Clarisse



Right now I'm re-reading Fahrenheit 451. I made it through sixty pages in the spare stolen moments of my day.

And now, as I prepare for bed, I can't help but think about Clarisse, about how much we have in common. Well…she's a fictional character, but I can relate. Like her, my mind is ever searching, grappling in the dark to make sense of life's unfamiliar edges. I'm so acutely aware of my existence, so enveloped by the bigger picture that events offer, and yet, tangled up in minuet details.

It very much creates the sensation of having your head floating high above ground while your feet knock and twist and stumble along the ground. It stretches me out and sometimes, wears me thin.

But in many ways, I'm sure I'm nothing like Clarisse. In fact, I have yet to meet anyone like myself. And I often find myself wondering why I'm hooked up the way I am.

By nature, I am the definition of conflict. Brave but terrified. Smart but forgetful. Talented but self-restrained. Independent but desperate for the company of others. Positive but aware of every single thing that could possibly go wrong.

Stress sits on me. Anxiety churns in my chest like a turbine, whose roaring growl only I can hear. Every thrum of my heartbeat a defined vibration in my chest. I feel as though I feel everything. The measure of air in each breath, the humidity that hangs in the air, the ebb and flow of time, the expanse of space pressing me flat. And that ability to feel bleeds over into people. It's as if I can step inside of someone else and feel what they feel. Which is quite awful in this day and age of information overload.

Every tale of hurt, loss, or pain chips away at me. My tolerance for injustice is nonexistent. When I can't change things or make them better, I feel helpless. Perhaps my greatest fear is that I will suck up oxygen and food and fuel and leave nothing better than I found it.

In all, being me is quite odd. I think far too much for my own good. Which is why I draw so much, to keep my mind busy. To clear away the clutter of everyday life with ink and oil.

Hyperaware. Vulnerable. Indomitable. That's me. Not Clarisse. Poor Clarisse. We aren't the same, but we're of the same breed. We're weird. So intricately woven and beautifully odd - only to be understood by a select group of similarly equally odd weirdos.




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