i want to be a sophisticated adult, but the only sophisticated adults i know are in books. 

gracious, kind, humble, all knowing, witty, with effortless charm and grace. 

adulthood is a fucking lie. 

Let go of relationships that do not serve you. That means negative people, dishonest people, people who don’t respect you, people who are overly critical and relationships that prevent you from growing. You can’t grow as a person, if you don’t have people in your life who want to grow with you.

namárië

i want to write something here tonight. 

but the words don’t really come. 

i’m thinking of a group of people who all click and get along and have a fabulous time. 

and how i never felt like i fitted in. 

how desperately i needed support, and how they helped. 

and how after a while, they couldn’t support me as much as i needed or wanted. 

i tried to make them a family, but you cannot make a family out of friends.

i think they didn’t understand me, but then, how could they, when i don’t understand myself. 

it’s unfair of me to blame them for not being who i needed them to be. 

they were who they were, and they did what they did.

i am not angry at them in truth. 

i am angry at myself, for forgetting my own strength and identity and purpose. 

i am angry at myself, for losing sight of who i was and what i wanted. 

i am angry at myself for being weak, and letting things go the way they did. 

i thought i had found my family.

i hadn’t. 

i played a role in them finding each other. 

but they are just a family.

they were never mine - deep down, we all knew it,i was just the first to say it.

i call myself gandalf, forgetting the history of the name.

mithrandir, the grey pilgrim, the grey wanderer. 

he counsels to set ills right, but he himself has no home. 

maybe that is who i am supposed to be. 

ho hum.

namárië

1. At an early age, you start hating yourself. Often it’s because you were abused, or just grew up in a broken home, or were rejected socially, or maybe you were just weird or fat or … whatever. You’re not like the other kids, the other kids don’t seem to like you, and you can usually detect that by age 5 or so.

2. At some point, usually at a very young age, you did something that got a laugh from the room. You made a joke or fell down or farted, and you realized for the first time that you could get a positive reaction that way. Not genuine love or affection, mind you, just a reaction — one that is a step up from hatred and a thousand steps up from invisibility. One you could control.

3. You soon learned that being funny builds a perfect, impenetrable wall around you — a buffer that keeps anyone from getting too close and realizing how much you suck. The more you hate yourself, the stronger you need to make the barrier and the further you have to push people away. In other words, the better you have to be at comedy.

4. In your formative years, you wind up creating a second, false you — a clown that can go out and represent you, outside the barrier. The clown is always joking, always “on,” always drawing all of the attention in order to prevent anyone from poking away at the barrier and finding the real person behind it. The clown is the life of the party, the classroom joker, the guy up on stage — as different from the “real” you as possible. Again, the goal is to create distance.

From Robin Williams and Why Funny People Kill Themselves, highly recommended read.

Mr J was the first person to diagnose me as being “always on,” because he was the first person to see me “off.”  His directive to me (and something I’m still working on today) was to make “off” my default.

Maybe its part of a larger set of changes in my life since I received the directive, but I am much happier being off-Dylan (read: the real me) than “on-Dylan.”

(via noodlesandbeef)