If you could know what I know, what would you say?
Would you tell me that I’m crazy? That I think too much? That the world is upside down? Perhaps it’s all true.
Could you comprehend how I feel or understand what I think? Would you tell me that you were sorry, or that I was simply naive?
Sometimes it feels as if there is so much to say, so much to tell, so much to express. At what point does ignorance become happiness?
All I want is for you to know.
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 always wonder who reads this. I try to never write for anyone else; after all, the things I write about are things that bother me, that I need to get down. It puzzles me sometimes when I read people’s journals, and they start to talk to their friends about something, or to some phantom audience. I can understand why one would do that though, since the point of some are to inform friends of how one is doing. More often than not, however, it seems to be an exercise in narcissism.
I wonder what someone would think of me, if they were reading this without ever meeting me. Would they be able to see all sides of me? Would they be able to understand who I really am? Most of the time, what I write is out of necessity, and ends up being some sort of complaint, rant, or confusion.
I think most people would believe that I’ve lost hope. It’s quite the contrary really. Ever since the summer, I’ve gained hope to a degree. Of course, I’ve often stated that hope is a bad thing, and I still feel that way to a degree.
What I’ve come to realize is that I should possibly try to hope for the future, but not get my hopes up. The difference between the two is in length of time. Getting one’s hopes up has a more short-term connotation for more tangeable ideas, whereas hoping for the future is thought of as hoping for something that is currently unknown. If the future is ever to become the present, I’ll try to keep myself more grounded.
And if the present were to come to fruition?
Maybe it would be a good thing.
Though the page hasn’t been finished yet, I feel the need to write. What about, I’m not quite sure yet. Things have been changing so much, there has been so little stagnancy around me, that it will take me quite a while to understand what is going on. Another…six months let’s say?
And these thoughts roam in my head, this and that, coming back and forth like a mass of dense liquid dropped in another mass of denser liquid. I don’t know what I’m seeing. I don’t know what I’m feeling.
I’ve been waiting quite a while to do this; I wanted to get something down the first minute I wanted to make a page again. The whole time, thoughts just kept coming, things that I’d like to write, express, be understood. I didn’t think that I’d know where to start. And I don’t.
Perhaps it’s the draw of the machine, the beauty of a custom interface, the clickety-clack of the keyboard. Or perhaps I’m just weak, and I’m just waiting for a chance to be heard. I’d say both cases are likely, and not mutually exclusive.
So what can I say? What can I write? Only that I don’t know what to say, or what to write. After all, what better way to start again? It feels like I’m moving towards the centre of my being, travelling as the poet through the inferno, but without a guide to the next bolgia.
I wish I knew.