Girl Anachronicles

Since I turned 30, I’ve felt a certain amount of mania creep into my actions and intentions. I don’t know if it was always so, and that I just became increasingly aware of my own nature, to this particular point in actuality in which I am sure I’m on the same league as hippies and hysterical moms. Or maybe things did change as I got to that figurative milestone of The 30s.

But as the mania set in, so did a ridiculous sense of prudence and shame, to the point that I check and double-check the things I write, the facts I disclose. And, yes, I have one particular friend to thank for that level of awareness(yes, you! You know who you are, you lurking scoundrel! I love you, though!), but I can’t really let the blame rest solely on others. I guess that the more things I get to write, the less I want to put “on the page”. The more complex I become as a person, the less I want to show about me.

A nitpicking of the public image, I guess. And it feels weird, because that’s not the way it used to be. At the same time, however, the less I publicize, the more free I feel. Isn’t that funny?

I guess that this strange sort of “writer’s block” will come to a close as soon as I get my first assignment to write something for a class. I have a feeling that my writings will change, and the absence of the word will give way to a forest of twisted facts entwined with thick tendrils of fantasy and fiction.

Realization sometimes dawns in multiple steps and phases. Most of times the first phase is already ‘too late’. For example, realizing two weeks before graduating with a BA in Commerce/Computer Systems is ‘a bit too late’ … or so you think, until you start committing to a house, a car, a way of life that only a professional career will pay for. THEN it’s too late, for real.

A few false starts later, feeble attempts to bleed my anxieties, looking for ways to feel less like part of the corporate flock … it proves that yes, you were late in realizing, and the longer you wait, the more difficult it will be to effectively remove yourself from the huge March of the Android Sheep. All the what if’s have piled up in your brain to form a burning scar that throbs each time you fail at excelling at something you don’t even care about.

So, it’s about time I did something. It might not be the easiest way “out”, but it will be a relief not to stay put just because it feels like a societal mandate to keep the one career you chose when you were merely 18 and thinking with your twat.

Writing has been in my blood since birth, I suppose. Nothing else explains that as soon as I learned to put my ABCs on paper, I immediately proceeded to compose poetry and draw accompanying illustrations. Nothing else explains that I’ve been keeping journals since my hormones started creating havoc on my psyche. Nothing else explains that the only activity that feels like second-nature to me is putting words to the music my soul sings. I may not be an excellent writer, and to some (I know), I lack whatever talent would deem me brilliant to their eyes. Little do they know that it’s not so much about wooing them into helpless admiration, it’s much much more about relieving myself, doing what my innermost being craves time and again. I cannot help it: I write, therefore I am. Can’t be one without the other.

So for the first time in my life I’m seriously contemplating following what my instinct has been since I’ve been a wee child. I won’t give more details than that, I tend to be superstitious “just in case”, so I don’t tell so as not to jinx it. But it will take time. In the end, I hope I have something to show for it. For the while being, I don’t plan to stop writing here, it’s all that’s keeping me sane, away from high ledges and nefarious pills. In the way there, you might figure out what it is. As always, my problems and my blisses bleed into my words.