On St. Jude

<<please note that the teenager that wrote this is not very sure what’s been happening in her head, and she just wanted to share this with some people. she’s having a nasty existential crisis. n-a-s-t-y.>>

the patron saint of the lost causes

Aloha amigos! I’ve been missing for a while, in and out of rooms I shouldn’t have been in, discovered a hatred for eating yoghurt at school, I’ve been crying a lot and crawling through the last two weeks of the first quarter of matric (IT’S ALMOST OVER) – I’ve been being extremely regular and there is no problem with that.

(pah. that was a lie. i have been very not regular.)

In any case, several things have happened since I last posted something.I don’t even know what that was. What I’m saying is that I have something new to say.

I’ve felt very lost recently. It could be because I’ve been reading too much Sartre and not moving enough, but it could also be because I really am lost. South African universities opened applications for 2016 weeks ago, and I’m yet to take action. I’m too scared. Yes, I know I’m a wimp, that’s why I admitted it, but what I’, saying is that I’ve been crawling and crying and breaking things because I feel like a lost cause.

This brings me to beautiful things that assist on not so beautiful days. Florence and the Machine recently released two of the videos and singles from the upcoming album, How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful (available for pre order here). What Kind of Man is brilliant, but at this time, I’d like to bring your attention to another song: St Jude.

Some of these lyrics have hit me quite hard. I was crying again a couple of minutes ago.

And I’m learning, so I’m leaving
And even though I’m grieving
I’m trying to find the meaning
Letting loss reveal it
Letting loss reveal it

“Yes, but WHAT are you getting so emotional about?”

St. Jude, the patron saint of the lost causes
St. Jude, we were lost before she started
St. Jude, we lay in bed as she whipped around us
St. Jude, maybe I’ve always been more comfortable in chaos

St. Jude is the Patron Saint of Hope and impossible causes. I feel like I am the conversation without a destination, I am another lost battle, I am both sides that are losing, and that’s why nobody cares who fired the gun. I am…what am I?

A lost, impossible cause. I don’t know what it is that I’m grieving for, but I feel as if I’m in mourning, and perhaps, as Lady Welch says, loss will reveal meaning.

And there’s this big storm that surrounds us and we’re in the middle of it
It’s calm but I can feel it, like it’s everywhere.

love and light,
?

Exactly Sixteen Tireds

I’ve been so tired.

 

(if you liked the nebula thing that was the featured image, you can make your own here! super calming and super great.)

I try sometimes, but most times I can’t even be bothered. I wake up, I take a shower, I put on my (new and sassy) glasses, I go to school, my file falls off the dashboard on the way there, I get sad because I think of friends who aren’t friends anymore, I plaster on a smile, say ‘darling’ far too many times, take ‘too much’ (enough + prescribed) medication, have genuine laughs with lovely people, kiss said people too much, go to class, get out of class, give hugs, hope to go home, don’t go home, eat too much…

Look, it’s not an interesting schedule, but it’s mine. And at it’s tiring.

I’ve decided that if my tiredness could be quantified, it’d be done in tireds. And it’d be meticulously calculated by adding the years that I’ve been alive to the number of hours I’d ideally spend listening to good music and not crying/crying (dependent on the day), and then subtracted by the amount of time I’m doing school related things.

16+12-12
=16 tireds

I’m so tired, because with four tests a week and a bajillion things to do and a birthday in four months (OH MY ASDGSFSDG PANIC!WITHOUT THE DISCO) and the dangerous thoughts coming back and fricken’ prom in five months (actually, I don’t think I care about this?), I don’t know how to be less tired.

It’s no surprise that I’ve been reduced (?) to my truest form: a teary eyed sixteen year old girl, eating shortbread and avoiding reading because “Gatsby was supposed to be FUN not a fricken’ chore”.

I have no idea what this is.

I have no idea what I am.

The existential crisis has been rather intense, as of late.

love and light
?