In Hindsight...

I somehow managed to revert back to an infantile mindset. Hyperbole aside, I've seemingly started endless cycle of self denial all over again. Perhaps that hints at depression- in reality, the anxiety stems more from a psychological facet than from a psychological one.

I don't have a chemical imbalance.

I look on humorously at the idea of looking back at this rambling nonsense in a couple of years. Perhaps by that time, I've taken full reign of my inner being, and have managed to progress to a more stable state. Perhaps I regressed. Maybe I've stagnated like the world around me.

Mature

Growing up, I remember the sheer joy at feeling as if I owned a seemingly endless brain. Connections took no effort, ideas chained together, and finding an internal answer was no more easier than opening up a book and pointing to a line. There was a lack of any barrier preventing personal growth. A seemingly endless amount of ability with absolutely no cap.

This realization hit me like a brick. Someone put a thick cap on my gusher of potential, and completely cut the flow(yeah, fuck you BP). Ideas came more seldomly, and connections were even harder to press.

And worst of all, I had absolutely no patience.

Who or what's to blame for my sudden deterioration? Is it someone? Something? An idea? A thought? When exactly did it happen?

What the fuck turned me into this pathetic excuse of a functioning brain, wasting away my potential through a thick drink of apathy and laziness?

And then it came to me. My mind's been poisoned. A thick veil of gray covered my once bright brain. A giant pile of trash, seeping over and stopping the flow of creativity. And I swear, I can physically feel it blanketing out my thoughts.

The culprit? Living in such a patience-scarce society. But that's for another day.

I admit it. I'm addicted to swift, tidbits of information- blurbs and slights of the whole picture.

I used to pride myself in my ability to to patiently analyze and form opinions. And now what? I feel this crack-like need to jump around erratically from website to website, to swallow every headline or funny picture I can see.

It's a high. A pathetic, self-deprecating high. I've even lost the patience to read a fucking book.

I'm changing this. I'm taking the reigns one more time, and reclaiming the mind that was once mine. There's no bigger shame in the world than wasted potential. I refuse to waste my gift self-proclaimed "gift."

Progress

It's starting to get a little bit easier and less stomach churning to write. I guess everything does get better in time.

But as far as progress goes, a vast majority of us (I'm not sparing myself the rod) fail to see directly what's in front of us.

You can't hide from the truth, but you can be damn sure it's not impossible to be completely oblivious to it.

It's mind-boggling how our minds- subconsciously- goes through a series of self-affirmations to hide ourselves what's really in front of us. We lie to ourselves constantly in some perpetual need to play the ignorant idiot.

We ignore our faults, and we ignore the people that fault us. While a certain situation and outcome is quite clear to other people, our minds just... skitter over and pretend everything is Hunky-Dory.

These entries have no logical flow. I'm okay with that.

Inner Self

I'll be damned if I can figure out what exactly it is that I keep running from. I'm not in denial. Damn sure I'm not delusional. But for one reason or another, I feel embarrassed when truly truly expressing my self. Embarrassed at what? I haven't a clue. Lying to myself? Being laughed at? What a pathetic vice. Self-professedly blind to other people's judgment... so much for that.

All mediums, regardless of how proficient I am in any of them. Music? I hear orchestras and symphonies roaring in my head- but I sit there like an infant, clumsily unable to do any of it justice. Maybe I'm not that patient anymore.

I suppose writing is the one thing I'm not as embarrassed in doing though. I would really love to tackle poetry soon, but for one reason or another, I can't sit myself down to swallow this drink of "humiliation". Honestly, what are we so afraid of?

There's always room for growth.

Words

Words are mysterious things, aren't they? I really want the ability to make my thoughts tangible without any sort of dimming of their power. It almost sounds impossible. I've heard people say that how you write is also a mirror reflection of how you think.

Not sure how I like that idea.

There's an off-balance between what I want to express and what I actually end up expressing. I really have to learn to bridge that gap. Hell, I've already edited this twice.

So I start.

I think I've spent enough time contemplating and little time attempting to achieve my means. I've toyed with the idea of making a blog for months, but it seemed almost... juvenile to do.

More than anything else, I'm afraid of seeing my voice and thoughts. There's a comfort in having your thoughts resting peacefully in your head; you never have to worry about it seeping out. But for the sake of my own sanity, I think it's vital that I do.

I'm afraid I'm not going to do my thoughts justice, or fail to preserve every ounce of emotional realness in my words. I'm not the one to half-ass, and this terrifies me.

And I suppose my voice will get lost in the collective bitching and moaning of the 4 billion other blogs like mine. Quite frankly, that's fine. This is more for myself than for the world to see. By making my thoughts tangible, I can't run from it.

Coolio.