writing. for the sake of it.

i am committed to writing. just for the sake of it.

even if the inevitable outcome is, more often than not, a rambling stream of banal, witless banter. i initially considered using the title “stumbling towards idiocy” in light of that. well, that and my frequent and frighteningly consistent acts of amusing stupidity. in the end, i concluded it was slightly too self-deprecating, even for me. and too restrictive. i needed something that alluded to a more multifaceted view of my life; something that would broaden the blogging horizon, freeing me to write from a more all-encompassing point of view, rather than the one dimensional view of myself as an idiot. occasional idiot is much better. obviously, i settled on ‘postcards from adulthood’. adulthood is the setting. my setting. the state of adulthood is much more of a depiction of where i am rather than who i am. to say there is some distance between the two would be a drastic understatement, but i’m on a journey to bridge the proverbial gap. and it seems my fingers may do most of the walking.

i’ve never written out of purpose or intent. i never really intend for anyone (other than myself) to “get” anything out of what i say. i should have a disclaimer that says: for amusement only. it’s an exercise of practice for my mind. and often, an exercise of my heart. it seems that whatever i bury deep within eventually overflows, rarely out of my mouth, but much more frequently down the length of my right arm into my hand and by a mysterious osmosis, into the pen and out onto the paper. this process is clearly evidenced by my several volumes of heart-wrenching adolescent poetry written to both chronicle and lament the “great unrequited loves of my life” which, during that particular season of life, happened to be every love of my life.

even at the age of [almost] thirty two, i find myself pleasantly and surprisingly enthralled whenever I nostalgically revisit those notebooks. the passionate naiveté exuded from my adolescent penmanship is, even now, remarkable to me. it was my craft. perhaps my personal calling in life, although i was too narrow minded to think about anything beyond whichever love in which i was currently obsessing. clearly i was infatuated with the idea of being in love and the only time i ever even glanced into the future, the only aspects that i considered were within that same realm: love and marriage and all of the things that would come with it. i was in my own world and it was one that, unfortunately, didn’t include any sort of legitimate plan for my life it terms of furthering my education, choosing a career path, becoming my own person.

i would spend countless hours drafting and redrafting, revising words, rearranging phrases, until at last, i was satisfied. i would then diligently and meticulously inscribe the final draft into its permanent home on the pages of my marbled patterned, hard covered spiral notebook. if i concluded it to be extraordinarily exquisite, it might deem a call to the bff of the moment. [teenage girls have a peculiar ritual of cycling through their closest friends and i was no different.] i loved beginning again with a fresh, clean and crisp white sheet of paper, full of empty little college ruled lines. to this day, i still love buying a brand new notebook and a pack of fine-tipped ball point pens. and to this day, if you read the first verse of any one of those tragic sonnets of my youth, i can instinctively rattle off the remainder of it. no matter how long. i didn’t just ink them into my notebook, they are indelibly etched into my heart.

each time i completed one of those little jewels of poetic art, an unidentifiable sensation would wash over me. i have only recently come to the realization that my writing is to me, above all things, supremely therapeutic. (this belated revelation, by the way, could’ve saved me a small fortune in real therapy had it only come a decade earlier).

many times, what comes out when i begin to write comes so fast and so feverishly that when i go back to read it, it is literally like hearing the thoughts, feeling those feelings, facing those realities… for the very first time. it’s my conscious meeting my sub-conscious. which is a very scary thought. ultimately, my writing coerces me into a state of self-awareness that is completely foreign to the state of self-denial that i have so comfortably reside in. which, in hindsight, makes perfect sense why i have written off and on all of my life. admittedly, any sort of real progression.. well, it freaks me out.

i was initially worried my memoir-ish ramblings might instigate a narcissistic perception and then i came across this little pearl of a paragraph in an excerpt from an article:

“Out of the demographic of billions are arising energetic and generous people who break through the wall of sameness and tell others about their individual history a story that has evolved through the years of their lives, and that represents a life they have actually lived. Through blogging and memoirs, writers share the story of themselves and in turn, want to know the stories of each other. A great way to jump into the ocean of humanity is to share your story. So, if you’re wondering if your story is worth sharing, don’t worry about the people who don’t want to hear it. Reach out to the people who do.” Jerry Waxler

so there it is. or here i am, rather. it may be an exaggeration to insinuate i am breaking through any walls or jumping into any oceans of humanity here.

i’m just writing. but maybe not just for the sake of it. maybe for the sake of me. growing up. stumbling towards adulthood.


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