I am tired of trying to introduce the point of my posts everytime I decide to blog (which, I have to admit at least to myself, is nowhere near as frequently as I’d want it to be). Every time it is the same old thing- I try to be a little funny and give a vaguely amusing anecdotal bit, then I declare I have a problem, then I rant a lot and reach a meaningless conclusion that barely has any correlation with what I’ve been going on about the whole time, and then I sign off with a wispy resolution that is definitely not applicable in real life. And then, when I’m done saying what must be said in so many words, I torture myself profusely by editing every sentence fifteen times over each time I open my blog, crushing all prospects of me coming up with a new one because I neurotically alter everything I have written here since January 2015 again and again until I’ve exhausted all my creative potentialities. I update my own history more than I chronicle it and that’s disgusting and counterproductive and just flat out dumb. Without provocations, I remain my own worst critic, censor, and insecurity.
So now there are going to be some changes- Barring proper grammar, I say to hell with structures and formats. I am done caging myself with conceptions of what I’m taught to believe is the right way to express myself. I’m also tired of considering what others think of my writing even though I will deny that I ever remotely cared until the eve of my death.
And it’s fucking terrifying, by the way, that I am actually going to die, and there is nothing I can do about it? I can’t emphasise the levels of dread I experience from the reality of this prospect. In fact, I’m pretty sure this fixation is not that normal for someone my age, especially when life has been this unbelievably kind. I don’t ever feel sad or lonely enough to want to kill myself, and nothing remarkably traumatic has ever happened to me- I just constantly feel angry at the inevitability of death itself and subsequently make myself really, really hot and bothered all on my own for unjustifiably long durations of time.
And I never succeed at accurately communicating the nature of this stress to anyone else either. I don’t know what to do about it.
But anyway, moving on.
The year is about to end. I will be 20 soon. And I don’t feel so good.
Can I just say that everyone I know has ridiculously real issues and my problems never seem to measure up to theirs? Don’t get me wrong, I love being the sanest, most sorted person in the posse and I wouldn’t trade places with anyone for the world, thank you very much. But I also can’t deny that it gets severely annoying when people in my vicinity have highly dramatic protagonist moments in states of elevated emotionality while I cry over a vague tv thing even I don’t care about that much.
I witness and I wonder, but I always stay at a wary distance with all my hipster self-assurances that things don’t matter much if you don’t let them have power over you, that all these “messy emo kids” are sabotaging themselves by getting too invested in the role of the main character.
The story is not all about you and you can always switch arcs if you become self-aware about the narrative, right? Break the goddamn fourth wall and you’re good, buddy. It’s easy.
That’s another thing if you want to take notes- my tendency to presume the position of a spectator when life seems to unravel before my eyes, and then to try and make sense of things by cross-referencing and correlating a bizarrely diverse range of tropes I have accumulated in a life characterised by the frenzied consumption of thematically diverse media. Truth is, I never truly belong to my immediate surroundings because I’m constantly refracting the world through my film-roll eyes and the rigid constructions of plot, character, and motifs.
Talk about being caged by formats.
I am also always a little out of my depth when it comes to matters involving sentiments. Maybe this is because I moved around a lot as a kid? Always the new girl trying to survive and settle in new situations and always the one who has to leave everyone behind for the obligations of another life?
I mean, everything is neatly compartmentalised in my head and I have been a lot of people in a number of discrete lives, all healthy and happy. But it is not a lie, unfortunately, that there has always been a prolonged sense of rootlessness in me. I am somehow an inherent outsider no matter where I go. I linger, I observe, but I always go back to the woods.
So I can’t help wondering if I have ever really felt anything in all its magnitude. If I have never fancied myself the one everything is about, have I ever really felt the pain of things the way it deserves to be felt? Because when it comes to me, everything is about me at the end of the day, and I’m just too self-alienating to properly acknowledge that.
Also, I am so mean when I am angry. What is up with that? Where does all that nuanced anger and condescension come from? How do I manage to just pounce on people who have never done anything particularly wrong to me? How do I make them feel so terrible about themselves? And why is it that when I am actually hurt, beyond all reason, I can’t seem to do anything at all? Why can I destroy the people who always stick around and have my trust, but can’t for the life of me chastise someone who actually wounded me?
Maybe it’s because I go numb and back off instinctively when things start to get frightening and confusing. Maybe it’s because I am not equipped with the right coping mechanisms yet. Maybe all the unjustified poison comes from the comfort of me knowing somewhere in my heart that I won’t be abandoned by a few people no matter what I choose to say. Maybe it’s a sadistic trust exercise to check who comes back when I push them around in the worst ways.
I really need to look into this.
Lastly, I don’t know who I am again. I thought I had it down pretty well, but I clearly don’t because I have started reacting again and feeling lost again and being unbearably cranky again and staying confused about the point of things again. I still am an optimist and I realise that is a victory in certain ways, but considering how frequently I manage to drown in my head, even as a stable, satisfied person, it disconcerts me to think of what I might become when something does finally happen.
At some point, the balance has to tip, right?
This haunts me.
Anyway, that is all for now. I have nothing witty to say here. Fuck structural coherence. Goodnight.