121008: Fucking Up.

Fucking up is a major part of life. And I'm not going to lie, I have done way too much of such in the last year alone. Especially the last three months. Yet somehow, the funniest part of it all is that I am happier than ever. Is that causal or correlation? I would much prefer to say correlation, but somehow I can't help but think it's causal. Unfortunately, fuck ups aren't supposed to make people feel happy. So this logic fails.

When someone asked me when the last time I cried was, I always wondered why I would keep track of how often I cried within a given period of time. I wasn't aware that that was normal or common. So I actually decided to make a mental note of the last time I cried. I don't remember the exact date, but I can easily track it down. It's been ten weeks, I'd say. Two and a half months. If I were at home, I know for a fact this would be such a different count. I think back now, how ridiculous it was that I cried. I got in a fight with my best friend. I think it was the fact that I was alone here surrounded by strangers for my 18th birthday that it all caught up with me. I remember so clearly being prepared to celebrate the big day with my best friends. I was always the baby of every group, and to finally be an adult and not be with them kind of made my birthday pointless.

So here I am, surrounded by papers and textbooks. My motivation to study and do homework, lost under the papers and mess of colored post it notes. And yet my inspiration to write has found it's way back to me. I miss writing. I miss the freedom of expression I had at home. The ability to write in my now lost notebook of a novel. The ability to draw and sketch, point and sculpt. To create, whether by sight or sound, I had a way to express myself personally. I feel like everything here is exposed to these people I just met.

As I sit here typing, I can't help but take a break between paragraphs, to sit back and stare at the ceiling. So many things run through my mind, my fingers fail to capture all these thoughts into a blog. My mind wanders. I wonder why I can't just think these thoughts and have them typed out before my eyes. I wonder why I can't be at home, sitting outside of my house under a streetlight at 2AM. I wonder why I haven't cried at the thought of losing so much that week. I wonder if I've become heartless again. I wonder if my friends think about me anymore. I wonder if things will be the same when I come back for a month. I wonder why I feel so unchallenged. Mostly, I wonder why.

I wonder why the thought of them losing the baby didn't make me cry. Am I just being too hard on myself? Am I purposely not letting myself cry? Because I know for a fact that I fee the pain and loss. That past month, I learned that it is possible to love someone who was never even born. When I feel the tears pass that initial layer, when I feel the faint breathing of my weak and already damaged heart, I stop what I'm doing. I breathe and I continue with my life. It won't be long now until the tears actually trickle down my cheek, but until then I continue to try to persuade myself that I won't cry. I can make a quarter of a year without crying. Then I can make a third of a year. A half, three quarters, a whole year. Why am I challenging myself like this? Because it's a ridiculous task to put myself up against, to say the least. After all, I'm still writing this unbearably long blog when I have a final to finish.

I wish I had my notebook. My security book. I feel so exposed, knowing that it's not in my possession. I feel like I'm surrounded by strangers I have to call friends. Three short months. Three long months. Either way, it's only been three months. People who have known me for a lifetime still don't know everything about me. It feels so weird having to call these people friends. And yet they're all I have right now. Is what I have what I want? Is what I have what I need? Do I need what I want? Or do I just want what I need? Cause if that's so, then I am lacking something...

That something is probably motivation.
I need to learn how to write again. This piece was horrible.