I can't tell if I'm increasingly growing darker or if it's simply a result of getting older, but there is less and less that feels compelling for me to write about on a blog if it's not about the same inner thoughts that I already have put forth on here. The darkness is a part of myself I'm still trying to accept but does, in fact, appear to be innately a part of my identity.
It's not that I don't want to share, but there's so much at stake now. And nothing else I could write seems as genuine as my intimate thoughts. I suppose this leaves me with nothing to write about. All I know is that five years ago, I described my ideal life to be what I am living now (clearly, it was a modest and relatively realistic ideal), and I still grapple with myself to actually let myself be happy. Well, in all honesty, I thought I did allow myself to be happy. I thought I achieved it! But on second (or seventh) thought, maybe I've just been avoiding the realities of things I hate and thus living in a blissful state of avoidance. Ergo, I am starting my 30s and the new year with a shaky foundation. Nevertheless, a setting foundation. It's in the process of setting.
I don't fear a shaky foundation as I once did. I feel pretty calm about it. The fabulous thing about getting older seems to be characterized by what it is not: not giving as much of a fuck, and not trying to reach a state of perfection or certainty, at least for me (since I know this is absolutely not true for others). I attribute this to age because in my youth and in my twenties, I thought I needed to have it all figured out and I would panic. Today, I still don't have it figured out, and I don't panic as much. I still worry, but they're in bouts and they seem less urgent. After all, who really cares about the finer details of your life except yourself? And if it's even somewhat working for you, what's there to panic about?
