Broken strings & Pretty things

The world, seen through a young girl's eyes.

Blurred lines.

Around this time I wrote a similar post to this  ( http://goo.gl/pibdwi ), writing about how, at some points, it feels like you’ve hit rock bottom. It’s those days where nothing goes right, and these days can just merge into weeks of the constant numb of expected sadness. Maybe it goes on for a month. Maybe a couple more. But at some point, you finally awake from your lonesome-induced coma and suddenly see colour; the once grey shadows suddenly have somewhat of a glisten; the burnt-out edges and broken parts gain a form of clarity.
Because you realise the world gets better. It just takes a little time.

And a little while ago, I scrawled my feelings across an old notebook in the middle of a library because that’s where I finally cracked, and let it all out. Sometimes that’s all you need: to just let it go.
But something, somewhere, inside of the scrawl and ramble makes me still want to share it. Much like last year, I couldn’t just leave it. Not because I had ever planned to post it, but something intrinsically hopes that someone out there may relate; that someone feeling distinctly smudged out may realise that they aren’t alone.

And it went like this:

“I feel almost like a blur; nothing particularly peculiar or broken, but just washed out and faded. Everything around me is just passing by so quick and invariably and yet I’m the one that is blurry. I’m just kind of sitting here and watching it go by. I’m not moving. I’m not going anywhere.

And a blur is quite fitting, because I lack clarity. I lack a sense of direction or purpose or even ambition. I’m just randomly spread out, spilt out, with no distinct line or edge or colour or depth.  Just a blotch on some other’s piece of paper.

And it isn’t pretty. Because blurs are forgettable and have no true place in a person’s mind; they’re too indistinct to have value, and yet not cryptic enough to decipher. So instead, they tear out that page of the book, imperfect in the presence of smudged out fingerprints and it’s thrown away. After all, what use to a person is a smudge?

So I kind of just lie here, crumple and forgotten, laying in my own blurriness, not even sure what I am myself.”

And just as history wonderfully tends to repeat itself, it got better. Because it always does, and when we’re in the middle of something we’re just too ignorant or preoccupied with feeling down to comprehend that things can change for the good.

Because it’s these broken parts and blurry edges which make everything so much better. They make up the bigger picture; they make the detail. Sometimes you just need to take that step to escape it all.

Sometimes you just need to take that step to escape it all. Sometimes the fire exit is right in front of you. Maybe it means just running into the inferno.
And whether it means letting a few tears let loose in the middle of a library or running down the street or finally saying ‘yes’ to that outstretched arm, we can get through this. Those lifeless weeks slowly fade into the distance, day by day. Things get that little bit brighter, and soon you’re free.
Soon you gain that colour and freedom and you realise that you were never thrown away. You were never forgotten and you were never lost.

You still had it together.

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3 thoughts on “Blurred lines.

  1. The situation you described is exactly how I was feeling tonight as well. Thanks for sharing and providing me the hope that yes, it can get better.

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