Nothing seems to come out right tonight. I just keep typing and deleting everything as if I constantly have to second guess my feelings, as if I constantly have to evaluate them to ensure they’re acceptable and thus status quo enough to post.
I’m so burnt out on all of that. I’m so tired of feeling like I need a place to belong to, an audience to accept my words, or a false feeling of security that will somehow embrace me. All I’ve ever wanted to be okay with was simply myself, whoever that happens to be. And I feel as though so long as I’m on good terms with myself, there really isn’t much else that I should let distract me. Not in a selfish way, but more in a sense of inner stability.
The road is wide open for me at such a point in my life. I’m young, I’m free, and I’m still learning. By all means this is what many people seek. I have enormous freedom, and I acknowledge how very blessed I am because of that. But with that freedom I have found myself floundering, second guessing, afraid…with all of the time in the world, what have I shown for it? Not much. This hurts me…this realization. I feel I’ve spent most of my time in intense introversion at attempts to reconcile the confusion and mistakes and scars of my past. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve finally succeeded in accepting my past and understanding my role in my own life. Maybe I needed all the freedom and time in the world to do that. Maybe I was much more broken than I had realized…and maybe that’s okay.
I don’t know who or what it is I constantly write towards. Sometimes I think it’s myself, hoping that I won’t forget my journey as it unfolds. There’s an inner spirit to each phase of my life that can only be remembered in the echoes of my words, which so effectively portray my innermost chaos and emotions, even when they aren’t trying to.
…It’s almost as if there are so many pieces of me floating around the universe that the only way to make sense of them all is to create. Maybe I hope that the more pieces I manage to create, the closer I’ll get towards the whole. Whatever that happens to be. Who even knows what I’m saying anymore. I feel as though anything that’s meant to be said doesn’t need to be said, and thus I remain silent. It’s like the moment I feel something inspiring coming on, I’m shutting it off and telling that feeling it doesn’t belong here. Because of this, I spend my days focusing on the mundane. You almost have to wonder if that’s a deliberate, outside thing that happens to more than just me. (If you don’t know what I’m referring to, forget it).
I guess in all, sometimes the greatest feelings are echoed in the simplest terms for that very reason. Something happens when you enter such a high state of inspiration…you realize that maybe everyone feels like this and perhaps everyone else has felt like this all along, on some level at all times. Somewhere deep down is this feeling of familiarity, and that feeling produces a timid and modest instinct. Which in turn means I never get anything done outside of the negative, the silent, or the mundane.
And then I end up rambling at 2 AM about nothing, when I originally intended something of much greater depth and feeling. Instead, I get this prententiousness. Perhaps I need to learn to just quit evaluating and judging everything I do. :p