On Self Awareness

Back at my finest. My lithargic, crappy mood has compelled me to write. It is true, after all, that I create my best work out of melancholy.

Have I resigned myself to my usual tendancy to fall towards depression? I don't know and I don't care (an answer which is itself alarming). But I have temporarily misplaced my knack for self-inspiration.

I wear my heart on my sleeve. With saluations, no more do I respond "I am fine." I say, "I am glad you asked" and then proceed to say "my life has reverted to the singular (school), I am looking for direction, and overall, I am a bit down right now."

Mostly, people are glad I shared (because they are feeling the same way).

I used to write thought-tangents in a diary. Diaries are usually gifts from people one doesn't know very well (In high school, I would beging each entry with "Dear Susan." because "Dear Diary" was too cheesy, and the woman who gave me the journal was named Susan.) I was embarrassed to be writing down my vulnerabilities, but I would write. I would write out all of my sadness and then try to write myself some advice, that I would then ernestly try to follow.

In college I stopped writing. I lost my creativity in college. Some people find themselves, I sort of turned off. I did not do this intentionally, I just decided to devote myself to other people's writings, music and art.

And then, I came accross some introspective blogs and decided to give it a go. Its nice getting occassional feedback, but its not the same as the written form. For one, my handwriting is affected by mood. For another, I find nothing romantic or nostalgic about staring at a screen. And with the speed of the keyboard, I find my thoughts come too quickly, and they are less deliberate and thoughtful.

I don't think we can control the degree of introspection. I can't turn of my anxiety-laden stream of blather. I know they make drugs to lesson self-absorption, self-awareness, self-centerdness. But I have my pride and own every black thought. Every one of them. Of course I have cultivated each pessimistic reverie to perfection; and it was I, who fashioned the spears aimed at my heart. They are mine and I am possessive.

Still, it would be refreshing to be relieved of them every once in a while. Because once I start down that path of darkness, turning around is extremely difficult. Sometimes I wonder that I am continuing down an increasingly shadowy road, and that the lamps at the sidelines are only drawing me in deeper.