And just when I thought I'd lost it...

   As you may or may not have heard from a previous post or my actual self; the past few months I've been locked and trapped in what I like to refer to as my "quarter-life crisis". You have to give it props, this pesky little problem of mine. It has managed to linger longer than the remorse of any reprehensible action, embed itself into the brain deeper than anything in memory (regardless of its positive or negative connotation), and excavate the very core of passion and self-respect leaving it empty, confusing, and pointless to reconstruct. I haven't the slightest idea regarding what exactly to do about my existential predicament, but I have discovered a crucial aspect that could in fact pull me out of this to a certain degree.
   I haven't been reading.
   I can't pin point exactly why I lost the motivation to read in the first place, but as we all know, no well-read person can ever hope to be a writer, or at least a good writer. I'd been fumbling with the idea that maybe by reading again, I'd start writing again, and eventually the brutality of my mid-mid-life emergency would lighten up. Whether or not my plan is working is nearly impossible to say. The only firm conclusion I can extract from my recently started project is that I have come to realize how much I missed reading. I wish I would have decided to not be lazy, sit down with a book, and at least try to focus for a small amount of time. Oh, how I've missed my imaginary conversations with Wells, Steinbeck, Tolstoy, Poe, Dickinson, and countless other literary geniuses! And just when I thought I'd lost it...I fell in love with literature all over again.
   This could be a turning point, folks.

A mild rant and its drawn conclusions

   I'm wishing that I knew exactly why I get as frustrated as I do. With people. With writing. With music. With everything.

   Going to lunch today with a friend and mentor that I haven't seen in a while kind of provided me with some insight as to why I've genuinely hated my old location for the past two years. I realize now more than ever that what I lacked in my old neighborhood was a collective identity. I never felt like I belonged there, like I had anything in common with any of the residents, or that I would ever belong there. Despite my desperate attempts to become part of that community, everything I ever tried in order to help me fit in always backfired and proved detrimental to me. I tried acting beyond immature. I tried acting rebellious. I tried to be everything that I wasn't and it wrecked me.

   The people there, as a whole, treated me differently. It didn't matter what I did, what I pretended I was or wasn't, they knew that I thought apart from them and they acted accordingly. I felt it. I could feel their judgments, their assumptions, and most importantly their refusal to listen and consider that; maybe, I could offer a different perspective.

   I find it ironic more than anything, this idea that, of all places, that neighborhood should have been the one place that I felt comfortable and secure. In actuality, it was the only place I ever felt obligated to shut myself away and pretend I didn’t exist.

   When I saw that there was absolutely no way that I would ever be one in the same with this group of people, I tried a different approach. I felt that I was being attacked all of the time through the harsh and inaccurate conclusions that were being made about me. Arrogance is form of self-defense to me and I used it. If people were going to accuse me of thinking I was smarter than everyone else, why not just take up that challenge? So, I did. I upheld myself as better than all of them. I negated everything that they said, I shot down every single one of their ideas, I played devil’s advocate, and I hated it. I hated having to act arrogant; HATED IT.

   I suppose it’s mostly counter-productive now to complain about it, but sometimes you just need to voice why something was as awful as it was; especially if you've been holding it in for as long as I have. I’m glad it’s over. I feel better living in my new area. I’m close to people that I’ve known for years and feel comfortable around. I get to fall asleep to the sound of a city, rather than the eerie silence I was met with every night in my old house. I feel good here. Or, at least, monumentally better than I did before.

Quarter-life Crisis

Oh, look at what I've stumbled upon. A rusted Internet link and works left to collect viral dust under a mess of cyber cobwebs. I would apologize and tell you how sorry I am for neglecting the compilation of accumulated thoughts, but that would defeat the purpose of writing, now wouldn't it? See, the best part of writing is that it's a self-evaluated piece of art. I'm not here for my audience, not matter its members. I'm here for me. And lately, I have been getting bothered by the audience to pick up this blog again, so for my sake, I'm writing. It's not for you, let's just clear that up right now.

I left off two months ago (during what I now understand to be the roots of my quarter-life crisis), feeling somewhat defeated, for no reason in particular. I said that it was time for a change, that I'd work on things, that I'd rediscover myself in the woods, that I would come back in time, and that I would be back in full swing.

Truth be told, I lied. As much as it would please me to tell the few of you who are still with me that I'm back in full swing, I'm not. And, as much as I wish that my current state of writer's block, mild illness, emotional instability, and exaggerated cynicism would deteriorate to nothing, it won't.

I'm in a kind of mid-life crisis, though I'm not midway through life. I suppose you could say I'm in more of a quarter-life crisis? Regardless of the specifics of this crisis...I'm still in a crisis! And that's the problem. The few anchors to sanity that I had left are slowly leaving me. Before my quarter-life crisis, I had writing, music, and debate. Now it feels like I only have debate. I can't write (obviously), everything that I try to create is appallingly synthetic or overly raw. So, I stopped writing. Music has always been more of a fallback to a fallback. If I couldn't write, I'd pick up the guitar. I can't play guitar anymore, as it would turn out. I've never viewed an instrument with such frustration. I know full well that it's an instrument of beautiful capabilities and when I can't pull that out, I get extremely angry and want to throw my fist through a wall. So, I stopped playing. And then there's debate. Despite the emotional turmoils, drama, excitement, and heartbreak that go into debate, it's the only consistent activity that I have left. Unless the whole world wants to fall to hell, I'm preserving it.

I don't know what else to say, though there's a lot left unsaid. Have you ever been in one of those moods when you just want to curl up with some chocolate or maybe a pint of ice cream and watch sad movies all night? I did that last night. I fell asleep to the Last Song. I didn't have chocolate or ice cream though. I didn't cry either. I'll work on that.


Now what?

Whit happens

I'll Be Back in Time

     You know how you have those days that are just...empty? There's no real joy nor contentment,  neither sadness or anger. It's as though you have failed to live and now merely exist. Lost in your thoughts, though you're not thinking anything. 

     Am I alone on this one? Perhaps it's just me. Anxious and nervous for no reason in particular. 

     The idea frightens me a little bit. That I may have become so apathetic that I cease to live. That I may have become so emotional and concerned that my worries and fears are in control. 

     Regardless, I'm leaving you. In hopes of resolution. Off to the most therapeutic thing in existence, God's own creation: nature. It's high time for a little self-evaluation, don't you think? I'll be back in full swing, loves. 

'Tis a fine time 

To leave everything behind.

Sweater dressed and

To the mountains

I'll be back in time, but

For what or whom, I still don't know.

Dreaming Though I Cannot Sleep

     Are they not the most adorable things you've ever seen? Allow me to expound before you think I've gone completely insane.
     I visited the home of Joshua James the other day and he showed me around his farm. He has the most wonderful little farm, you see. He has three goats, several chickens, two beehive nests, and a whole lot of vegetables and fruit! They have a lot of space in their backyard and they've put it to extremely good use. Well, the man has introduced me to a new lifestyle that I'm very much in favor of. He says that having animals in your life is really therapeutic. Who could be opposed to that kind of therapy?
     It feels like a good idea. I'm going to do it as soon as I can. Please join me in seclusion.

     Oh, and I can't sleep. What else is new?

     Lucky for us, I can still dream.


Whit Happens

This Too Shall Pass

     I have no desire to go outside. I still wear hoodies, though it's summer. I still wear jeans because I never get too warm in an air conditioned house. I still don't wear shoes because I never wear shoes.

     I have no desire to pick up my guitar and strum and hum the blues like I used to. She stays in the case where I admire her from a distance. She stays in the corner and collects dust as I spit excuses as to why I can't play her. She stays there to keep me company in my room for one.

     I have no desire to write. I won't scribble poems in the margins of my notebooks. I won't fill up ridiculous amounts of memory on my phone texting letters to people who aren't here. I won't type my life to a blog that used to be my best friend.

     I have no desire to move. I lay about doing nothing in particular. I lay in bed trying to take a nap, though I took one just minutes prior. I lay on the floor listening to vinyl that's been played hundreds of times that day.

     I could tell you what I don't want, but not what I actually do want.

     I should tell you that this will pass over.

     I won't.

     But, now I've contradicted this whole post.

     Don't get me wrong, I'm not depressed or anything like that. Never. I don't know what it is, this lost motivation of mine. Let it be boredom, let it be exhaustion. Whatever it is, let it be.


Whit Happens

Vinyl, Cassettes, and Blockbuster

     I've been irked, to say the least. Not that it surprises any of you. When am I not irritated by something? Oh well.
     Today's annoyance, or rather, this whole summer's annoyance has been with technology. I've never been too terribly keen on how all these wonderful, convenient contrivances work, but even so, you'd think I'd have warmed up to it by now. What's even worse is that I've grown up on these gadgets. Have you any idea how embarrassing it is when my mum comes up and can fix the computer while I would just stare at it blankly? She's always been more equipped in those scenarios than I'll ever be.
     Whether it be the nonconformist side of me or my ignorance, I can't find the same pleasures in our current technology as I can in burned out contraptions. Cassette tapes and vinyl records are beginning to take over my life. Not that that's a bad thing, but y'know, it's odd. I finally got my record player. It's a Crosley CR40 and it's my best friend. My mum gave me her old Walkman a while back after I loudly vocalized that I wished I had one since my iPod never seemed to work. Naturally, thrift stores have become my favourite shopping locations. I can get cassette tapes for as low as 25 cents and 33 1/3 vinyls for as low as a dollar. No one appreciates Instant Cameras anymore either. I do. I got mine for 3 dollars at a thrift shop! Mind you, the battery alone is another 5 and the film is about 20 via eBay. I like it anyway.
      You know what else hardly anyone notices, let alone uses anymore? Blockbuster. I love Blockbuster. I can get video games, movies, television series, treats, magazines, and other miscellaneous items there. They gave me a free Winnie the Pooh sack looking thing too, which makes me like them even more. The first movie we rented was Blast from the Past. Oldies. You can't go wrong with those. Only problem is that now I'm looking for a man who has been living underground with his parents for 35 years. It'd be nice to meet a completely naive, yet perfect, well rounded gentleman every now and then. But, that never happens unfortunately. In fact, my luck is running out with men. Every single one I ever like is either married or gay, as it would turn out. That's fine I s'pose. It's not really a priority.
     Finally, regarding letters. Why doesn't anyone write letters? I don't understand why some people can't talk to people unless it's via internet or text message. Not that I'm one to talk I guess, here I am blogging. I've kind of insisted that anyone who wants to talk to me has to write me a letter. Some people complain that we live too close together for them to send me a letter in the mail. In that case, come to my house and engage in a face to face conversation. As you can imagine, no one asks me to play with them anymore. And that's alright as well.

I'll Send You a Quote When I'm Nervous

     Sometimes, the Golden Rule doesn't exactly work.
     In fact, I don't remember the last time it did.
     But, then again, I don't remember much.

     I am nervous today. For what, I can't be sure. I do believe it's the blasted ADHD medicine that's the culprit of my anxiety. It makes my heart race, hands tremble, arms fall numb, and stomach twist itself in knots. But, that list of ever-growing complaints is for a later post.
     Writing has always been a way to release whatever stress or worry I have. Patchwork poems, questions, one-liners, and quotes have all been scribbled along the margins of my notebooks (I used to use my phone, but my "technologically handicap" tendencies proved detrimental to my privacy). Raw, rough, and ragged. That's my writing style when I need to let something out. On days like these, however, I send approximately five people (usually ones I don't think will respond) a random quote. Then I close my eyes and pretend that someone sent me this lovely little message. No one sends me quotes, but I pretend they do by sending them. Sort of tricking my brain. But not. It's like how I put Twitter on my phone so I think people are talking to me all the time. Today's a lonely day. And it's raining. I'm in one of those moods.
     I think I'm going to go to bed. Goodnight, loves.

Whit Happens

Overdosing on Benedryl and Forgetting How to Dream

     I'd like to think I can sleep whenever I want. It's such a waste of time, isn't it? Sleeping. That's 10 hours of my life per day that could go toward something else. Eating seems like a waste of time, too. I could be blogging. I could be reading. I could be listening to music. I could be going places. But, no...instead I have to sleep.
     I'd also like to think I'm not bitter. Ha! Mmm...no.
     The t.v. that sits on the carpet of my room can only do one thing: allow me to plug in an annoying looking, portable Pac-Man/Galaga/Pole Position/Xevious/Mappy joystick controller. The buttons don't always work and the joystick frequently jams up, but when you can't fall asleep, it'll do.

One word: GHETTO.

Ignore the blank screen. I forgot to turn off the joystick so the batteries ran out.

Of course, I'm in the dark, so it looks more like this.

   
     The dark is a wonderful place. But, it's also the reason I need glasses with a prescription of triple digits. Even in a photo, that one in the dark kind of hurts my eyes. I'm a horrendous Pac-man player too. I can't blame the controller for everything, unfortunately. However, Galaga? I'm a reigning champion. Not even joking, I've been playing that game since I got the first Gameboy Advance. I've sort of been working on my high score since I came out of the womb. 

     Besides my adventures with spaceships, aliens, and trophies that don't exist, I've been having difficulty dreaming. I know that someone with a degree says that we all dream at least five times a night or whatever, but that's really hard to believe right now. When I eventually fall asleep, I don't remember anything. Have I forgotten how to dream? The last dream I remember was a nightmare. I hope I haven't forgotten how to dream, a nightmare would be a horrible way to end it, don't you think? 

     I've been forcing myself to write also. Hence; poor word choice, sloppy sentence structures, and NO MORALS TO MY INCESSANT COMPLAINING. 

     They say that to be a good writer, you have to write everyday; even if it's poor writing. So, here is me sucking it up, vomiting thoughts onto a keyboard, and hoping my writer's block will go away. 

Whit Happens

P.S. If you don't know any of those games on the controller, Google them. They're fun. Well...I think they are, but what do I know? Find out for yourself.
P.P.S. In case you're having a not-so-grand day, here's a photo (compliments of Cassy) that I bet will make you smile. Or not. 

Well, you can't just set it down!

     

Frigid July

     Yes, it is mid July and I really do feel like this most of time. The sad part is that I'm speaking quite literally. Yes, you read that right too. I'm not even attempting to be profound and tell you all how frigid my soul is (But, if you know me at all, you ought to have figured that out by now... That, and there really isn't anything profound about a person with a cold heart). I haven't seen the sun much all summer long. Shockingly enough, I'm alright with that. It's been bugging me more than usual when girls stand in front of the mirror and deliberately degrade themselves in order to get compliments. I've always been one to agree with them, but...then again, I've always been one to not have friends, so...perhaps they're related. Lately, all the girls have been complaining about how "pasty-white" they are, when everyone around them can clearly recognize that they've been frying themselves alive since the day school got out. Personally, I'm totally fine if I go back to school even lighter than when we got out. It'll give them less to compare themselves to, and me, less to plug my ears about. 

     Speaking of plugging my ears, I got a phone call tonight from a girl I don't know who was demanding to talk to one of my friends. My friend was never with me. Not only did the sound of her voice make me want to slit my throat, but her inability to comprehend that I was not with my friend was astounding. You know the statistic that 1/5 of Americans can't locate the United States on a world map? I'm pretty sure she's a large contribution to that. 

     There's a reason I don't have friends. I'm overly blunt and rude.
     Enjoy your skin cancer.

Whit Happens

Join Me on the Rooftop in a Stolen Armchair

     Allow me to toot my own horn for a moment: I am so cool. There, I'm done.

     Anyway, last week I think it was, or maybe the week before, I found an entrance to the roof of my school. It was a rather epic adventure if I do say so myself. When I have the energy I'll post the video that goes with that tale. Here's nice imagery though, I want to take this armchair that I found (or rather, I sort of stole from the drama department...but no one's using it. So, it's fine) and take it up on the roof. That's not even the best part. I want to do a photo shoot (using my instant camera of course), and sit in this armchair with a fishing pole hanging over the edge. It looks nice in my head, don't crush my imagination. Care to join me? There's plenty of room up there.
   
     If we topple over, it'll be the perfect way to close this post of horrible writings: Whit Happens.