Friday, January 2, 2015


Three years ago I decided to blog daily for a year because I believed it would cure me. Chaos, though it might not seem like a disease, is one of the most serious sicknesses our society has to deal with. For the most part though I don't care too much about society: I observe it, but I rarely want to cure it. Myself, I wanted to get sorted out. Thoughts in my head were often tangled like my hair just after shower and I hoped that through blogging I would gently brush it all off, make it straight and pretty, apply the magical silk conditioner through writing. I might pull more than once and maybe pluck some hair out, but generally it was supposed to make it less perturbed and more put together-looking. This experiment didn't work out - or rather, I have no way of seeing if it would have worked out; I stopped writing after twelve posts. I have no ambitions to go back to blogging this frequently; moreover, I am often terrified at the thought that I'm putting this stuff out publicly, and seriously considering making this blog private. I'm very easily terrified by internet invigilation- type scenarios, and although they sound ludicrous when I vocalize them, they're not that improbable - frighteningly.

What am I doing then? For the first time in my life I don't know. Now the thoughts (and, coincidentally, the hair) are more tangled than they have ever been. I have been being myself for longer now than I have ever before, but so much more repeatedly I feel like I have to become my own self. What I make of myself and take for reality is far from the reality of me for other people, and that to me is like having been writing a story for my entire life, and suddenly, just before publication, when it was finally becoming its true purpose, finding it being set fire to.

Yesterday, I thought about why I don't like to talk to people I like about problems that are important to me. And the answer is this: I have a tendency to blindly follow advice of people I respect. If somebody formative to my world was to give me advice, I would automatically switch off decision making. That it seems to me like I have been doing, yet I'm consciously striving to make an effort to stop it.

When I was a kid I was, for a couple of years, positive that I was the world's best basketball player, as sure as eggs is eggs. This proved to be untrue when I changed schools, and became even more so because my confidence suddenly plummeted. But to this day I get really excited and nervous when I'm about to throw a balled aluminum foil I used as wrapping for my sandwich to a bin across the room. The screams of the excited audience of this feat, if it be successful, can fuel me for the rest of the day, but a failure dispirits me for much longer than appropriate. Because I fear that I'm not living up to be whom I presume (or presumed) myself to be and that makes me lost. And generates much torment I'm usually not equipped to handle. These last sentences were obviously not about trashcan scoring.

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