An Exercise in Realizing Existance

Life.

It's so beyond me. It's so beyond everybody... and anybody (no matter how influential) who's ever lived.
I may not know who put us here and who made us who we are, but never the less, we are here. We're given a chance to have the world. A chance to accquire true happiness and taste dreams. Around every turn or slight shift in existance there are doors. No one can say where they lead, because they lead everywhere. And being given that chance, I've thought a lot tonight... and lately. For the last year, I'd say.
I'm growing up. A part of growing up is realizing what's really important. Not what's important to our parents, or what's important to our friends, not even what's important to our Gods or our country. It's realizing what's important to us. In that deepest core of the being, we have one thing that rules all. One thing, a passion, that leads us (whether we know it or  not) to become who we are and point us in every direction we go in life.
I've been confused. Living day to day. Being a tragedy, because when it comes down to it, it's all I know how to be. Last night, after a gigantuous binge (which was intended to prelude a fast), I asked Taffner if she ever noticed how tragic we are. She said she never really thought about it. Well, I have a habit at looking at myself; or trying to, rather. I try to take on that third person perspective and see everything I do. I realize, most of the time, what a tragedy I am and what a tragedy she is. It's not the kind that makes you want to die, it's the kind that is so realistic that all you can do is stand there in awe and applaud. It's an opera where the beautiful singer chokes on her tongue and dies mid-note and that epic realization of beauty in tune is never realized. It's a beautiful kind of tragedy.
I said to her "But it makes sense. You're an artist and I'm a poet. We're supposed to be tragic, or we aren't artists." It's the commonly agreed on stereotype, an artist leads a tragic life and becomes finally recognized post-mortem.
Well, what I realized tonight is that we -do- only have that one dream. We have that one thing that is more important than anything else. If I were to follow the dream of being beautiful (in my eyes) all I'd really accomplish would be becoming a statistic post-mortem... not a legend, like I plan. Starving yourself to death is difficult, but not original.
How about leading a literary revolution? Even further, how about leading that revolution as a drop out? That's original. Overcoming your self-inflicted adversity and changing something about the world. It's been done before, but by few. My dream is to join their ranks. Have my name in the dictionary, in an encyclopedia, in literary history books, in newspapers, and on the news, on bookshelves, and in online-libraries.
I need to prove to the world that literature is an art form, since everyone has seemed to forget that.
I always rant about how people don't take it seriously. How people call themselves poets when all they do is write clilched verses with horrible meter. I always go on about how it's a passion, and not a hobby. Have I been living up to that? I can't say that I have.
Yet again, I've been living a hypocrites life. Promising all these pretty vows to literature while making love with society. How can I apologize? How can I go home without looking a fool? I can be brave. I can persivere. I can give up something important for something that means more. Take a chance on stabbing myself where my insecurities lie and work on taking back my passion.
Time is no object when you don't know your own expiration date, so why not pretend as though you'll live for ten more days when perhaps you'll live forever? You will be able to cross off your 100 things to do before you die list and be able to bask in your contentment.
Life is more than living how you think you should. It's more than living an imaginary biography. An interesting life is a good thing, but you'd still just be a tragic name on some tragic stone if you don't earn your place in history.
What's another anorexic? Another bulimic? Yet another person addicted to self-harm?
But what's the first person to overcome multiple personal and mental issues to rise to the challenge (and meet it) of changing a piece of the world in decades?
Put the two together, side by side, on the same silver platter and yes, one does look more appitizing than the other.
It's just a matter of believing. If you can believe in death by your own hands, you can believe in life as well.
That is what I have realized.
I can be as tragic as I want, so long as I do something amazing in the process. Who said I couldn't be tragic and triumphant? Wasn't Poe?
I always try to change my name, in order to satisfy this underlying desire to become someone else. A name doesn't make a person, the person makes the name. To quote Shakespeare, "A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.". It's more than a pretty line from a legendary bard, it's an axiom of a deceased age. I, who so love those old, by-gone years, should have realized the truth in that a long time ago. It would've saved me from a lot of unneccessary car wrecks. I can change my name all I want, but I am still this same girl. So if I truly want to become someone else, I must only change things about me. Make that name, Aimee Elizabeth Mahathy, become that legend that I wish to be. Superficial changes like hair colour, eye colour, skin colour, accent, or even weight don't matter. None of that changes anything in the end if the soul inside doesn't alter as well.

So here I stand, world. I'm on a cliff. I traveled the road, commonly traveled these days... but here I am turning off. Taking the plunge into life, where most have been too afraid to take in the face of possible failure.
You may have admired me for my tragedy, but please, admire me for something else. Admire me for who I will be, no, who I'm becoming, not who I was.