Yo.

It’s been difficult to write lately. Sometimes I peruse other peoples’ blogs, note their wit and style, and wish I could write as interestingly as they do. Then I remember that I only write for myself anyway and that it doesn’t matter if I sound boring or pretentious. Nevertheless, my writers’ block has partially been due to the fact that I’ve been experiencing some odd mood swings. It’s not even so much due to the ephemeral nature of my emotions, but more related to the fact that I don’t understand what I’m feeling.

Some things make me happy. Some things make me depressed.

I think I’m mostly just content, which is a feeling I’m not quite used to yet. It’s almost as if I’m floating in a pool of lukewarm liquid, unsure of what my senses tell me. All I know is that my dysthymic phase has long left me. For now, I have resigned myself to experiencing such emotions with an open mind, with the hope that I will some day understand them.

I remember wanting to keep my emotions in check a long time ago, wanting to become a completely cerebral person. Nowadays, I’m not so sure that this was such a good idea, not that I’ve been able to fully succeed in such a monstrous task. Perhaps a balance is needed in something such as this as well. A lack of emotions may cause a better appreciation for the few emotions one experiences, or vice-versa.

My rationale has changed on this because my experiences have changed. Growing up in a chaotic world of confusion and pain, I wanted an emotional barrier to prevent any further mental agony. Now, I’ve accomplished more, loved more, been loved more, and felt more. Perhaps I now feel that happiness is worth the possibility of mental anguish. Sometimes it feels as if I’m waiting for a terrible incident to revert my views. Life, however, seems to be getting better.

I just wish I knew what I was feeling.

If only I could decide whether this was good or bad. I walked outside tonight and everything felt unfamiliar.

It’s 2:33 in the morning and the streets here are empty. The lamps illuminate darkened stores with a lonely glow. The buses are sparse and the occupants sparser.

Mood? Not quite sombre, but serious nonetheless.

I am usually not one who professes to know a lot. I’m often fairly humbled in front of many others who possess a greater intelligence than me (although I know my fair share of stupid people). I think that intelligence is something about myself that I’ll never be satisfied with. There are too many things to know and learn and improve upon, and the pursuit of such would take longer than an eternity.

Reading back on some of my entries, something which has been hard to do lately, I feel like a child again. My entries seem to be filled with such uncerebral emotion sometimes. It’s as if I can be greatly bothered by things that I should be able to overcome. Of course, it’s writing here which helps me out when I need it, when it feels like no one can understand or relate. It all just fills this written history with bias. Nothing can change the fact that I am still a human person who has emotions, although my life experiences have dampened them considerably.

I feel young when I realize how much these emotions can sometimes affect me.

I’m still unsure whether it would be better or worse to feel more. On the one hand, I can keep myself in check and keep my actions consistent if something happens which might upset me. On the other hand, I feel numb, as if things which should bring me pleasure end up being nothing in particular.

Balance needed in yet something else.

I wonder if I come off as a person with emotional baggage. One of the (very few) things that I pride myself in is my “self-awareness”, the ability to see myself objectively, but this is a characteristic that I am unable to determine within myself. Has my past made me a person of frightening, unpersonable disposition? Do people think of me as someone with deep rooted emotional issues?

I wonder if my history even matters to others. I realize that it’s when I let my history interfere with or affect my relationships that it becomes a problem. I’m afraid, however, that I let things become affected more than I’d like, more than I understand.

The past is something that I recognize as being significant, and I try to keep it only as that. It is something that I learn from, something which can affect me and my decisions today, but not something that I should presently be dealing with.

So, is it?

Well, I’m not completely sure. On a night like tonight, when the midnight sky burns bright enough to illuminate my room, I can’t help but feel unheard, unheard in something I wish to express. What becomes this need to be understood?

It’s a voice I wish to have, to bring me closure, to let me be free.

It has taken me three hours to write this final thought, along with the resurfacing of many distracting memories. Things still feel unresolved, of course, but I have sufficiently quelled my mood until there is a more appropriate time to express myself.

When I see you again, you will understand what I’ve become, and what you’ve done to make me this way.