Goodburger

Sometimes I wonder if updating frequently is the right thing to be doing. Often times I find myself repressing the urge to write because I don't have a clear cut purpose when I start. You can all testify as to just how successful that repression can be. But, on a serious note, I'm strangely torn between writing as often as I possibly can and holding back in fear of quantity threatening quality. Nights like tonight find me sitting on the couch, laptop on, well, my lap, impatiently watching my elbow twitch, all the while hoping/waiting for inspiration to strike. I wouldn't go so far as to say it struck this evening, but I've come to realize that you sometimes have no choice but to forge your own inspiration. It seems the more I type, the more comfortable I become with the direction in which I'm heading. Although the occasional roadblock leads me straight to backspace, I can feel myself forming some sort of groove. I'm sure you're all thrilled.

I've been debating whether or not to start documenting my pre-move preparations, and I'm fairly sure I won't be doing it. I've yet to be hit by the fact that I'm leaving this behind (America, friends, family), and the simple truth that I am indeed leaving doesn't justify writing about emotions I've yet to experience. Perhaps in a week or so, when each following weekday will be my last in the country, I'll be more apt to write about it. But, until then, I'm forcing you to endure just a few more posts of mindlessness.

The innate desire to write something profound every time I log on is starting to cripple my ability to write anything at all. I find myself writing either about wanting to write, or my inability to write, and all the while I'm struggling to say much of anything at all. In fact, these past three sentences are a prime example of just that. Yet, there's a strange feeling that develops around this time of night, a feeling that I can't quite describe. It's a feeling of ironic importance, ironic probably because I'm sitting in my basement in the wee hours of the morning typing to a world that hasn't the slightest idea I exist, but never forgetting that I've got important things to say (regardless of the fact that I don't know what those things are). I get the impression that If I just keep typing, keep putting forth ideas, that someday the right words will form themselves.

There are indeed fears, however, that talking for the mere sake of talking, through writing ideas in hopes of finding the right ones by process of elimination, that I'll lose the patience to learn, the patience to hear what I haven't heard, and the patience to listen when I do. Believe it or not, I struggle with this godforsaken blog. I struggle with the fact that I might not be very good at what it is I feel destined to be doing. I struggle with the fact that my preconceived notions of the world might be a gun pointed at my foot only to be fired when I come face to face with a reality I could never have predicted. In case I haven't been clear enough, writing is a struggle.

No, the above paragraph was not a written example of a nervous breakdown, so feel free to tuck away your teen-help-line phone numbers for at least another post. Although I appreciate the widespread concern, trust me, if the cheese starts slipping from the patty (or patty from the bun, for that matter) - you'll be the first to know.