Really, there is no correlation between the titles for my posts and the either abstract, concrete, or derailing discourse soon to be endeavored. Before I begin to partake on this journey, I just have to say that I burned my fingers trying to ravage a piece of chicken, so every time these delicate fingertips start clickity-clacking on the keyboard, it hurts like a motherfucker… if motherfuckers feel pain, that is.
How long has it been since there has been anything short of intellectual or emotionally revealing on my blog other than the random postings about my day? Often times I feel like this… this brainchild of mine, the cradle of my emotional baby, of my thoughts and feelings, this hurting, bleeding, feeling, disgusting meshwork of words, forever entombed in a little corner of the internet, will die due to neglect and laziness… and… dare I say it? The disease of unimaginative and complacent vomit. What the hell am I really writing? I don’t know anymore. This isn’t me. This isn’t a piece of me, it is not reflective of me. It is not part of me, and they might as well be another girl’s thoughts. A girl who seems to harbor an obsession with banana smoothies and the occasional gay film.
As I grow older (yes, 4 years does wonders to a 20 year old girl) I feel that… what they say about growing up is true. You become desensitized to everything. Well, not everything, but a lot of things. A lot of things that used to be able to make butterflies take winged flight in your stomach, things that used to make your head light and your heart stop. Things that used to clench your chest and make it feel like even a thousand piercing needles isn’t enough to describe the pain festering inside. Love and heartbreaks. Even the little things like waking up to a gloomy day or to the sound of chirping birds. The lows don’t seem as low; the highs don’t quite reach up there anymore. Is this what awaits me as I put experience and experience and experience in my back pocket? The slow getting-used-to. The plateau. The contentment or resigned defeat? Or perhaps I am just a little too cynical. Because hey, it’s winter break and I burned my fingers ripping up a chicken. That hurts, you know.
What this blog used to be — a waterfall of unadulterated pain, joy, expression — it isn’t anymore. My words are chosen more carefully, mulled over more considerably; there is a limit behind what can and cannot be written here. What used to be an outlet for my conscious ongoings and my unconscious feelings — a confidant, I suppose — has turned into… I don’t know what it is anymore. As I venture deeper and deeper into myself (whatever the fuck that abstract shit means) I find such entangled and throttled messes. I wonder if I can bare to hear my own thoughts out load, to read my unconscious mind wander off and see its trek described on such a bleak black and white slate. To face myself is something… I don’t know if I want to do anymore. Maybe that is why I cannot find anything to write. Whatever juicy material is locked up in a vault.
So now I’m just writing about how bad it is to get a C+ and burned fingers.
