I’m writing again, same story, different version. This particular entry is an attack (hopeful, yet violent) on– many things. To start off, you may want to know the truth about me: I am an insincere, biasedly bloated, walking, talking, writing hypocrite. At minimum– that is. If you really have no idea about what I mean– I guess you haven't come about to a despicable introduction with me personally– or read it for that matter, since I never clearly introduce who I am–
what I am, because, foremost, I am the most incapable person at making decisions. Even decisions about my own personal self. This entry on the other hand, will be quite different. Go ahead though, read them– the autobiographical, whimsical embellishments of what are, or what appear to be, me and my own life. Indeed, at the end of it all, you'll think it’s all total bullshit- every word written. But I tell you– right now, it is my life for me; it is how I see the world, how I feel... and love at large. It isn't the same as others see it, companions, enemies, and lovers. That is part of the intrigue of writing, of a storyteller: The storyteller's beautiful version of a story. I try to save people, it's what I do, and somewhere in the mix– I forgot I needed saving as well. I know, the stories, blogs– journals, may be a bit much, a bit over the top. Perhaps they are a cry for help– a cry that comes out in my writing because I myself cannot vocally ask for it. My phrases whine and whimper– it’s degrading, horribly annoying, call it what you will. Pity, attention whoring... Bluntly– I don't know where to go from here. Where is here? That sentence there fell to my lap, from my heart of hearts, from my soul. In both metaphoric and literal terms-– I've lost direction. I'm changing things because I myself am changing, and furthermore, quite frankly, I think that's just fine. I'll always be me, who ever that is. Hey– I have my whole life to find what I am destined for; we are young yet. At present, I know I have beliefs and dreams and passions– and that is me, for now. I can't say that I know anyone who truly knows what he is meant to do– (unless he had already lived his days through) I only know those who know what they
want to do. Which is quite a deal more than acceptable.
In actuality, what is identity? People are people, and we're changing all the time. As long as you know what you crave, what you need, whom you love... you'll get off the ground– out of your hole. I myself don't know who I am exactly– but who are you? You have an idea. Miniscule– at the least. But an idea nonetheless. If we have everything defined and predetermined, what is the point of living? We have highs and lows in life purposely, it must be. I am contemplating, thorough self-contemplation. Ha-ha. Well, I begin at the beginning, at the reason for these words, for these thoughts.
At this moment, I am trying to recall what significance is. In relation to the world– to an individual– to myself? I find no significance in the facts that my writing and thoughts aren’t presently significant to the rest of the world, but I do find significance in the fact that my writing is significant to myself, and with all that repetitive crap aside, I write and that is what I do. No explanation, significance an after thought. No matter how prudish my writing, I go at it. Significance is what plagues us. Wondering if we’re fitting into the world like puzzle pieces, are we making something out of life? Maybe that’s where we go wrong. In over-analysis. Maybe that’s how we lose sight of who we are and what is important to ourselves. Embarrassment- shame, abandonment,
loneliness and other heart wrenching, perhaps at times, irrational fears we bring upon ourselves, contribute to this. Shame is a big kicker, but I don’t care anymore. Yes, I feel ashamed when I write.. No reason in particular– maybe just by self-consciously thinking about my voice in the perception of the reader. I’ve thought seriously about stopping my writing. That wouldn’t be me though, to stop writing. I thought about it the other day, how if we looked around, and stopped doing the things we are ashamed of, it would be deprivation. You wouldn’t be yourself any longer. When we look at the big picture, you lose detail, and perhaps that’s what matters most, detail that brings you closer to your identity. Personality. Am I worse or better for denying my country of surplus wealth? If I am ashamed of having knowledge and education when so many others have neither, do I deny these? Someone else always wants to be in your shoes. There’s a cliché for you… yet, honestly, feel lucky for the ones you’ve got, even if they are from Payless and not fucking Monolo Blanik. I guess I’m saying not to deny that you have it good– because hey– we’re on the Internet, roof over our heads– with at least one friendly social being to our names. I’m not trying to preach to you either– just trying to tie my thoughts together, figure out how I see things. You’re just reading. Don’t mind me, I’m rambling. I don't know where I am right now, hopeful, skeptical– lost. Craving a cigarette like mad.
