Quick post before leaving (fine, getting up and actually dressing up) for class.
Even if you have nothing to write, write and say so.
I just realized how sad this blog is.
Anyone who knows me in the material, temporal world would tell you I actually have a disposition from the opposite end of what is reflected here. Man, I couldn’t stress this enough — my days have actually been looking up since September started and I have been too busy having a grand time to write it down here, or anywhere else. What was I supposed to key in, a day by day account of how different sets of friends visit or go out with me, or how recently I have been finding the best nooks all around the Metro thus being able to spend some enlightening alone time constitutes the alternate definition of what a great day is?
The other day, my best friend told me that I’m one of those charming, impulsive girls that everybody likes. Of course I bribed him with a chocolate donut and we were eating it when he came up with that declaration so that might be it, but still. Remembering that, and some other stuff people said to me this week ( Tell me the truth, am I dying soon? People are so nice these days, unusually generous with compliments) as I was browsing through this blog’s archives made me wonder about how I’m being judged, or if I am even genuinely understood.
Because if you do, props to you. I’m not even sure I understand myself completely, or if it is even possible to do so. It is a feat yet to be conquered.
No, wipe that smirk off your face. Sure, it’s superficial and pointless to be haunted by the prospect of being judged by other people and have this dictate what you do or what you say. You will be, long after you’ve turned into dust. But as another friend said last night, you cannot erase that from the human psyche. People will always care about what others thought of them, let’s be serious here, because human beings naturally judge other beings. (And then we spent the rest of the night drinking and making fun of some people, see my point?)
Fact and fiction have always been polar opposites, but sometimes you marvel at how time erases the straight line between, until you can’t tell which is what anymore, and it has long stopped mattering to you. Writers are insane like that, and yes however phony that seems I shall identify myself as one of those beings called writers because I always have, and probably always will. This ( seemingly-but-probably-really-is sad, depressed, agitated, confused, aching, anxious ) blog wouldn’t exist if it weren’t the case.
In the meantime, let me spend my days however the hell I wish.