Cleaning out my room (Want to get the cobwebs out of my head)

Saturday, June 24, 2006

I've been up since 8, doing my routine cleaning of the house. It's calming, the monotony of cleaning. Consistency allows my mind to settle, gives me an opportunity to arrange my thoughts. Mostly, it's the same thoughts that I, amongst others, are always gripped with: what's the meaning of life, creation stems from what, blah blah blah. The real thought doesn't come until I encounter the task of my room. Admist the smell of the Lysol drenched in the carpeting, I stumble upon the catalyst of my nostalgia; the backpack of my sophmore year.

I grabbed the worn strap, almost too eager to throw it away. Piled along with various notes from the previous year, it suddenly beckons me, lustfully, tempful, until I route through the papers, the binders, essays, projects, and various attempts at insightful writing, tortured sketches, contrived in an attempt to alleviate the boredom of my classes. It's the opening of a floodgate, as memories of school wrestle with my attention. I ultimately give in, reminiscing about school. Is it too soon for this? It hasn't even been a year since I started that school year. I want to bask in it.

Wow. Wow. Wow. So many mistakes. Lots of them. Why didn't I see it before? The crushing weight of these mistakes have finally been realized, it's mass finally concisely measured. The general apathy towards anyone made me a complete douche. Attempts at growth, towards acceptance, are betrayals made towards myself. Oh shit, I betrayed myself!!! That's fucking deep. But yeah, all that time, all those chances, pissed down my leg. When my friend slapped me, I should have apologized, not risen up against her. That was a mistake. I should have been more assertive in life itself. Maybe if I worked a little harder, I could've gotten that A in chem. I shouldn't have attempted... that... with her. That was an impulse, that day, the akward composure, the cracking of the voice, the fact that I never set a plan the next day. I'm retarded like that.

The bag now sits in the bottom of the trash can outside, festering in filth. None of the notes are kept, but that's because I don't need them. Throwing it in there, I expected something more besides a resounding thud. A sort of groan would have been more satisfying. Better yet, a crackling noise, as if I set kerosene and a match on it, to hear it melt away. No, fucking angels descending from the sky, singing the rapture. But no, just a thud, then the closing of the lid. Goodbye sophmore year.

I'm my own self-wrought tragedy. I don't want to fuck up junior year.