Confession: Maybe it’s not that I am “always exhausted” – it’s simply that I don’t feel like writing here these days.
Why? Good question. I have two hypotheses as possible answers.
One: The conversations that I engage in are no longer so easily transcribed to be shared free-for-all. Wait. Let me rephrase and try again: these conversations that I have – now with new faces and personalities – are not all mere conversations. Differences in opinions… exchange of ideas… swapping stories… when eventful – most aren’t – they’re not as straightforward as say, a shared wisdom. I don’t know these people well enough just yet too, to paint their characters via my words alone, through my (limited) lenses.
Two: I cannot yet articulate the struggles that I am going through. Challenges. Things aren’t bad at all – nothing’s wrong, strictly speaking – but I don’t feel alright. See? I’m barely making sense, what more to write whole entries on what are, essentially, a collection of complaints and rants on myself pre-Stanford versus post-Stanford. I am desperate to retrieve the girl I was, do you understand me? Except… am I… have I been… playing the game all wrong, all along? For instance tonight, on a phone call with Eldest Sis – I almost lost it, both patience and tears. Frustrated. Angry. Shaken. “Fine,” she said at one point in our conversation, “It’s either she’s as competent as you claim she is …or in that same amount of time she spends becoming competent, you, on the other hand – you’re just spending too much of your time complaining.”
Confession: I lied. I know exactly which of the two is my true answer behind my difficulty to be here these days. Because here, I have to be honest. It’s the unspoken rule. It’s the self-promise I made. It’s the fundamental pillar on which blogphilic rests upon. It’s also the truth that thus begs this telling, though painfully obvious, question:
If I can’t be honest with myself – how could I possibly be here, writing stories?