(no subject)
I thought I needed to update mostly because I clicked my little archive and was rather horrified at the lack of 2010. Could I ever forgive myself if it skipped 2010? I've had this thing since 2003 which is horrifying within itself, but I think I'd be very disappointed if I skipped a whole year.
But I don't have much to say. No, I have a lot to say. More then I've had to say in a while. But this isn't the sort of thing you put on a livejournal for the world to see. Nothing terrible. Just those specks of teenage angst that haven't quite disappeared yet (and probably never will) and that awful fear of "god I'm old. Older every minute." which scares me to death.
Last night I was tired. So tired I wanted to go to bed at like 9 but I crawled into bed at 11:30, I could not sleep. At all. I had one of those nights that I haven't had in a long time. One of those nights when all the sudden BAM all of those things you hadn't really thought about or didn't allow yourself to think about hit you and you're stuck with this overwhelming feeling that is a bit like sleep paralysis. Like the "I can't move. Something is sitting on my chest" feeling. And clearly, it made me sad. Sad enough to listen to the on-the-go 2 playlist on my ipod, which I made at 16, which was arguably the worst year of my life. That's the playlist I save for the nights when I need to cry before going to sleep. Hey, we all have them. I'm not throwing a pity party.
But that feeling has stuck with my for all of today. And will probably continue to do so tomorrow.
I try to live without regrets. Always. Every experience will benefit me in some way. I see the silver-lining always and I always try to bring the cheer in shitty situations. I go through moments of regret though, or more like doubt.
Like when I'm sitting in class and I think: "Oh shit. Oh fuck. Why am I an English major? What is my life?" Because I've always been a sensible person. Too sensible sometimes. And these are the characters I always root for in novels. Undoubtedly, that means I root for the wrong heroine (My favorite ever? Lily Bart.) We all fancy ourselves Elizabeth Bennets, but no, I'm a Charlotte Lucas through and through. There are countless examples throughout literature that I would love to talk about but I'm already on a tangent so back on track.
I'm a sensible person. At 17, I thought: "I'll never be an English major." I wrote my college personal statement comparing myself to a character in The Great Gatsby, but I still didn't think it was right. And then I did something uncharacteristic, threw caution to the wind, didn't think and hit the "send" button after filling out the change major page from undecided to English-Literary Studies concentration. There was a moment of deliberation, in between that and Creative Writing but practical me came back and said: "If you're forced to do it, you'll hate it." Followed by:"Plus you know that your greatest inspiration comes from reading."
So I did it. And I didn't tell anyone. I flew home for the weekend a week or two later and it burst out of me before the car even managed to leave the airport. And I don't think my parents quite even grasped what I said because it was followed by an endless diatribe about how english are actually useful and listed too many careers I could go for, none of which I wanted to go for. Not that it really mattered to my parents. Within the last year my dad asked: "What's your major again? Someone asked and I said I'm not sure....I think history." Which again, isn't a pity me. That's just my dad, he lives in his own world.
The point being the one time in my life where my practicality would have come in handy, I completely disregarded it. I "followed my heart" And guess what? I'm all the better for it. I don't regret it for a second. Do I doubt it? Often. Might I graduate and look back and go "lol you fucking fool what a mistake?" Maybe. But that doesn't change the fact, that it still makes me deeply happy despite practical me saying: "are you listening to this? This is bullshit. None of this matters."
But of course it matters. Because I think beyond anything, beyond dactyls and bildungsroman, the first and foremost thing I've learned is what it is to be human. I've learned religion, history, philosophy, psychology, sociology, mythology, feminism, and countless other things. And I'm thankful all the time for it. I feel like I know people and that I know myself more intimately do to my literature studies.
There are downsides. Like say, what I'm gonna do after June 12th. Or rather August 25th when my lease is up. Or the fact that pleasure reading more or less no longer exists for me. I may analyze things too much. I'm probably annoying to be around because I'm analyzing everything you do. You're a character in a story. I speak pretentiously. I gush and gush about things nobody else will care about. (Never EVER talk to me about John Donne, I will literally never shut up. But everyone has a soft spot for the man that makes them fall in love with poetry and really with literature in general.) I may complain, I put off my papers, I roll my eyes at my classmates but all of this doesn't change the fact that I deeply, deeply love it. And I don't regret it. At all.
This entire rant is how I don't regret and yet I can't shake the feeling of regret. I take a look at my life and I feel regret. And I'm miles and miles away from the person I'd like to be. This is out of character. But it's a detached regret. One that only bothers me when I think about it before falling asleep.
This is one of my greatest flaws and always has been. Even when I'm in considerable emotional distress, I'm detached. I was the angsty teenager who was well aware she was acting like an angsty teenager no matter how often I told myself I was mature. Part of my is always disconnected, looking at the rest of me and laughing at the stupidity. Even now I'm reading this entry from an outside perspective and analyzing it. "Of course she's detached. catch that bit about her father living in his own world before?" I'm not saying that's true or that I'm cleverly setting myself up to be analyzed (I wish I was that smart or interesting). I'm too self-aware.
There's a great Neil Gaiman quote (I think) that says one of the downsides to be being a writer is that you're constantly living within that work or character. You may feel grief or pain but part of you is completely detached and saying "huh this is what pain or grief feels like. This is how i'd describe it." It's annoying and I hate it. Being this self-aware has made me horribly unfeeling. So when it comes to things like love and heartbreak? I just don't understand it. Which is a shame because I'm a romantic person deep down somewhere but as someone once phrased it I am "immune to love."
So I'm feeling doubt and regret while also thinking I'm fine and I'm happy with who I am. And I feel like this is essay, so i need to make a conclusion but I haven't really argued or proved anything. But at least in one entry I managed to convey a year's worth of livejournal whining, no? The only difference between 2010 and 2003 is that this is at least psuedo-intelligent. And a wonderful distraction from what is actually bothering me.
But I don't have much to say. No, I have a lot to say. More then I've had to say in a while. But this isn't the sort of thing you put on a livejournal for the world to see. Nothing terrible. Just those specks of teenage angst that haven't quite disappeared yet (and probably never will) and that awful fear of "god I'm old. Older every minute." which scares me to death.
Last night I was tired. So tired I wanted to go to bed at like 9 but I crawled into bed at 11:30, I could not sleep. At all. I had one of those nights that I haven't had in a long time. One of those nights when all the sudden BAM all of those things you hadn't really thought about or didn't allow yourself to think about hit you and you're stuck with this overwhelming feeling that is a bit like sleep paralysis. Like the "I can't move. Something is sitting on my chest" feeling. And clearly, it made me sad. Sad enough to listen to the on-the-go 2 playlist on my ipod, which I made at 16, which was arguably the worst year of my life. That's the playlist I save for the nights when I need to cry before going to sleep. Hey, we all have them. I'm not throwing a pity party.
But that feeling has stuck with my for all of today. And will probably continue to do so tomorrow.
I try to live without regrets. Always. Every experience will benefit me in some way. I see the silver-lining always and I always try to bring the cheer in shitty situations. I go through moments of regret though, or more like doubt.
Like when I'm sitting in class and I think: "Oh shit. Oh fuck. Why am I an English major? What is my life?" Because I've always been a sensible person. Too sensible sometimes. And these are the characters I always root for in novels. Undoubtedly, that means I root for the wrong heroine (My favorite ever? Lily Bart.) We all fancy ourselves Elizabeth Bennets, but no, I'm a Charlotte Lucas through and through. There are countless examples throughout literature that I would love to talk about but I'm already on a tangent so back on track.
I'm a sensible person. At 17, I thought: "I'll never be an English major." I wrote my college personal statement comparing myself to a character in The Great Gatsby, but I still didn't think it was right. And then I did something uncharacteristic, threw caution to the wind, didn't think and hit the "send" button after filling out the change major page from undecided to English-Literary Studies concentration. There was a moment of deliberation, in between that and Creative Writing but practical me came back and said: "If you're forced to do it, you'll hate it." Followed by:"Plus you know that your greatest inspiration comes from reading."
So I did it. And I didn't tell anyone. I flew home for the weekend a week or two later and it burst out of me before the car even managed to leave the airport. And I don't think my parents quite even grasped what I said because it was followed by an endless diatribe about how english are actually useful and listed too many careers I could go for, none of which I wanted to go for. Not that it really mattered to my parents. Within the last year my dad asked: "What's your major again? Someone asked and I said I'm not sure....I think history." Which again, isn't a pity me. That's just my dad, he lives in his own world.
The point being the one time in my life where my practicality would have come in handy, I completely disregarded it. I "followed my heart" And guess what? I'm all the better for it. I don't regret it for a second. Do I doubt it? Often. Might I graduate and look back and go "lol you fucking fool what a mistake?" Maybe. But that doesn't change the fact, that it still makes me deeply happy despite practical me saying: "are you listening to this? This is bullshit. None of this matters."
But of course it matters. Because I think beyond anything, beyond dactyls and bildungsroman, the first and foremost thing I've learned is what it is to be human. I've learned religion, history, philosophy, psychology, sociology, mythology, feminism, and countless other things. And I'm thankful all the time for it. I feel like I know people and that I know myself more intimately do to my literature studies.
There are downsides. Like say, what I'm gonna do after June 12th. Or rather August 25th when my lease is up. Or the fact that pleasure reading more or less no longer exists for me. I may analyze things too much. I'm probably annoying to be around because I'm analyzing everything you do. You're a character in a story. I speak pretentiously. I gush and gush about things nobody else will care about. (Never EVER talk to me about John Donne, I will literally never shut up. But everyone has a soft spot for the man that makes them fall in love with poetry and really with literature in general.) I may complain, I put off my papers, I roll my eyes at my classmates but all of this doesn't change the fact that I deeply, deeply love it. And I don't regret it. At all.
This entire rant is how I don't regret and yet I can't shake the feeling of regret. I take a look at my life and I feel regret. And I'm miles and miles away from the person I'd like to be. This is out of character. But it's a detached regret. One that only bothers me when I think about it before falling asleep.
This is one of my greatest flaws and always has been. Even when I'm in considerable emotional distress, I'm detached. I was the angsty teenager who was well aware she was acting like an angsty teenager no matter how often I told myself I was mature. Part of my is always disconnected, looking at the rest of me and laughing at the stupidity. Even now I'm reading this entry from an outside perspective and analyzing it. "Of course she's detached. catch that bit about her father living in his own world before?" I'm not saying that's true or that I'm cleverly setting myself up to be analyzed (I wish I was that smart or interesting). I'm too self-aware.
There's a great Neil Gaiman quote (I think) that says one of the downsides to be being a writer is that you're constantly living within that work or character. You may feel grief or pain but part of you is completely detached and saying "huh this is what pain or grief feels like. This is how i'd describe it." It's annoying and I hate it. Being this self-aware has made me horribly unfeeling. So when it comes to things like love and heartbreak? I just don't understand it. Which is a shame because I'm a romantic person deep down somewhere but as someone once phrased it I am "immune to love."
So I'm feeling doubt and regret while also thinking I'm fine and I'm happy with who I am. And I feel like this is essay, so i need to make a conclusion but I haven't really argued or proved anything. But at least in one entry I managed to convey a year's worth of livejournal whining, no? The only difference between 2010 and 2003 is that this is at least psuedo-intelligent. And a wonderful distraction from what is actually bothering me.