“I think you’re poetic … I just think your thoughts and writing are poetic.”
Every once in a while, usually deep into the night, I reread older entries here in blogphilic. I retrace words that I sometimes have no recollection of spilling, emotions I’d freely admitted out loud for anyone’s taking but sometimes secretly wish I could retract and relinquish ownership of, and stories I sometimes wish I never told. I retrace these words written by my many different versions and past selves and with each realization, recognize that growth is constantly taking place.
I am a chronic repeat offender.
I am… all too aware that I cycle through the same set of themes and stories here, especially here, retelling them in different ways – yet not really any different. While these words come alive through anecdotes and self-reflections and personal musings, sounding, sometimes, like poetry – beautiful, tragic, and deeply emotional – poetry is, in the end, aesthetic. Window dressing. It splashes color to stories …but showcases zero growth despite numerous retelling.
I am a chronic worrier.
When life is not going well – I worry.
When life is going well, too well, like these days – I worry.
When happiness doesn’t come knocking on my door for long days, sometimes months – I worry.
When it comes knocking by every day, persistent and adamant that I let it in – I worry.
I am a chronic worrier.
When something is uneasy, I chew over everything that’s wrong. Yet even when something is good, too good, I worry about how long things will stay this way? Maybe I just don’t know how to settle. More accurately, maybe I’m just too afraid to settle. Too goddamn afraid. I’m afraid to rest easy. I’m afraid to allow things to just happen to me, for events to unfold without my being in control – even just partially – and in that same vein, what it means to trust the process.
I wax poetic about my six years Stateside and when I don’t – I spew philosophical, reflective thoughts about my struggling years at Stanford. I’m great with words when need be, yet maybe it’s because I’m trying to hide the real fact:
I’m not that great. As far as achievements go, these are all I have to spare.
I’m not a model student or anything like several overseas graduates that I know of, nor did I intern at banging places. I went to Stanford for my masters, but so what? I was a small fish, too small, in a pool of giants. I spent six years Stateside, but so what? It’s not like I started my own business, made a name for myself, or anything of that sort in those six years. I glorify these things hoping that they will hide the obvious: gaps and holes of who I am (not) and what I (never) experienced.
I’m great at giving advice, maybe, but terrible at living by them – apparently.
I can listen to others go on for hours and days about what keeps them awake at night or what’s been on their mind lately; I’d follow those with comforting words (so I believe) that it’s like, I have all the right words and sentiments for every story shared. Yet – and I hate to admit this – maybe my mother was right; I don’t practice (enough) what I preach.
“You’re good with words,” she mused out loud, not too long ago, “and great at giving advice.”
“But what are you, yourself, doing?”
Pray tell, dear self – what are you, yourself, doing?
I have… no clue. No fucking clue. I have all these words and sometimes they spill like honey, golden and beautiful – but if there’s no growth, merely aesthetics, what’s the point? There can be many ways at looking at one thing yes – this is called perspectives – and many more ways to retell a story – this is called versatility with a pinch of hindsight – but if I don’t diversify the things I write about and the angles from which I view them, my perspectives remain as limited as when I first started out. My point is, I can retell a story one thousand times – but what is the point if the conclusion is always the same?
I wonder if I need to write(live) myself differently.