On Participating and The Vastness of Minds

I have this long list of book titles I'd someday want to own. It's gone now, the list. I do remember The Perks Of Being A Wallflower being somewhere at the top of it. I've made it quite a habit to visit the local bookstores to check for books in the list, but they'd usually be out of stock. It was probably by sheer fate that the book decided to become available during my 19th birthday. Exactly during my 19th birthday!

I won't spoil anything (okay, maybe some.. but not so much I swear!) for you, because I would want for you to read it yourself. I really would. It is a tad bit expensive buying it from Fully Booked and all, but it's just lovely. It's a magnificent book, and I saw myself in Charlie (the lead). I'm sure you're going to really like it too.

One thing I will tell you all about though is the concept of "participation". Charlie used to dwell on that a lot -- whether or not he was "participating" in life. Naturally, it got me thinking as well. And I realized I was not. I have not been participating. That's not a good thing.

I've spent most of my days in isolation -- save for, of course, the family I have to live in the house with. I realized that when I go out with friends and all, I'm not really out. I am just usually in a little corner, observing everyone. Maybe, sometimes I paint little stories about each person and I get so wrapped up in those. Maybe, sometimes I take all their pictures and post them all in Facebook and tag everyone but myself. It's like I'm not even there. I'm a narrator. Or worse, a mere observer.

I've also spent most of the summer asleep in the morning because there is some sort of a party going on in my brain at night when everyone's gone to bed. And it's not even the over-thinking, staying up all night sort. No, that would have been much easier. I am just simply... awake. My eyes are open, or closed (it doesn't really matter), and my mind goes on being just blank and awake, vast and just continuing on and on. Most of the time it's hard. The hollowness of time eats me up, even more so than a usually congested highway of thoughts would. It is, maybe, the resonance of emptiness that chills me to the bones. It fucking scares me, when I think about it. Have I detached myself too much from everything else? Maybe. I guess. Probably.

Maybe I just need someone or something to keep reminding me to participate. And I realized that it doesn't even have to be a great, significant romance (as most books would put it). It could be just about anyone willing enough. And that I'd just have to be as willing as well.

And that it could just be me.