People eat. People play games. People seek comfort in their friends. Some seek assurance through drugs.
For me... I realize I write when I'm stressed. This could very well explain why I choose not to write on the days I'm fervent and happy (ie my days up at Berkeley), and only during the times when even the littlest of things are bothering me. This could explain why my essays are still decent done hours before they're due. This could explain why my blog is full of negative emotions, all scattered into this black cold sea of anger...
Four blog posts, in queue. This is getting ridiculous. I have to stop and start my essays and finish my 30x40" art piece.
One last thing, reading old entries are embarrassing to me. Moments like right now, I ask myself what on earth I was going through to write such a childish post.
More often than not, it's just me yearning for the feeling that was once put into that entry. Love, comfort, happiness, excitement... Friends. Adventures. Empowerment. At times, hatred, complications, anxiety, the losing of oneself.
Ingredients of my life, soulfully cooked into one large crock pot of emotions. No matter how many times I make this very recipe, it never tastes the same. Because, to be frank, life isn't quantitatively measured, but measured by the eye, adding in whatever feels right at that very moment. Sometimes, the recipe can go awry, resulting in a very messy day, but that's why there's always tomorrow, to start over and try again.
Sorry, this could be my fifth post in queue, but I guess I'll post this one up now. Hm, why does it matter anyways? I don't even know who still reads my entries (other than my dedicated blogger pals, of course). I wonder if anyone from Berks reads this...or even from my high school. It's a little embarrassing, I have to admit. Hm, I wonder... If you read this as well. Trying to pry into my private thoughts, huh? ...I don't blame you; I'm trying to uncover my thoughts, too.
Labels: deep stuff