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.