Help for Help

I like helping people. I don't know why. But I have a need to help people, just need to. I've found one person, so I'll put all my energy into helping them (them as in 'he/she/it'). I don't find much satisfaction in life, not at all, but I've found that the one thing that makes me feel good is to help people. To help anyone.. It keeps me going, it gives me a feeling of worth. Sometimes, when you feel that everything is wrong, all you do, all you say.. it saves you to help someone. When you need help, it feels best to help someone else. In the meantime, they can help you, too. Simply helping others saves me, so they don't even have to pay me back, just helping them makes me feel better.
Tell me your secrets, tell me your worries, tell me all you hide inside.. Tell me what you're afraid to tell everyone else, I'll listen, I'll be there, I won't be shocked. Anyone, everyone, someone. I want to save the world, haha. Or, at least save the world for one or two.

"If I ever grow up I will take care of the old, and all the babies that have no one. You might think I give myself too much credit, but I am just dreaming. 'Cause not much is sacred, there's not really much to do here anymore. --- I will assure all of the husbands who are guilty and the wives who feel useless. I will nurse all of the black and blue babies with their unhappy parents who had unhappy parents. I will assure all of the boys who feel awkward and the girls who feel clumsy. I will walk alongside the old man who feels so alone as everyone rushes by him. You might think I give myself too much credit, but I am just dreaming."

The problem is, no one asks for help, let alone from me. I'm the quiet one, mostly. So I've got to get out there and drop into people's lives. *chuckles* I wish someone would ask me for help, I want to help. When your conscience eats you alive for every mistake you've ever made, every harsh word, every slip.. You need something to counteract, you need something to calm the 'all I can do is bad' feeling you sometimes get.

"Tonight's the night of the flight, before you know I'll be over the water like a swallow. There's no risk, I'll whisk them up there in no moonlight. All though pigs can fly, they'll never find us. Posing as the night, and I'm home before the morning. Give me a break, Ooh let me try, give me something to show for my miserable life. Give me something to take. Would you break even my wings, just like a swallow, let me go, let me go."
I love that part of the song. The Night of the Swallow, Kate Bush.
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I sit here, a bit slumped over. Another day in the world, another year, hard to bare. Rain plumets from the sky, and everything is a bit darkened. 6:31, Sunday. I hate Sundays. I look toward the right and see on mom’s desk a vase of wilted roses and flowers. My gloves are unraveling... The cut fingertips of the gloves grow shorter than each other, as loose threads are tugged at by my restless hands. Looking up to the left, I can see my kitty laying on the filecabinent, looking to be taking a nap. Some of that papers stick out, half off the cabinet. Tiredly I sit here, remembering how I tresure these ocational descriptive entries, telling the future me of how I really am, really was. How I’ve changed. The last time I read one of these, I was wearing nail polish, it was summer, and I was in love. In love with a pen pal, in love with someone who couldn’t accept me loving him. It was pain until the end, but it was love at the start. I was sitting there, waiting for him to come back. He was my first addiction, and now I think I’m a bit more wise, a bit more... Conscious of my habits, a bit more smart about it all. If I ever saw Michael again, I would be more careful. I wouldn’t be so addicted, I wouldn’t be so crazy. Love fades and realization of the mistakes and foolishness is awakened. But, I won’t ever see him again, so that’s something to give up on. I’d hope that in three years I’d hear from him, sometime.. Why..? I don’t know. I just find it pathetic that I can’t even be friends with him without hurting that silly emo kid. Sweet weakling emo kid, I like him anyway. Sweet and pathetic, sweet and someone I wish I could save. I couldn’t help you. I wish I could meet him again someday, without the love, with the memories, but without the pain, without the mistakes, without the lovely misunderstandings and foolishness. I’d love to meet again, someday. But it’s his choice, and he forgets me if he wishes to, and I’m fine with it. Maybe I’d wish to never see him again, but I don’t even know. Only time tells, and with time wounds heal. Would I want to reopen the scars?

I’m trying to save ----. She cuts, she drinks, she hurts. She smokes. Dear ----, can I save you? Can I help you? She’s my friend, she’s a kind person. She needs help, she wrote it in her journal, I saw. I’ll help you until your safe at the other side, when you’re gone. Gone away, she’s moving away to live alone with a relative, where she’ll be loved, she’ll be better and be able to find herself and find relief from her pain. For now I’ll do all I can to help her. Sometimes I wonder, am I doing it for her, or for myself? Though for no reason, I ache from all I do wrong, and the only relief I find is by helping others... So I sometimes wonder if it’s selfish. Yet.. Is it bad to selfishly help others? Is there such a thing as being selfish by helping others?

I’m sitting here still, just sitting, dozing a bit. I want to envision arms, again. Comfort. I look again at a favorite picture, Frolicking by *kmyu.. Makes me want to frolick too. Run around the city, frolick around. It would be.. fun.. oh no.. we forgot..! I was supposed to go around as a box-head today. Do you know.. what I mean? I made a face on a box, and I wear the box on my head and it looks like I’m a box person. It’s really funny. I wanted to go around town wearing a box head, it would be a good laugh. Darn.. Mom said she’d take me today.. It’s too bad.
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Done.