I'm bad at this...
by , 03-14-2009 at 02:19 AM (1750 Views)
So, I knew when I started this whole blog thing that it was going to be a dud because I've never been the "record what's on your mind" type. I tried keeping diaries when I was younger, but it did absolutely nothing for me. The first entry would always be the introduction to my present self, which was always exactly the same because I am almost entirely the same person I was when I was 8.
I still love horses
I still love music
I still love to read
I still want to be a vet when I grow up
I still don't like people
I'd then proceed to make some violent declaration of my intentions to remain faithful and dedicated to the current painstakingly hidden-and-locked notebook. My promises were always heartfelt and meaningful at the time. When I wrote that, I really did intend to write in it every day, confide in its eager pages the depths of my innocent soul. And I would keep my promises for the first week or two.
But really, what happens in the life of an eight year old that requires the silent confidence of a diary? Maybe those ridiculous eight-year-olds who were chasing boys around at recess. "Dear Diary, Billy is the boy of my dreams!" and all that jazz. Nope. My diary got the account of my weekly riding lesson, the update of what books I had read, aannnnd...a little bit of my making fun of the Dreamboat-Billy girls. Even when I was eight I was shaking my head at them. I'd usually conclude with some sentiment of my current state of sleeplessness due to excessive homework completion and then I would sign it, as though when I was looking back on these entries someday, I would need to recall what my name was.
So this is how the pages would thicken for a couple of weeks. Then, there's the entry that signals the inevitable break-up of my forced diary relationship: it would include some form of the statement "school's going to be busy for the next week, so I'll be back as soon as I can!". Yeah right. So long, notebook. Twas nice, but the remainder of your pages are being left, barren, to yellow for eternity, or the day I throw you out, whichever comes first.
And that was it. I was never an emotional writer, either. Not one of those random-thought-recorders or an angsty poet. I'd rather write a damn good argumentative essay than a poem of any kind, let alone one filled with Poor Me, Look How Bad I Hurt. Okay, now maybe I'm being a touch insensitive.
By the poetry bit, I suppose we've moved on to high school now. Now there's a charming tidbit of life that I suppose would have been the time when normal girls turn to the confines of their old pal Diary, the only friend who doesn't gossip and judge and steal boyfriends, etc, etc. (aw man, again with the insensitivity). And yet again, I had no desire to spill my guts onto a page. Maybe putting everything into literal terms scares me. Who knows? All I know is that writing my feelings in a diary never did me any good whatsoever. It just took time and energy away from resolving the feelings.
As I said, I'm essentially the same person as I was when I was eight years old. I have no patience for the general public; I don't trust you until you give me a reason to; I know what I want and I will not settle; I'm quick to be defensive; I do not like, dislike, or show indifference, I only Love or Hate; I over-think everything; I am a snob (not so) deep down; I panic when things don't go as planned. That's pretty much me.
And yet, ladies, gentleman, black abyss, I am typing away here like it's my job. I'm really not sure why.
Partially it's because it's night. I'm most awake at night. Between 11pm and 4am my mind starts to race and all my senses seem to go on high alert. I feel very alive at night, like I could go for a run and just run for hours.
I suppose my point it is that this blog was really another attempt to record my innermost workings for who-knows-what reason, I feel bad for not having kept up with it, and I'm wide awake and feeling sentimental. And yet again, I come through with nothing spectacular. I have no drama, no poetry. It seems to me as though I have nothing to relate to others of my kind, and really, that's sort of the story of my life.
So. This is my sentiment.
To all the lonely diaries I left stranded in transit. To their rusted locks, naked pages, abandoned secrets, and undesired sanctuary. May you find peace in the fact that you were not burdened with the confusion of a girl's disjunction with life, and relief that you never belonged to a girl who dreamed about Billy.
To this blog, and those generous enough to read it. Someday I'll come up with something worth your time. I promise.



