different perception of you. You can think your parents love you for who you are only to turn out that who they love is the role they decided to give you in their life. You can think you're everything to your boyfriend who loves you very much only to turn out he's a sick necrophiliac.

The morale of this story, Blossoms, is that whatever you think you know is really what you don't know. Who you think you know may turn out to be the complete opposite. And no matter how much you pussy-love someone, always wear a rubber.

Apathy as a small victory.

Not looking through to what's on the other side of the glass, I know the sky is blue. The sky is an unforgiving blue and I'm smoking designer cigarettes I can't really afford, drinking what only looks like black coffee. There's something in the water that makes coffee taste like cardboard. And I'm apathetically thinking how I'll probably turn out to be nothing. My reasoning is: there are only seven notes, only five primary colors, only twenty-six letters, and I believe you know where this is going. Variety is limited. The song you dream of writing has probably been written by somebody else a hundred times over. The painting you'd like to paint is in some gallery somewhere, possibly a million times better than you could have ever dreamed of painting it. Your words, they're like a teen-age's half baked attempt at writing, having just discovered Nietzsche and Nine-Inch Nails. Mildly put. Do you still think you need to save yourself from apathy?

What I'm doing is waiting for something. For inspiration to hit me like a violent electric shock. Or for it to hit me like a rock, I'll have it any way. It'll turn me into some late-blooming Mozart. A precocious Picasso. I could be the next Sophia Loren. Maybe I'll get myself a hobby, be crazy-shit creative and everybody will think me a genial artist. In turn, I will start socializing with affluent and influential people, engaging in mindless, meaningless copulating that will push me even further up the social ladder.

I could publish a book. I would obviously write it in some annoying slang, presumptuously believing it will make it 'different'. I'll write in circumlocutions and have people believe me a literary genius. See what I just did, right there?
"What seems to be the self-representing, ever expanding variety of emotion in the human being appears to be of inversely proportional importance to the elocutionary potential of a tooth-brush"
What makes no sense-we immediately consider to be beyond us. Mostly, when something sounds like nonsense, it's because it is.

I'm thinking, if all else fails, and I'm still un-hit and uninspired, I'll become a librarian. I'm really good at suggesting books to people. I can quote crap from books like it's an Olympic sport, I'm that good. In my room, what's not taken up by my bed, is taken up by scraps of paper with random quotes scribbled on them. I don't even know why I write them down because I rarely ever use them, but it's comforting: knowing that I could just bend down and pick up and answer to at random. There is safety behind words when they're not yours. I read somewhere, that quotation is a substitute for wit, a short-cut for not thinking. I happen to know that this is absolutely true. I have this written down somewhere, too. How much you read and remember is not how much you know. I happen to read a lot but can't seem to know anything of substance.

What I know is that I'm waiting for something to happen. Something that'd make me different. A never seen before variation of some other variation. What I know is that apathy can save you from despair. Sometimes.

...

It's all the 'not sleeping at night' that I do. I got home at nine in the morning, stumbled to bed and woke up at one. Four hours of sleep may be why I'm tearful right now. I have no other possible explanation.
It may also be because I'm watching a documentary about Florence on the Discovery Channel, on my own at home, on a sunny Sunday.
Or maybe because I've just seen pictures of a friend of mine, who's a touring dancer for Cheryl Cole. And I'm still here, not doing anything, feeling like an absolute failure.
This could go on and on and on and on....
I don't even know what I need.
And this is completely irrelevant. I need sleep, that's what I need. I need sunshine and motivation, a good book to read and for this stupid 'mother's day' to be over, so that I can rid myself of the obligatory duty of playing nice.

On ignorance, in ignorance.

My complete detachment from reality makes it possible for me to cope with the fact that I'm surrounded by mediocrity and the conscious-blind, who are all ready to judge me. It also teaches me how to ignore early instilled morals that do no make sense. The latter sometimes wears me down but I am a student of life: and I'm slowly learning how to not be a slave to my upbringing.
That is why my general plan involves:
A) Living the arts. The less of yourself you are, the more you discover about yourself. I want to know as much as I can so as to not be destroyed by other people's perception of me. Also, art alienates you, which leads to point-
B) Living the arts in a crazy little house. Colorful indie style being my choice of interior design, as well as having my paintings, various instruments lying around, books everywhere and aerial silks hanging from the ceiling.
C) A good sound system. I want to have soft, beautiful lyrics surrounding me all the time.
I don't know whether I'm moving towards something here, or running away. I have to keep reminding myself what it is that I'm fighting for, otherwise I start fighting against something and that something in this case, is judgment. I'm strong for the most part, but sometimes, on my low days, it gets to me. And when it does, it gets to me bad.
Being 'different' comes at a price. As does having dreams. Although I don't entirely understand these 'definitions'.
I don't know why I even care this much. I guess no matter how much you tell yourself that you don't care about other people's opinion, you do, some of them, even if just a little bit.
I don't know . I don't even remember what the point of my writing this was.
To put it eloquently: I know nuthin'.