(no subject)
It is strange that sometimes I come on this site brimming with words that I want to put down, and then when I go to type them in, I don't really have all that much to say. A journal seems more like something you have when you have a lot of things to complain about. Lost loves, lost childhoods, lost opportunities... pretty much all the things I have written about more times than I can count. Things that I don't really have all that much to complain about anymore. My one complaint the last year or so has been finances, and even that is getting better with my new job (which, btw, I like and haven't felt a day of stress even once since starting).
Still, despite things going okay, I still feel the need to keep updating things here, as if I am under some obligation to keep it going. Maybe it is a throwback to that lost childhood I so often used to talk about. To keep record of the person who, once messed up beyond words, has at last found some measure of peace in the world. I suppose, though, that that story is not quite as exciting.
The real question is... am I the person I wanted to be? The short answer is, I don't know. I still stay awake sometimes wondering if there is something more out there. A place for Ben and I that is not so routine. And in those moments, I think back to my time in Mexico and wonder if that was perhaps the best time of my life. In a sense, it was. I was living without the boundaries I made myself live by. I was free to set my own path and be forced to act even when I didn't know if I had the strength to. I changed more in that 15-month period than at any other time. Now, I wonder if I will ever have that kind of experience again. Truth be told, I am scared that I never will. That that one period will always be defining time in my life that I will not be able to reproduce. That I will be forever talking about it only because nothing new comes along. Do I want to be the kind of person who has that one amazing, life changing experience... and still ends up in a normal routine?
There are 32 pages of email my account. The email on there goes all the way back to the summer of 2001. The pages are full of emails that for one reason or another, decided to keep. There are emails about 9/11, from past boyfriends that told me they loved me and later broke it off. There are emails about my old jobs, from people I once met but lost contact with. From dates gone wrong. From old highschool aquaintences that seem so far away now. Emails from me to others in which I am so angry and hurtful that I cringe. What is it about the past that so compells us to remember?
Still, despite things going okay, I still feel the need to keep updating things here, as if I am under some obligation to keep it going. Maybe it is a throwback to that lost childhood I so often used to talk about. To keep record of the person who, once messed up beyond words, has at last found some measure of peace in the world. I suppose, though, that that story is not quite as exciting.
The real question is... am I the person I wanted to be? The short answer is, I don't know. I still stay awake sometimes wondering if there is something more out there. A place for Ben and I that is not so routine. And in those moments, I think back to my time in Mexico and wonder if that was perhaps the best time of my life. In a sense, it was. I was living without the boundaries I made myself live by. I was free to set my own path and be forced to act even when I didn't know if I had the strength to. I changed more in that 15-month period than at any other time. Now, I wonder if I will ever have that kind of experience again. Truth be told, I am scared that I never will. That that one period will always be defining time in my life that I will not be able to reproduce. That I will be forever talking about it only because nothing new comes along. Do I want to be the kind of person who has that one amazing, life changing experience... and still ends up in a normal routine?
There are 32 pages of email my account. The email on there goes all the way back to the summer of 2001. The pages are full of emails that for one reason or another, decided to keep. There are emails about 9/11, from past boyfriends that told me they loved me and later broke it off. There are emails about my old jobs, from people I once met but lost contact with. From dates gone wrong. From old highschool aquaintences that seem so far away now. Emails from me to others in which I am so angry and hurtful that I cringe. What is it about the past that so compells us to remember?