I’m writing this late at night, though I shall probably finish it at some other time. With my diary stalled, The Unabridged Journals continuing to be unending, and a light schedule at work possibly looming in the future, I feel that procrastinating through writing will at least keep the demons at bay while I sleep. I don’t have to release them all now, just acknowledge their existence.
Struggles are nothing new for me, though they have grown in intensity since I became an adult, perhaps because more is at stake. Here, it could be because I still haven’t explored my corner of Seattle in yet, never mind the rest of the city, nor found anyone to explore it with. Oh sure, I have meetup groups that frequent different restaurants each week, and it is certainly within my power to travel to any part of Seattle that I please on weekends, since I have a bus pass, but most days I find myself at home. I am hoping that a visit to a coffee shop, with some writing and reading material handy, will spark not only my creativity, but my drive to finish remembrances in danger of fading from my brain forever.
There are some work-related issues as well, but here is not the proper place to get into them. I try not to drag too many people into this world that I inhabit on cyberspace. I feel I am free to talk about myself honestly, but not so other people, yet since the main purpose of writing is to be honest, I have found it necessary to relegate my more private thoughts and observations, as well as my most scathing criticisms, to the pages found within my diary. There they are allowed free reign, without fear of undesired consequences, or of censorship.
I shall now stop for the night, and continue tomorrow.
* * *
It is now early on Sunday morning. I could’ve started typing earlier, but I decided instead to browse websites like people channel surf, flipping through sites in which nothing of note has been posted or received.
I was writing of my struggles. I do not mind struggling, so long as there is a purpose to the struggling. If I struggle in my writing, that is okay, so long as it makes me a better writer. If I struggle in life, that is okay, too, so long as it leads to insight. But to struggle for no apparent reason, or to be the cause of my struggle–those things I wish to cut out as much as possible, yet it is the struggle within, kept at bay only by relationships without, that I have battled with more and more as I age. Of goals I should’ve reached by now, things I should’ve done, people I should’ve met, places I should’ve gone. When I turned 25, I looked back with horror at the accomplishments that I should’ve reached, and hadn’t. Those same accomplishments haven’t been reached by 30, either.
But, of course, I am being too harsh on myself. That is why I have friends, to point out all I HAVE done, all I HAVE accomplished. While it’s true that many people my age are married, have kids, own a house, and make good money, they haven’t lived for three years in a foreign country. They haven’t published a book of poems, self-published or otherwise. They haven’t moved across the country to live in a city they’ve never visited. They’ve never made friends outside of a narrow group of people whom they’ve met through work or school or who happen to live right next to them.
Of course I’m going to be behind these people in “normal things,” for the time they spent dating, marrying, buying, procreating, and working, I spent exploring, questioning, reading, writing, and living. And my life has been the more interesting for it.