Morality Would Frown Upon, Decency Look Down Upon The Scapegoat Fates Made Of Me
But before you come to any conclusions, try walking in my shoes.
You’ll stumble in my footsteps, keep the same appointments I kept
If you try walking in my shoes.
I’m not looking for a clearer conscience; peace of mind after what I’ve been through
And before we talk of repentance, try walking in my shoes."
Since as far back as I can remember, I have been addicted to the art of storytelling. I’ve loved it in its many forms, across all of its mediums. You see, stories offered me an escape, a place to run to when the real world was too harsh, or too troubled. For however long, it swept me away from my all-too-real world and allowed me to become someone else- live someone else’s life. For a long time, that was all I could ask for. But as it turns out, I was born a creative person- or, more precisely, a person who loves to create. In this area, I am my own worst enemy. I have written more than any one person really should. My life has been vastly dominated by random scraps of scribbled-on paper. I have them everywhere I go, and I lose them everywhere I go. This introduces my obsession with stationery. Staples and Office Depot are holy places that must be respected and revered. Only one other place on Earth overrules my self-control: Starbucks.
Oh, I have tried to compile my random thoughts all in one place. I suppose the best I will ever be at it is throwing my random scraps into a sack and pulling them out one by one, like game hints, when I get stuck. Ahh, the mechanics of storytelling. The sad thing is, when you put me in front of paper, or in front of a computer screen with a blank page and a blinking cursor, instead of pounding out a masterpiece work of fiction, I’m always here, writing about my life- you know, the one I spent most of it hiding from. I know- the irony isn’t lost on me.
Writing started as a self-implemented form of therapy. There was nobody I felt I could talk to. All I had was my loose-leaf confessional and a papermate pen. I never meant for anyone to read what was inside it, and I never meant for it to become what it became. The more I wrote, the more expressive I became. Like love letters, they grew in enormity to the point that they became a story. Suddenly my life became something in which I couldn’t wait to turn the page. Sometimes it was so much fun, and so positive. Other times it was a gut-wrenching chasm of sorrow.
I think that somehow, we are all endlessly preoccupied with our own lives, and it isn’t out of self-centeredness. We are eternally fascinated and driven by our own experiences. After all, we are the sum of our own parts. When I think about my life as a single unit of time, I am overwhelmed by everything I have endured, and the experiences that I have had. Trying to condense it all into a single instance is too great a thing for me to behold. I have to think it, and write it, and live it all one day at a time.
May the darkness give unto light.
Kassondra Staschuk © 2009
More to come. For tonight, I am off to sleep. Nightmares of snow last night… O_O.