The Blank Page (Part 1)

(Entry below was hand written on 7/26/2012)

The blank page is mocking me. I have this tendency to be compelled to write even when there’s nothing to say. Or maybe there’s too much to say and I fear not being able to get everything out.

My job is wonderful right now. I get to work independently, really independently, in the privacy of my room. No one hounds me or breathes down my neck or tries to make me work faster. I have room and space to breathe, and no longer have to deal with the craziness of the city.

The only thing, if anything, that I always felt good at was writing. But as time went by, it just seemed less important. The compulsion to do it thought is still there and it is strong, so that must mean something.

It must mean that writing is something I’m supposed to do. It’s the only real thing that every came naturally to me, and for some reason, it is and always has been, so satisfying. I can’t imagine a time when I won’t be doing it.

I was reading a bit of the Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath tonight, and for a moment it boggled my mind that I was reading words she had written down in a journal in the 1950s on my digital e-book reader. Sylvia Plath would’ve loved that. Hell, anyone would love to live on like that through the power of the written word.

Plath has so many ways of describing a rainy evening. All of the poetic notions and descriptions pour out of her 18-year-old brain and onto the page, and it’s simply brilliant. Her introspection and musings are so brilliant and sharp that it makes me jealous. I wish I had that level of detail and description in my journals. She can paint a clear picture with her words, with about as much ease as it would take her to fall asleep.

When I was 16, I had this weird, mature urge to reach my 30s. I was actually longing for and looking forward to these years. As crazy as that sounds, I can understand why. Sure, the uncertainty of what are the best decisions to make can be scary, but I know what I truly wanted.

I wanted the freedom from pressure that the 30s bring: the freedom to be an individual instead of expected to fit in and have friends, the freedom from petty gossip and ignorant bitches in school, the freedom to live on my own in my own way and style without anyone imposing any rules on me. That part of being 33 is really wonderful.

I tell myself to forgo any pressure I may feel (self-imposed) to do something great. But I would like to feel special, that I accomplished something that has meaning to me. Hopefully I will find a way to get there.


April 22, 2013. Tags: , , , . writing.

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