Once upon a time, many, many moons ago, this blog was perpetually upbeat. Almost obnoxiously upbeat. I dedicate myself to writing humor, and humor I wrote. Every day had a laugh: some kvetching, some funny stories, a lot of verbal situational comedy.
Recently, it’s not bee like that. My writing has been as harried as I am. I can’t force a good mood when I write. I can only write what I feel. Yes, sometimes I can write myself out of a pit of despair, but not all the time.
I suppose I’ve discovered that this blog is a living, breathing creature. It’s as organic as I am. Its perspective shifts with mine. My former optimism has been replaced with whatever “ism” comes with disappointed idealism. My humor remains the same–I still laugh freely and often out in the real world, where few of my readers can see me. But writing the humor–now, there’s the challenge.
The thing is, I haven’t wanted to write “funny.” My heart wants to write poems, reflections on change, nostalgic pieces, and all the self-doubt and concerns for the big hairy adult future that waits for me. But I know that if I write all of that–and put it out there for you to read, you’ll have read my blog and left feeling empty. I can’t have that.
Perhaps it’s because I’m about to turn 22, and it’s getting increasingly difficult to enjoy birthdays. I’m still sixteen on the inside, but my mirror reminds me I’m far too tired to be sixteen.
No one ever told me that being 21 would mean constant oscillation between self-love and self-loathing, ecstasy and misery, pain and pleasure, fear and delight. No one told me how many goodbyes there would be. Or how many wonderful hellos.
That’s the thing that’s made my blog so bare these days. There are so many heavy thoughts in my head. Heavy thoughts can be happy ones, but they’re still heavy ones. I am an extremely happy person right now. Just not in the way that makes sense in print.
My head is in the clouds, but my feet are on the ground. And that’s all I can say for myself.