I feel horrendous. I have let this blog deteriorate, grow in obscurity to a purgatory. I realize it’s been months since I’ve posted anything new… and I feel terrible because I have suddenly realized how much it betrays any person’s even possible interest. To any followers out there who are still with me, I thank you. I have been distracted cutting the line between the growth of reflection and the attraction of experience; for the last several months the hunger for experience has outweighed my need for reflection. Here’s to realizing what’s important in my life again. I hope you will see more of me in the upcoming weeks.
First and foremost I believe there should be an apology. I started this blog with the best of intentions however, as it does, life got in the way. As meager and insubstantial an excuse as that is, it is my rationalization behind my absence. Seeing as it is on my mind, lets kick things of again with ‘time’.
Time. We, or at least I, often sat that I never seem to have ‘time’ for the things we/I enjoy. It’s funny how the truest passions in life far too often take a back seat to meaningless, “more important”, things for the sustaining of one’s self. This came for me in the form of final exams as well as other work which, while important, should not wholly deter me from what I enjoy. I feel like a hypocrite, sitting here proclaiming my honest opinion that one should make more time for their interests or enjoyments, yet I fall victim to the seemingly pointless events. I would hate to think that this is a way of proving true passions; by seeing those that persist through the swamp of every day tedium.
On another side of things is the matter of immediately removing time. I can honestly say that I lived without it once and it was quite possibly the most entrancingly beautiful event. For two weeks I set aside my normal habit of wearing a watch and decided to avoid it all. I woke up when I did, ate whenever I got hungry, did what I felt like, slept when I got tired. It was fantastic. The only real problem with it all was that it completely eliminates the finite idea of planning and forms it into nothing but infinite plans. Instead of making plans for dinner around 6:00 as would be the usual, it was ‘later’. This kind of embodies that separation. While it is more than grand for reinforcing a personal will for ‘in the moment’ living, it abandons one solid system on which every thing and everyone else runs. I know the argument could and probably will be made that time as an overall continuum remains regardless of the presence of a watch, but I’m more addressing time as the conventional concept seen in every day life.
To tie these two ideas together (which I honestly wasn’t planning) perhaps it is not that passions take the back seat to tedium but to things that appear more instantaneous and important at one particular moment. At many moments in the last few weeks my academics have seemed more important than writing. I also saw writing as something that would always be there whenever I was free. Perhaps a passion is that which rises from one’s self at a point when nothing is going on, taking on the form of a true inner compass that generally leads one in an honest pursuit of interests. Hmm… anyway, to end on a note of wrapping up this idea with a realistic implementation of this belief, while writing is always there as an outlet for me, it should not be overlooked because of that fact. While it is there it is worthless if I don’t make some time for it. Ergo, make time for that which I love. Huh, kind of a roundabout way of reinforcing what should be common knowledge… I’m alright with that.
Lately I’ve been wondering the simple question: Why can’t a story just be a story? I have realized that it can’t because it isn’t. It is a collection of the author, of unconscious ideas or prevalent opinions or topics within them. While I have been one of the biggest opponents of inherent authorial representation within writing, it seems quite apparent now. Previously I hated the view that no author could create something outside them self, yet, now I look kindly on this. The reason for this change is that I have found that there is much individuality and interest to be represented within everyone. The space of ideas outside of one’s self seems more finite and unreachable than the introspective depths of the self which are near endless.
Writing. Interestingly enough, in my opinion, I have entered this medium of expression in order to explore myself as a writer and yet it very quickly causes me to confront what I normally avoid: the question of ‘why?’ and the background motivations. Simply, I like writing; why? What first attracted me was the idea of commentary, that I could submit a work of writing into the literate world for its/their general review and personal opinion on it. The second idea, a much more narcissistic one, was the idea of immortality. If I publish something, that is a part of me that is out there for decades. Even if it is only in the back of a second-rate library, it’s the kind of mark that I would look favorably on leaving behind. This would be a specific, impersonal sense of immortality, not of myself or my name- I couldn’t give a fuck whether a piece carries my name of the front or my face on the back- but of my ideas. Writing still symbolizes and embodies much more. It is, in a sense, unbridled creation fused with near infinite possibilities. Beyond that I wasn’t too sure of what I was looking for in the field of writing, and that thought scares me. As I reflect on it now, especially in relation to my indifference to personal recognition, I realize the one matter that I’m overlooking: validation. On one of the most primal levels I’m looking for validation. I’m looking to see if my words, my thoughts, my ideas, even make sense. It’s one matter to sit at a keyboard and ramble thousands of words, and quite a different one to hand them off to someone else for their review. While the former serves as a beautifully relieving form of catharsis, the latter serves its own purpose. Personal journalistic writing serves the purpose of venting emotion while opening one’s thoughts to the world is useful for what I’m trying to accomplish, the final matter of writing that had eluded me: honest reflection.