Like most things I think of, this so called “neocities” journaling plan is getting off to a great start
I mean, its got a stick figure banner with no bounding boxes taking up the webpage. And text alignment isn’t centered because I can’t be bothered to type in the two lines needed to make it happen in the CSS style sheet.
It would appear that my grand plans are being sabotaged by my grand need to be lazy at every step and turn of my life once again. And yet, I can’t say it hasn’t been a fruitful venture so far. And that's pretty much what I'm aiming for.
I’m trying to find a way to smidge a kind of dry humor into my pensively broody thoughts as of recent, but Im finding it hard to do so at this point, so I’m stopping there. From the first few days starting this off, it feels like I’ve gone back in time to a me that I thought was left mostly behind, a me that, in my perspective, was too blindingly arrogant in not only his hopefulness and romanticisms, but also his way on analysing the inner workings of his friends. I couldn’t blame old me for feeling all too eager in being deeply involved and otherwise enjoying the lives of others in a way he never felt before, but now? It feels a little bit… well, jumbly.
At the very least, I don’t feel like I was being too inconsiderate and/or hardheaded in the times Im recalling that the conversations took a bad turn, but I can’t help but ask: beyond understanding how my mental afflictions(tm) work and respecting them, how much have I changed from the start? Does it really matter that Im not acting insane if Im probably going to end up acting unpleasant, thoughtlessly or no? I mean, yeah, it does, but let me wallow here.
Its the wrong question I think. I think the words im typing are dragging me along sentence to sentence.
Right, I think I got it. It’s about investment. Whether this was caused by some kind of learned helplessness (a term Im not even sure is healthy to have so forward in our lexicons, even if theres a modicum of truth to it,) living so listlessly has, even though Ive tried not to let it be so, made me subconsciously averted to it even though Im absolutely staking the ground. I think its all the hindsight from the breakup. The relationship ended because of the listlessness; it ended because I wasn’t *actually* invested. I was and still am invested in her in some way; her ongoing success, my hope (something ive had since Ive known her) that she can live free from her burdens as much as she can, but the reality is that I wasn’t ever in any position to fulfil those lofty hopes in a very fatal way that I didn’t respect. And that is that listlessness. There is other things, and it wasn’t all bad. In fact, Id say Ive definitely contributed to those hopes. But definitely not in a way that could’ve been if, well, I wasn’t like this.
And when you understand that, you wonder: what about all my other relationships? Ill allow myself to yearn for commonality and things still. In fact, I don’t think Ive felt so alive since this whole year because all of those things that make me hope and yearn are still so incredibly there, inside of me. In a sense, I thought all I had left was just this… principled stance to make sure the truth in people’s selves were realized and healed, but in this kind of empty, matter of life way. Like god, I actually have some light left in me. I don’t think I was like, aptly evil or dark or anything (if that were true, I wouldn’t be here) but even so, the underlying muted apathy I felt until now caused me to stray away in ways I should’ve respected more.
Now I wonder what to do with all of this yearning and want now. Because while I can yearn and want, enjoy and vocalize my care to somebody, I realize that I might not be in a position where I could follow through any of these gestures in a way that’d truly matter. And yet, I know for sure that I do want to do those things. I know I am committed to them. But ultimately, I can’t do any of them, because whether this is just intrinsic to me or learned, I am categorically too listless to fulfill those commitments. I *could* do them to a fault, but at some point the returns will diminish. And a towel will be thrown.
I wish this wasn’t true, but I hate, hate, *hate* how much that that is probably just a fact of life. The cliche of “being an interesting person”, filling your life up with “hobbies.” Its not that I don’t disagree with the implications of these phrasings, but I hate if you can’t take care of yourself properly, your reach and yearning is completely sabotaged. For some people, and I wouldn’t blame them for assuming, this all comes off the ravings of a spoiled child; a person who wants everything to be given to them and for things to be easy. But easier access and smoother slopes is not the core of my frustration. I hate how the listlessness severs me from that self, that light I described earlier. Its not an ideal self, nor imagined; it is me. It always has been. I want to be able to *at least* be part of that self in a way where I can follow through with it wants to try and see if it can work. But instead, I weigh the reality of all the options and stare at the bed.
I want it back. I want my self back so, so badly. Then at least all the second guessing and weighing out would feel okay. As is, it feels like I shouldn’t dare experience feeling or yearning or wishing for anything at all. As is, Ill may as well be this “thing” that only invites suffering to anyone foolish enough to let it inside their house.
The only silver lining to this revelation is that Ill still keep living on and allow myself to feel that self. Ill feel shameful of it, but I won’t deprive myself of any of it thinking it’d be better for myself and everyone else. But for now, I can’t see a way to actually *be* that self once again. It makes me sad. It makes me feel utterly hopeless.