My Symphony: The Face by Kings Of Leon
My second thought, which might even be considered a bit of a worry – is that you might someday actually run out of insights. That you’ll run dry. Have nothing more to add. Just get redundant all to hell. — Ian Moar
Because I haven’t been in school for three consecutive days (it’s a big deal), I’ve pretty much spent my long weekend [extended version] doing what I usually do on weekends– being me. And that means a lot of things. It means waking up at ten in the morning, taking a long lukewarm shower, eating brunch, reading a couple of chapters from a novel, listening to music, de-cluttering my shelves, eating dinner, downing numerous shots of ice-cold water, and spending the rest of the days doing the same set of “activities” all over again. To be honest, this doesn’t bother me. The fact that I can get through weekends without getting high and wasted like most people my age do is perfectly fine with me. I don’t look at it as a case of a subconsciously self-inflicted misguided intervention. In all honesty, I even feel like this is who I really am [at the moment]. The only thing that seems to slightly make me think is my knowledge that I used to be so “active” in the real world, and now I barely even exist in reality. It’s mind-bugling.
So yesterday I was going over my old posts here in my blogsite. I don’t normally do this. I told myself when I first started this online journal four years ago that I will give it a significant amount of time before I revisit my ancient writings; I told myself that I should wait until I’m 25 and successful before I read the things I wrote when I was just a whiny little teenager. But I couldn’t help it. I re-read about twenty-one of my entries here on a fateful day in August 2012, and I discovered several things.
First, I discovered that, indeed, writing is the art of discovering what you believe. Most of my posts feature my take on different things, how I perceive things are and how I believe things should be. And usually when I write I don’t really know what it is that I think about something until I’ve begun writing the second paragraph and everything just sinks in to me. It’s magic. This is probably the reason why I fell in love with my own journal. It amazes me, the fresh things I learn from my old insights.
Second, I discovered that while documenting noteworthy bits of my life is going to be beneficial to me someday, it can also be misleading in the present time. After I read those 21 entries yesterday, memories of what was instantly came to mind and heart. I’ve always known that I am a very sentimental human being. And people close to me know how much I value things even from the past. Good or bad, I keep them in my heart and I don’t mind them staying there even when it comes to a point where it hurts. Give me a silver bracelet, an album, a used bottle of perfume or a candy wrapper and I’ll still have it with me until the day I die (no kidding). I mean, I was de-cluttering one of my book shelves where I keep my old stuff yesterday and even I am amazed at how sentimental I am. Sometimes I just shrug the thought off, but after seeing literally everything every person in my life has given to me for the past ten years well kept and well organized in my “little” stuff box, it’s a whole different story. Now it begins to scare me. I’m scared that this might be a sort of a psychological problem or worse, that I am one of those people who, at the end of the day, just can’t seem to move on. This might not be entirely the case, though. I know myself well enough to understand that I just give a lot of value to the things people give to me. That’s just how I operate. And it doesn’t matter if people change. Because those things will never change. Memories never change. Just like the amount of truth and importance of my entries in this journal will never change.
Third, I discovered that I have a lot of self-conflictive entity living inside my head. If you’re one of the four people I know who have read every single entry in this site, you already know what I mean by this. My ideas seem to always clash. This has something to do with my indecisive nature, and it definitely has something to do with my realization that I am such a mutable character with an effervescent soul. That’s why I have come to the conclusion that I am in a constant battle against myself. Everything that happens inside my head is just so convoluted.
Fourth, I discovered that Ian is right. I am gradually becoming redundant with my writing. It has started to feel like the things I write have been similar to each other in some ways. It feels like the gist of all my chronicles are all the same sh*t, just with different titles, choice of words, dates of publication and circumstances. I feel like I have turned into an untalented writer who keeps on denying that he’s been writing nothing but a parade of argumentum ad nauseam. Should I be worried? Being a literature and communications enthusiast, I am convinced that this might be the early stages of a major artistic downfall. Maybe, maybe not. The only thing that somehow gears me away from that though is the probability that maybe it’s not just me. I have read a lot of stuff in my life, and if I come to think of it, all of the novels written since the dawn of history have profound similarities too. And not just novels. Even movies, songs and plays are pretty much all the same in retrospect. So I still do not know if I have lost my flair in writing or if life is just too repetitive by nature.
There will come a time when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed or that our species ever did anything. There will be no one left to remember Aristotle or Cleopatra, let alone you. Everything that we did and built and wrote and thought and discovered will be forgotten and all of this will have been for naught. Maybe that time is coming soon and maybe it is millions of years away, but even if we survive the collapse of our sun, we will not survive forever. There was time before organisms experienced consciousness, and there will be time after. And if the inevitability of human oblivion worries you, I encourage you to ignore it. God knows that’s what everyone else does.
― John Green
Finally, I discovered that none of what I wrote will matter someday. Someday, all of this will mean nothing to me, to my readers, to anyone. Just like what John Green stated in his book The Fault In Our Stars, a day will come when none of what’s going on in this crazy world right now will ever matter. I have long questioned the purpose of my writings. Not consciously, but I have. I am aware that there is this stereotypical notion going on about writers being lost lonely souls. And I ask myself, “Is being a lost lonely soul a cause or an effect?”. Given the way I chose to live my life, I thought it was a cause. But now I’m second guessing. Maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe it is the effect of a lot of things: of fears, of insecurities, of self-manipulation, of a bitter past and of the lack of willingness and openness to fully start over. Now I know why I even decided to write this post. I’m writing this post because it may be the last one for a long time.
The issue isn’t my sentimental nature, or the dangers in my conflictive-convoluted mind, or the fact that I am becoming a writer merely beating around the bush; Really, the issue here is my awareness that while I am pouring my guts out to a blank document in the World Wide Web, I could be a source of life and inspiration to someone out there on a personal level. That’s it. All of this boils down to the fact that I am writing to no one. I am not a lonely lost soul. I will be if I don’t get my act together, but I’m not. Not at the moment. I think that it is a choice. It has dawned to me that if I really want to have something I never had, I’m gonna have to do something I never did. And it starts with training myself to take a break from the inside of my head, and try living in the real world again.
The real world is messy. It really is. There is no doubt about that. But I think that it’s time for me to give life a chance. I am now pushing my luck that someday, I will no longer have to tell my thoughts, ideas, stories and emotions to an empty continuum, but to an actual person with a kindred soul who is genuinely willing to listen to what my heart has to say all along.