Monthly Archives: September 2013

In a coffee shop.

I sang at an open mic night in a coffee shop two weeks ago. It was the first time I sang something I wrote for an audience. I’ve sung other songs for people, and played my ukulele for fun with friends, but never have I sung something just for me for them.

Because I wrote a song for myself. A bit of a pathetic sobbing song, a poem in honor of the way a guy made my heart flutter in the hours and days after we met, from the moment he asked for my number and I was still hopefully awaiting his call.
It went “well”. Better than well. I mean, the first night after playing for the audience and getting a warm applause, I was pumped. I ecstatically skipped around my house and for a moment life wasn’t focused on whether or not the aforementioned boy would call.

Then I realized that this boy really was not going to call me. At this point things declined. I had a week until the next open mic night. That gave me seven nights of loneliness and time with my thoughts and without the positive human interaction an audience provided. I wrote two more songs.

Two weeks seemed enough to forget about the boy, or at least for the pain of his memory to be weak enough to no longer inspire me, so by week three I had no more music. That was yesterday. I didn’t go to the open mic night.

I entertain myself with the notion that maybe someone there noticed my absence, maybe they missed the girl on ukulele who played humorous songs about unrequited love and drank sweet and spicy good earth tea. But that’s unlikely. It’s hard to believe that you’re really as memorable as you want to be.

Now I guess I’ll have to work on another song, my aunt suggested one about recovering from serious illnesses. I think that’d be too dark. Especially for my ukulele. But I have to think of something, I only have a week until my next chance at human interaction arrives.

Oh, and hello reader. I’ve tried to avoid acknowledging your existence. It’s very difficult to believe you’re there, you’ll probably be gone in a moment anyway. I don’t know what this blog is, reader, but I kind of have to write something and I can’t compose it on my old account, because my mom reads that one. And there are some things you just don’t want your mom to read and then bring up the next day at dinner. Like every aspect of your social and nonsocial life.

 

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The first post

 

Life plans:

 

Get over the fact that I’m not invited to every wedding of every friend I have. It wouldn’t be practical anyhow, since I can’t get to those places.

Recognize the fact that I do have friends and people who care about me, even if I can’t talk to them or see them right now.

Define “independence” and why I desire it so much.

Define “friend” and why I want them so much.

Recognize what I actually want my life to be and how I can attain that goal.

I want independence, freedom, and happiness. I think that means feeling safe when I walk outside and being able to walk to wherever I want. Walking to friends. Walking to see beautiful things. Being walking distance from happiness.

What is happiness? It includes and is not limited to, prayer, friendship, beauty, material goods, intellect. Becoming better in multiple ways. Being happy, being challenged.

Independence? The ability to make my goals a reality, without help from anyone outside of myself. That is a lofty, if not impossible, goal.

So…freedom? The ability to go where I want, when I want, how I want.

Ironic that I feel so trapped at a time in my life where I am finally more free than I have been all the rest of the years. I’m not stuck in school, I am not set on a road with goals that I must achieve. I have graduated, I have achieved.

And I feel more constricted than I’d like to say.

 

I’d like to be able to say things and not worry about being judged for them. I’d like to have myself be heard. I want to communicate somewhere with someone who doesn’t know me so well to judge the words based off my previous actions.

Someone to whom when I say “I feel trapped,” won’t take it as a personal affront and try to figure out what they’ve done wrong.

Someone to just listen and understand, and help that way.

Writing is therapy. Music is therapy. Talking is Therapy. Being heard in some way, being noticed, your life being valued and somehow understood, that’s therapy. Therapeutic.

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Filed under Various writing