(no subject)
I don't journal anymore. Publicly, privately, anything. (Yes, it's ironic that I'm journaling while making that observation. Thanks, Captain Obvious.) I use to feel like something was missing if I didn't sit down and reflect. I use to make time for this, even when there was little, if any, to be had.
I use to journal to figure things out- forcing myself to put words to things invariably made me more honest. I couldn't post something if I didn't feel like the sentiment or the words were completely true. These days, I find myself more confused than anything. And it's not for a lack of personal honesty. It's that anything I do write doesn't feel right. So I delete it.
So what brings me here for the first time in months? Anticipation. The fabled "what if". What happens when the "what if" becomes true? When you hear all the things you needed to hear? When your every instinct turned out to be true? I have arrived at the ending of a beginning, or the beginning of an ending, I'm not quite sure which- and I'm not sure where to go from here.
I've formulated plans, most of which have crumbled, because I've lacked the conviction to carry them out. I've tried talking myself into things. Careers, grad schools, relationships, the whole nine yards, really. My mom keeps reminding me that it's ok to burn the candle on both ends, to take detours in life, to make mistakes, to live a little, and know that those are the things you look back on fondly. But even with constant reassurance that it's all ok, and more than ok- it's good- I'm tentative. It's like standing at the top of an incredibly steep ski slope. Even though you know it'll be over in a second, your face goes pale, you feel your stomach drop, and that momentary dread before you fly out of control perpetuates everything.
I'm ok, really. Just... uneasy. In a way that time will take care of.
I use to journal to figure things out- forcing myself to put words to things invariably made me more honest. I couldn't post something if I didn't feel like the sentiment or the words were completely true. These days, I find myself more confused than anything. And it's not for a lack of personal honesty. It's that anything I do write doesn't feel right. So I delete it.
So what brings me here for the first time in months? Anticipation. The fabled "what if". What happens when the "what if" becomes true? When you hear all the things you needed to hear? When your every instinct turned out to be true? I have arrived at the ending of a beginning, or the beginning of an ending, I'm not quite sure which- and I'm not sure where to go from here.
I've formulated plans, most of which have crumbled, because I've lacked the conviction to carry them out. I've tried talking myself into things. Careers, grad schools, relationships, the whole nine yards, really. My mom keeps reminding me that it's ok to burn the candle on both ends, to take detours in life, to make mistakes, to live a little, and know that those are the things you look back on fondly. But even with constant reassurance that it's all ok, and more than ok- it's good- I'm tentative. It's like standing at the top of an incredibly steep ski slope. Even though you know it'll be over in a second, your face goes pale, you feel your stomach drop, and that momentary dread before you fly out of control perpetuates everything.
I'm ok, really. Just... uneasy. In a way that time will take care of.