Monday, February 11, 2008

It will all be okay in the end. If its not okay, its not the end.

Before you read this: This blog has absolutely no point. I thought I would reach one, but it never happened. Good luck.

Oh man, I feel really good right now. It might have something to do with the Mocha Latte I just drank, but I'm going to say its real happiness and go with that.

I'm mostly writing here to postpone doing my homework for twenty more minutes. I know the typical college student wouldn't avoid writing by writing, but thats how my brain works. . . somehow. I suppose it works like this: I love to write until I HAVE to write, then its not so fun. I love reading, except the reading I'm assigned for school.

I read somewhere that if you find do what you love for a career, you will never work a day in your life, but I don't think thats true. I love to write. I can't think of anything more satisfying or fulfilling than a paper I just covered in ink. It is my thing. Somehow, I must write. But that doesn't mean that writing is always fun or amazing; sometimes, it is just work. Its no fun editing and it hurts sometimes to delete paragraphs or sentances, like cutting off healthy branches so that the whole plant can flourish. And I don't have kids right now, but I think the same thing holds true there too. People say that there is nothing like raising a child, but no one would say that there is no work, no pain involved.

But you know what? Things can't always feel good all the time. Think about perfume. When you first put it on in the morning, it kind of burns your nose and floats around your head while you put on your make-up, but later, it fades to nothing at all. All day long people may notice how good you smell, and they may even tell you too, but you don't notice that perfume at all. Eventually, all that perfume evaporates and you shower and it is truly gone. The next day, you spray it on again and WOW, you smell it again! Now, I know that was a really long example, but I am getting to my point: if things were perfect all the time, we would become desensitized to the goodness, taking it for granted. The bad days provide the perfect contrast to the good days. Yesterday it rained, and that makes todays sunshine that much brighter.

I'm twenty one years old now, and everything I think I know now might very well turn out to be foolishness in twenty one more years, but I right now, I believe what I believe with so much conviction because I only have my own experiences to guide me, and I've only had twenty one years to collect them. So please, excuse me if I sound naive or sugary, that is not my intention at all.

I'm moving on at exactly the same pace as my thoughts. I hope you can follow along.

I might have said this next part some time before:

Someone once wrote somewhere (I know, I'm TOO specific sometimes) that we are given the burdens we each bear because we are the ones strong enough to carry them. That really resonated with me. Sometimes, I get a little angry when I hear people complain about things I would love to consider "problems"; if that is the worst thing going on in her life, she must be lucky. But we never really know all the secret pains someone has to deal with, and to her, that situation may be devestating. I can't really wear her shoes. And I get angry with things I have to deal with because I think This isn't normal. Most people don't have to worry about things like this. But maybe its all for a reason.

Maybe some time in the future something will happen to me that will require a strong, resilient spirit. Maybe my future husband is the kind of man that requires a lot of patience from a woman. Maybe when God was trying to decide what spirit should inhabit this body, mine was the strong enough one. Or maybe the writer in me is always looking for the greater meaning in personal struggles. What does this singular story mean to strangers, to the world?

You know, I didn't know I wanted to write until . . . (here, my sense of time fails me) . . . I dunno, the last five years or so? I remember wanting to sing. That was part of my self-conception. I was a singer. But I'm not a singer. I don't have a passion for it. I think I sing passably well, but its more for me than to share with anyone else. I don't like it when people are looking right at me. But with writing, I can pour my whole self out onto the pages and shove it in peoples faces. Here, I feel really seen. ( And no one is worrying about my hair.)

But, you know, I really do feel good right now, even as the pile of homeowork glares at me from the corner, my Cafe Mocha looses its edge, and I am reminded that I alone, in this house of seven people, have a job. Excuse me while I go pay the water bill and return to my studies.

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