Coming back from Christmas break always sucks. I don’t want to come back to school, I’m already having a miserable New Year, and it’s cold. I really struggle trying to remember what I’m supposed to be doing; I forget my new class schedule, and I have to study for tests while deciding where to go and what to do with the rest of my life.
I’m in a toss up between KU and WSU, but both will put me into debt and both disappoint me; however, doing nothing disappoints my parents. And, I want to stop. I want to feel nothing, be nothing, and just hate myself. Being a functioning person is way too much work. People and shows are disappointing me, again and again, round and round in circles, and I feel like Sisyphus.
Everything could be a metaphor for Greek myths. Having to carry everything on your shoulders: I’m Atlas. Cast out by those I admire or love because I went against them for the better good of myself or someone else: Prometheus.
One of my favorite things to read about are myths, they last eternally as metaphors of struggle and life events. When I read myths, I’m not only transported to another world, I’m subjected to the horrors of life. The characters face horrible and challenging things that I could only imagine, yet their struggles and punishments can be boiled down to simple concepts anyone can relate to.
That makes me sad. What else makes me sad? Eyes. Every time I stare at my own eyes or the eyes of others, I’m overcome with a sadness so deep that I tear up. They say eyes are the window to the soul, but I disagree. Eyes are the window to the mind. From a person’s eyes, you can tell what they’re thinking, how they feel, and what they think about themselves.
Babies’ eyes are full of innocence, brimming with curiosity about the world, and they have no self doubt. Teenagers’ eyes are full of hate, anger, simmering rage, and a kind of innocence unique to them: the beginnings of steel, sharp, hot steel – the kind that was forged by the dragons from The Game of Thrones, the kind that cuts you just from looking at it- is in their eyes. People between 20 and 40 have a weariness in them, but their eyes tell a story and paint a beautiful picture of what they’ve been through. This story is painted only through the lens of pain, for they can only see the bad side of things. From 50 on, peoples’ eyes are softer, not quite butter, but they are pliable. They know what the world is like, and they remember the beauty they’ve seen and experienced, but they look at the future and see nothing, endless repetition and a death they can’t bring themselves to care about.
The end.
