Sometimes I go hours and hours a day without talking.
Just staying in my own silence, riding out my own productivity, and dreaming in my own thoughts. It's my favorite and unfavorite part of myself that I've blindly accepted with arms wide open.
25 drafts on this blog since January. I like to see how many times I've felt like a failure at accurately expressing my very own thoughts the way that I actually experienced them, especially in a space that's supposed to be so nonjudgmental. The fact that I enjoy reading my private writing, but not my public writing makes me believe that I'm not being as authentic as I want to be on this blog. Something has changed since 2008, when I first started using blogspot as my main narcissistic pulpit. I used to be surrounded by other inspired (half-assed or not) bloggers, and now I feel so utterly alone. Instead of being able to write creatively now that I have the opportunity to paint my own canvas (or, write my own book?), I've ironically become off-centered and out-of-focus. I stick out, but not in a good way. I feel like the unnoticed-by-me measly black thread that was flying off of my shirt sleeve last week, when the RN at my field placement took a pair of scissors and cut it off proclaiming so matter-of-factly, "That's a grave sin."
What the hell am I even talking about? That's what I usually conclude with after or in the middle of composing a draft for about an hour, and then it stays there, unpublished. There's plenty of reasons why I think it's not going the way I want it to go, but it's more of a personal issue than an issue I can put blame on another person or my life circumstances. So what? I refuse to write details about my relationship-- something I knew I wouldn't do even before I was in a relationship, and despite that I love to write about what I think about romance and relationships and boys and girls and the silly little dynamics that happen, or don't happen, between them. And also-- not that I don't believe in the things that I wrote back then about relationships-- I can't seem to generalize about what I think is right and wrong because sometimes individuals in relationships somehow make things work. It's this weird thing disguised as love that makes men and women stay in violent relationships or stay with the dude who cheated on you. What's the point of me telling you you're an idiot?
I also used my blog to state my opinions on underage drinking, Christian morals, political controversies, arrogant assholes, and female cattiness. Who doesn't want to read angry posts or sloppily-covered yellow journalism?
I'm over that now because I'm 25 and you have to start being an adult. Last Friday, Cliff and I were on the train sitting across four very typical adolescents on their way to Coney Island saying exactly what they think, calling people out, and marking their superiority over each other without any form. It was loud, it was embarrassing, and it was teenage-behavior. 21st century Lord of the Flies.
You can't do that anymore, at 25, I mean. I guess you can still get away with it, but no one would date you.
The only thing I can write about in replacing something like dry-humored thoughts on romance and social anthropology is how confusing life is. And no one wants to read about that because it's depressing. But then again, I guess you just did.
