Go it alone.

You will be happy to know that I have been doing a lot of thinking lately about pretty much everything, much of which first surfaced on that quiet, lonely drive to Gainesville Friday night.

A life is worth more than many people realize. I have had a lot of experiences. Age aside, I've almost lived out an entire life: I have traveled; I have lived away from home; I have held a job; I have budgeted; I have learned the difference between love, lust, and jealousy; I have written entire anthologies on adolescence, God, the infinite search for meaning; I have had time to watch the clouds drift by and contemplate all these things in an afternoon of lemonade and no-see-ums.

I don't know what's going to happen; I don't know if anything ever will. It's an anniversary of sorts today and I'm going to say what I intended to say, even if it never means a thing:

I'm doing alright. I wish I could've seen me then. I wish I could've sat me down and told myself a story - warned myself maybe - and made my eyes wide with awe and disbelief. I'm ending the process of growing up (finally) and most things don't carry the same definitions and taboos. It's OK - whatever it is, it's OK. Nothing has to be perfect, including happiness. The only person who can ever know for sure is me, and even then it's debatable. All the sleep-overs and concerts and first dates and full moons add up to some sort of Counting Crows lyric, though I haven't decided which one just yet. Most things change the way most things never do; it's all a wheel of perspective and subjectivity, but there are a few black and white facts in between all the interpretation and figuring out. There's a lot going on in general, espectially when life seems stagnant. There are chances that really should be taken and others that can slide.

Not everything has to be missed to be remembered, though, and today I'd like to believe that more than anything.

Woo is me!

BEST DAY EVER!!!

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

HA!

I can't stop giggling to myself. I'm alone in my room, the door isn't even open, and I just can't shut up. I'm such a girl.

But you know what? It's Friday, I earned it, and I don't care.

So nyeh.

Enter: Gnarls Barkley

I awoke this morning in that old 5:00 AM terror, tangled in sheets and being strangled by my own hair. I was gasping for breath and the moisture above my lip (though my shoulders were bare) helped me to recognize that yes, I had been taken by surprise, so rudely ousted from dream to hyperdream. And it was at that moment - my elbows supporting me, my eyes hovering about in wild disarray - that I truly, honestly questioned not the hour nor the day but my entire being. No Where? could suffice; no recollection of unconscious mindplay or repositioning of my startled body would have done. Instead I thought, "Who am I?" and immediately fell back asleep.

Yes. That actually happened. ...I think.

I've been writing some of the weirdest shit lately.

No, I meant on paper. But thanks for your encouragement.

Ever since my first writing experience in which I told the story of Cinnamon the talking cat in all her glory and misadventure I have found a certain pleasure in writing, one which I have replaced time and time again with new, sometimes less-productive means. I always seem, however, to come back to this basic method of communication with myself. Whenever my thoughts run dry and I feel I will never again pen a pathetic, metaphor-ridden line, I somehow manage to write. I don't always think, and indeed I do think this is a central reason why my hobby cannot simply up and die.

It is a mode of self-discovery for me. I like art - I do. I don't always like your art, but (biased as I am) I will always fall in love with mine. Sometimes it is easy to understand; other times it is a labyrinth of red and white, me standing in the center, the target. I don't even know what I've done most of the time until I reread some novel passage months after the ink has stained, realizing only then that perhaps there was more to what I wrote than originally intended.

I'd like to think I effect some sort of interest by never sharing a majority of the lines I scribe, but in all honesty I'm never hiding them, either; my entire collection, the past nine years of my life, is relatively easy to find. And besides - if I up and died tomorrow, wouldn't someone find it anyways? The only part about this fact that bothers me - truly bothers me - is that if (Well, I suppose when would be a more appropriate word - wouldn't you be intrigued if you stumbled upon a copious collection of loose-leafs and wire-bounds?) all my friends and family were to read my writings, would anyone ever really get what each piece meant? Sure - what they become is much more important, I know, I know; but you can't read the whole if the pieces don't make sense.

I'll wrap this up: My blog sucks.

Short and sweet

Sometimes things don't turn out the way we imagine they might, but it's important to remember that the destination isn't the point of interest.




That's all I got.