My Own Beautiful Words

All right, I know I already posted today, but I'm suddenly feeling strange and like I need to write something and reach out to the world at large. Or something.

When I blogged more regularly (on MySpace, believe it or not), I tended to get a little more intense sometimes, and certainly more personal. I feel like here, so far, I talk a lot about my studies, which are important...and I feel like maybe I complain a lot. I mean, I've always been pretty opinionated, and that showed through a lot in my prior blogging efforts.

This is somehow different, though. Maybe I've lost the confidence in a lot of my opinions - or maybe more like the confidence in myself to relay them accurately. I've also turned more toward writing in an actual, physical journal, where I get far, far more personal - which is something I wouldn't be willing to do in a public blog.

At the risk of putting too much out there, there are some things I want to say.

I have been living in multiple mental worlds lately. In addition to having to live in the here and now, in the reality of the moment, I've been wrestling internally and trying to put things straight.

There is one part of me that's hopeful and excited. That's the part of me that's been having ideas and getting inspired and doing art the past couple days. It's the part of me that thinks about how amazing my future is going to be. It feels wonderful; if I could just dwell in that part of myself forever, I feel like I can be happy.

But the other part of me - the part that takes over far more frequently and that has been lingering around for months now - is poison. It's pain, and discontent, and malice toward myself mostly. I know where it's coming from, and I also know that, given enough time, it will go away. It's just so much of a struggle for me right now because it's sapping all my creativity and just making me feel worse.

More than anything, I used to want to write beautiful things. I wanted them to be emotional and meaningful and an experience to read. Since last January, I've been choked into silence - and here's the killer - by myself. I can't find beautiful words anymore. The last beautiful thing I wrote caused me to experience a lot of feelings I hadn't wanted to experience for a long time.

Despite the fact that life and love are beautiful things, all the words I can find to say about them are that they are beautiful things. A lot of the time, when I want to express my deeper feelings about such things, I turn to someone else's words.

Maybe I'm hoping that going to Italy will put some poetry back in my heart, back in my writing. Or maybe I should go with the angst and see where that takes me, I don't know. If I dwell on it too much sometimes, I just become fetal, and it's hard to write in that position.

In honor of the fact that I want to write beautiful words again, here's a look at the last really beautiful thing I wrote - one of the few things I'm still proud of writing:

"I feel that most people think being in love means one must be constantly euphoric in the presence of the beloved. The reality of the condition of love, as far as I can tell, is much more incredible and fulfilling. Lying in the dark with another human person - feeling the steady breathing of another human life and realizing, profoundly, that in that collection of flesh and blood and bone is a /person/ - is both terrifying and thrilling. Within a matter of seconds, reality is shattered and reconstructed around your new realizations, unwarranted and sometimes even unnoticed."