What We've Been Meaning to Say

For a long time I've been struggling with this blog thing. Not sure of my real purpose anymore, I started to just ignore it completely, which works for some people. Seeing as though I'm not a democrat, it doesn't work for me. In today's post, I'm getting back to basics - you know, somehow tying an irrelevant theme into a mass of mindless, wayward thoughts. There's something I enjoy about that. And though I'm not sure if anyone else enjoys it, since when would I care about that? The past few days I've been trying to find something suitable, something appropriate enough to write about. Yes, that search was entirely useless, but along the way of any search you tend to find things unrecognizable at the moment. The main reason I lost most respect for writers in general, typically the teenage internet variety, is a simple one. We, and I have to include myself in this category, are the largest group of underachieving, brainiac know-it-alls to ever stroke a keyboard. I'll stand by this statement - because it's true. I suppose I'm reciting my guilt before the court in even stating this, but consider it my putting a knife to the backs of my brethren moment. Since I don't have the luxury of witnessing myself through someone else's eyes (try as I might, Hillary just won't return my calls), I'm going out on a limb when I say this. Writer's, specifically of my variety (ugh) are despicable.

There are certain things you learn in conversation that are somewhat secretly revealed. You learn that there's more to intelligence than books and numbers. You learn compassion for people you might never know. You learn that people are the most simplistically complex beings in existence. I often wonder how people can take themselves seriously at all. Sure, I'm here sounding rather preachy and serious, but the truth is, five minutes after I lift my rear off this seat, I won't be thinking about what I've just typed. But, I've also learned that some people, metaphorically, keep thinking long after they've unreclined their pleasant backsides. After developing my keen dislike for young writers, male and female alike, I've narrowed my view to their inane ability to criticize themselves. The largest downfall of the dramatic teen writer is the inability to consider what's being said. Drama to the teen writer is tantamount to alcohol for the addict: they can't get enough, but fail to see a problem. The problem with drama is a simple one - it clouds every crucial sense of self-analysis. I can imagine that any 45 year old man reading a 17 year old girl's "developed" and disgustingly over-worded thoughts on his life won't and shouldn't be taken seriously. This same teen writer might admit to not having a clue as to what life really is, but in the process of admitting such commit the same crimes as before. I've seen it countless times. It's like the fatso who eats the menu and orders a diet coke. It doesn't do anything.

Sometimes I wonder what actual conversation might be like. Yeah, we have friends, and we talk to them, but we don't talk with them. My friends understand me as much as I understand them - which might as well be my understanding of quantum physics. I'm certainly not crying the typified "No one understands me" slogan of the repressed and brutalized teen society, because, like it or nor, I don't care. But, I don't expect people to understand me, nor do I expect to understand them. While I can theorize and proclaim my thoughts on any given person's personality, I can't determine what they went through to shape that personality. Reaction is the fuel of all formation. Attitude is all we have. I don't understand how you're attitude might change, and you don't understand mine. However, the only person I can understand is myself, and you, yourself. Wish as I might for someone to actually understand my thoughts, my experiences, my background, my development, it just won't happen. Human function can't allow for that sort of understanding. The reason I can't find a person to completely understand, or them understand me, is because that person doesn't exist in anyone but myself. I'm the only one who can understand me, and while other people might come close, getting certain details, don't insult me and tell me who I am.

But, not to open the door to those overly annoying, self-obsesses ego-maniacs out there: don't use your individual as cause for pity. I truly detest people who claim isolation from society because, how do they put it, no one really "gets" them, or they're too "complex". Does it smell a little rank to anyone else? These people are too busy feeling sorry for themselves that they can't begin to analyze their own would-be predicaments. They're too busy sectioning themselves off from everyone else (who, mind you, are unable to relate anyway) that they simply prevent the understanding of the only person that actually matters - themselves. My advice to you people: shut the hell up, stop worrying about how other people might respond to your problems, and actually begin to understand yourself.

I know there's more to say on this topic, and I might you want to bring it up in conversation with me. But be warned, there's a chance we might not know how to talk about it.

But at least we'll understand why.

What You Will

I've been meaning to update for a few days now, but inspiration has a nasty habit of escaping at the most opportune times. I suppose I'll sit here and force something out, partly because I enjoy reading whatever comments are left for me, and partly because I have absolutely nothing better to do. I mean no disrespect to the loyal readers who might take that the wrong way, but it's the truth. Void of any concrete topics (annoyed with politics and the like), I've been seeking something worthy to write about, something that that didn't warrant annoyance whenever I decide to read it over again. Trust me, it's hard going. Finding something to write about that I feel worthy of my own liking is hard to do - and I say that in the most unpompous manner possible. Perhaps it's just characteristic of sitting here and attempting to write something quality: to some people it is, to some people it isn't, to me it's never. But enough about that, it seems as though there's one worthy thing worth mentioning.

As July creeps closer, and deadlines brew in the distance, change seems to creep inevitably closer and closer. Not only witnessing it first-hand, through my own experiences, but watching changes in other people's lives is equally as hard, if not harder. Of course, I automatically assume that no one goes through the same things I do. Sure, we may encounter the same scenario, but we'll never react the same way. And while you might pretend to relate, you never can. I'm assuming it's a defensive position to take, and maybe it gets me into trouble socially, but when you imagine someone else put into a position you'd dread being in, you can't help but wonder. Entertain this example. Imagine building a new life, complete with friends, family, love, relaxation, work, pride, all the common elements. Imagine living this new life ever-knowing that eventually it'll come to an end, and you'll move back to the old life, the life you've temporarily forgotten. Ok, maybe forgotten isn't the best word to use, but shelved is. You've shelved your old life deep inside your mind, utterly preoccupied with the friends you've made and the fun you've had while living here. It's a predicament that frightens me, and it makes me think that maybe it only happens to the people who are only strong enough to handle it. But, humans are creatures of movement and change. If we're unable to adapt, then we could've said goodnight some millions of years ago.

Eh, I just got really sick of writing. The more time I try and devote to this, the less comes out. And please, the last thing I want right now are patronizing comments of encouragment. If I wanted those, I'd look in the mirror.

The Rest

This is another one of those late-night posts that only protrude from deep hibernation every so often. Consider yourselves lucky. I've been reading a lot of people's thoughts on this upcoming phase of our lives. You know, leaving childhood behind and venturing down the road to maturity and death - morbid, I know, but true. It's saddening to watch the once unbreakable chains slowly dissolve agaisnt the hands of time. Friendships wear away, love fizzles and gasps smoke into empty rooms, and transition beats heavily. I'm not sure where I stand in regards to it all. I consider myself lucky to be able to find solace in a friendship that I pray can survive the elements of life, and I feel myself blessed because of that. Yet, I have but one pair of feet, and try as I might to fit them in the shoes of others, sometimes I just can't. I don't understand why we attempt to mend friendships we spent four years destroying. Perhaps it's for the peace of mind in knowing that we're leaving a segment of life with nothing but pleasantries, nothing but an appropriate smile to meet the memories. Something about that doesn't quite sit well with me. While I'm totally supportive of being friends with everyone (making enemies just isn't as rewarding) -- ok, I really don't know where I was going with that. Whatever. Anyway, I think the basic point of that was something to this effect: don't spend the time we have at arms with the only people you'll someday wish you were once friends with.

That's about it.

It's a shame we aren't prospective thinkers.

But then again, how would we learn from our mistakes.