A long, discursive ramble
It's been a long time since I wrote here. It's funny... I've had an online journal since I was very young; back when OpenDiary was still free. I remember making a fuss about switching to LiveJournal. Over the years, I've used this space to rant, to brag, to bitch, to berate myself, to post art, to keep in touch, to pontificate, to explore. Lately, it hasn't fit into my life so well. Maybe it's the newborn concern of censoring my internet identity for the sake of my career... maybe I've just been busy living life instead of writing about it. I can never fire up the LiveJournal update screen without wondering which it is.
I'm 24 now. I remember feeling a strong connection with my age, once, but it's not there anymore. Age feels more abstract these days. I joke around a lot, but I rarely "feel old". If anything, life has felt like a constant reminder of how young I still am.
I know a lot of people raising infants or kids now. Few, if any, are in my age group. I am baffled by those who are. Life has made one thing clear to me: I am a moron. I am well-educated, intelligent, talented, friendly, introspective, and mature, but I am still a moron. Maybe--maybe--I will someday learn enough, or forget enough, to feel comfortable creating another human being, and raising it from nothingness. I can even see myself enjoying it. For now, though, it remains a foggy possibility in the distant future.
The future does feel distant; like the other side of a yawning chasm. Every once in a while, when I get thoughtful and begin to navel-gaze (like now), I have to wonder if I'm waiting for it or creating it. Wishing about it, or preparing for it. Some days it feels one way, some days the other. Even at 24, I still feel like I'm "getting used" to being an "adult."
The responsibility is startling. I'm not just talking about things like taxes, careers and relationships. I'm talking about one level deeper. Choices. I am consistently confounded not only by the vast array of choices I am faced with each day, but the gravity of owning the decisions that come from them. When I'm angry at someone, for example, I am wholly conscious of the choices: Calm down now, talk to them later; scream at them now, maybe regret it later. Burn a bridge; build a bridge. Stay or go. Buy or sell. It doesn't matter what kind of day I'm having, or how I grew up. There are no excuses. My choices are indelible, and they are mine. Who knew? I don't know when I reached this epiphany, but in that way, I have never felt further from the boy I used to be.
I've gotten a lot better about beating myself up for not getting enough done. If I let myself worry about it, though, I am clearly still of two minds: On the one hand, I'm young. I have all the time in the world to do things that are meaningful and important to me. The things I'm doing now: Paying off debt, saving for the future, slowly getting in shape; they're what are right for me right now.
On the other hand... I'm old. I've been around for 24 years. Almost a quarter of a century. 288 months. Lord knows how many hours, minutes, seconds, and chances. Time just comes faster and faster; logarithmically. I was five years old 19 years ago, I was eighteen last month, and I was twenty-one just a couple days ago, I swear. So, I should be ruthlessly, doggedly pursuing my goals. Write a book. Program a game. Draw a comic. Make a choice and do it. More than a half hour every few days. Every day. Every hour, every minute, every second!
Obviously, there's a balance. I haven't found it yet, but I will. I have to, and so I will. I trust myself. I'll figure it out--am figuring it out.
Time has been passing quickly in Cleveland. I've already been here almost two years. I spent so long wishing for a routine... is this the one I wanted?
Maybe I ought to write in here more often. It's clear that my thoughts are so numerous and jumbled that there is nary a consistent stream to be found.
Well... that's probably enough for now. There's much work to be done.
I'm 24 now. I remember feeling a strong connection with my age, once, but it's not there anymore. Age feels more abstract these days. I joke around a lot, but I rarely "feel old". If anything, life has felt like a constant reminder of how young I still am.
I know a lot of people raising infants or kids now. Few, if any, are in my age group. I am baffled by those who are. Life has made one thing clear to me: I am a moron. I am well-educated, intelligent, talented, friendly, introspective, and mature, but I am still a moron. Maybe--maybe--I will someday learn enough, or forget enough, to feel comfortable creating another human being, and raising it from nothingness. I can even see myself enjoying it. For now, though, it remains a foggy possibility in the distant future.
The future does feel distant; like the other side of a yawning chasm. Every once in a while, when I get thoughtful and begin to navel-gaze (like now), I have to wonder if I'm waiting for it or creating it. Wishing about it, or preparing for it. Some days it feels one way, some days the other. Even at 24, I still feel like I'm "getting used" to being an "adult."
The responsibility is startling. I'm not just talking about things like taxes, careers and relationships. I'm talking about one level deeper. Choices. I am consistently confounded not only by the vast array of choices I am faced with each day, but the gravity of owning the decisions that come from them. When I'm angry at someone, for example, I am wholly conscious of the choices: Calm down now, talk to them later; scream at them now, maybe regret it later. Burn a bridge; build a bridge. Stay or go. Buy or sell. It doesn't matter what kind of day I'm having, or how I grew up. There are no excuses. My choices are indelible, and they are mine. Who knew? I don't know when I reached this epiphany, but in that way, I have never felt further from the boy I used to be.
I've gotten a lot better about beating myself up for not getting enough done. If I let myself worry about it, though, I am clearly still of two minds: On the one hand, I'm young. I have all the time in the world to do things that are meaningful and important to me. The things I'm doing now: Paying off debt, saving for the future, slowly getting in shape; they're what are right for me right now.
On the other hand... I'm old. I've been around for 24 years. Almost a quarter of a century. 288 months. Lord knows how many hours, minutes, seconds, and chances. Time just comes faster and faster; logarithmically. I was five years old 19 years ago, I was eighteen last month, and I was twenty-one just a couple days ago, I swear. So, I should be ruthlessly, doggedly pursuing my goals. Write a book. Program a game. Draw a comic. Make a choice and do it. More than a half hour every few days. Every day. Every hour, every minute, every second!
Obviously, there's a balance. I haven't found it yet, but I will. I have to, and so I will. I trust myself. I'll figure it out--am figuring it out.
Time has been passing quickly in Cleveland. I've already been here almost two years. I spent so long wishing for a routine... is this the one I wanted?
Maybe I ought to write in here more often. It's clear that my thoughts are so numerous and jumbled that there is nary a consistent stream to be found.
Well... that's probably enough for now. There's much work to be done.