3 a.m. Thoughts: The Sound of a Violin in the Thunderstorm

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It’s 3 a.m. now, and I have my headphones on. I’m listening to a random playlist containing the two songs I know and random piano pieces. It stopped raining moments ago.

3 a.m. is my new bedtime curfew.

Years ago, I cut my hair pixie style, hoping it would make me stop pulling it whenever I had a panic attack. I didn’t do it myself, though. I orchestrated it well. I went to a salon, got a fun new hairstyle, and got rid of the “damaged hair”. It wasn’t my hair that was damaged.

Now, my hair is down to my lower back. A completely different person. In just a few years, nothing changed.

I stopped wearing bracelets so that I would stop twisting and pulling them. But later on, I started wearing rings. I grew my hair out but still let it fall on my face to hide. A curtain is what my hair is.

I don’t know what I’m hiding from anymore. I’m keeping that secret hidden well from myself. Or is it that I reached a limit of my capabilities? I’m at the limit of being able to understand myself.

Even when I try to rationalize it, I still keep to my cocoon. Even when all the outside dangers are far away, and all the eyes are looking through me, not seeing me, I still can’t hold eye contact.

I run.

If there’s one thing I know, it’s this one: you can run and look for a place on this Earth to call your own, but the only place you need to feel comfortable in is your mind and body. Otherwise, the preying eyes of your subconscious will always be on you like a lurking shadow.

I can’t run from myself (not that I don’t try hard). Everything I pick up to do, I turn into a coping mechanism, an obsession. Everything’s weaved with nervousness. My whole body is clenched, my tongue, my shoulders, my fists. The one thread I’m hanging by vibrates with anxiety, wearing thin.

Everything I pick up to do has to succeed. It has to save me. It really does take away pleasure from a lot of things. Perfectionism isn’t a fun personality trait. I’m doing this for fun, but I’m not having any fun.

If my life were a sound, it would be a violin in a thunderstorm.

The cries of the strings going higher and higher and connecting with the tear of the heavens. And every time, it rips my soul apart, too. No bandage can hold that.

In everything I see around me, I look for comfort. I’m like a bear retreating suspiciously in its den, possessive of my peace.

In a show I watched a while back, there was this quote. It resonated with me.

I want liberation. I want to be liberated. I don’t know where I’m trapped, but I feel trapped. There’s nothing in my life that relaxes me. I feel cramped and stifled. I want to break free.

– My Liberation Notes

Every time there’s a spark of inspiration in something I do or what I witness, or a trivial realization I make, I cry. I cry in thanks to God because “I know my purpose now”. I know what I should do with my life.

But I am so bad at protecting that little light from the wind that only a burned match is left in my hands, and I’m left in the dark. It’s cute how I hold on to hope. That’s the cutest and most loyal relationship we humans have with anything.

But it doesn’t live up to the values I claim to hold. It makes me feel fake, this way of living. I don’t know how to navigate those spheres, the inner self, and the outward-directed care. I’m not proud of myself on any level.

And I think too much and feel so little. (That’s my take on it.)