Maybe I’ll regret this but until that moment…well, I should be honest with myself: even if I do end up regretting this, it’ll continue to breathe and live. I can’t stop it now; it was now or never.
This is the space I requested from WordPress to allow all those fond grumpy thoughts, that ceaselessly roll around in my head, to exist. At least, to exist in a place that cannot be altered by Memory or its child Repression. I can tell already this blog is gonna be trouble because I’m putting way too much thought into what I’m typing up. “Will they even UNDERSTAND what I’m trying to say? Am I using this correctly?” If anything, consistent usage of this blog will hopefully do away with this spur of needless self-conciseness (at least for me when it comes to writing up its posts and whatnots). Well, hopefully.
I–for whatever reason–dislike certain introduction types in which authors address their readers. If I knew the reason on an explicitly satiable level, I’d share it but I don’t. Trying to reach that level only causes me distress in which I find distracting for the purposes of this post which is too…properly open this damn blog. Whatever the hell that means, I guess I’ll find out.
I was once told that writing self-expository and exploration pieces are widely found difficult to compose, something to the effect of: the mirror is so close, you can’t see anything let alone yourself. Too bad, I thought in response. That’s all that I seem to do when I have the freedom to choose.
I wouldn’t say it’s out of narcissism that I do it but rather curiosity and maybe at times, desperation. Maybe it stems from identity issues or complexes outside of my awareness, but whatever it is, it motivates me to learn more about myself. And looking back on those pieces always makes for a queer experience: it almost seems like I shouldn’t be reading it, looking in on a stranger’s private life. I eventually come to accept that this is my own writing, and without hesitation it becomes a puzzle of trying to put together an image or get a good grasp of what my life was like at that frozen point in history in order to fully feel out what it is that I found so troubling that it needed to be expressed in an unnatural form of expression: writing.
I turn towards writing very frequently. So much that at this point, I carry around a small notebook and a mechanical pencil in my back pocket whenever I physically leave the house. In a constant effort to try to grant some clarity to those messy mental manifestations, I write them out. Sometimes, I diagram things because prose seems too restrictive and fails to express things properly. It’s a sad moment when there’s no space to diagram something. And did ya know, apparently, writing/talking things out helps you think better because it forces those manifestations into some kind of order? I wonder if there’s anything to back this besides my personal experience. Something more concrete so that it’s more than just a saying I use against myself/to aid myself whenever something has become too amorphic for me to figure out.
I myself still don’t have a good idea of the direction of this blog, though it’s funny to think that at one point, that’s what I used to try to convince myself to start one: “it’ll give direction!” I played around with the idea that it’d be a “self-help” blog, understanding the premise that I write to help myself sometimes. I’d track all the changes I’m trying to make in my life. Then I came to the realization that most pieces where I merely track changes, at least in that streamlined fashion that doesn’t touch on much else, I rarely go back to. If I don’t go back to them, and they’re more for one-time organizational manifestations, why would anyone want to read them? Who wants to read the raw statistics and data of an experiment unless you were concerning yourself with replicating the results or using them for purposes to prove or disprove? Read about the results and the conclusion and everything else because that’s its processed form, that’s what you came to read. That’s what happens when the human mind has observed nature’s interactions, it spits something out. The spectacular part isn’t the thought that results, it’s the act of “spitting”. Oh mind, oh brain…you’re so mysterious.
Maybe I’ll regret this.