the more i read other people's blogs, especially friends', the more i realize that i am fundamentally introverted in my writings, when and if said writings see the light of screen. i am not able to see the big picture those friends see. i am unable to discuss wider topics such as politics, music, literature, philosophy; rather i focus on small topics such as… my thoughts. i limit my inquisitive self to what is going on inside said self. maybe because it seems that there's enough going on in here that i can't possibly begin to examine what is going on out there. i don't watch movies to discuss or analyze them to the smallest detail; i don't read books with the purpose of reviewing every paragraph. my deconstruction works inwards rather than outwards. i am certainly inspired by their style of writing, and read them out of interest - but at the end of the day, i fall back inside the realm of the self - *my* self - and look around to see what i find. and those movies and books are more of a means to be distracted rather than challenged.
[i think all day long, please, for a moment, dear movie/book, entertain me]
am i less of a valuable person if i don't listen to NPR? if i don't post about national health care or fuel-efficient vehicles? if i don't know the capitals of every sub-Saharan nation? will i be labeled as ignorant if i can't recognize different meat cuts? or clothes styles? or make-up shades? am i less interesting if i can't remember movie directors? or can't name more than 5 russian novelists? less of a woman if i don't care about purses and shoes? that does not mean that i float in blissful oblivion. i read. i do my best to keep up with what is going on around me, and on a larger scale, in the world. i keep up with the news, at least until they disgust me and make me feel so small and insignificant, the classic speck of dust on this giant floating rock, that i decide, once again, to retreat to safe shores.
[yes, i can fix my own computer; yes, i know how to change a tire; yes, i know how to shoot a firearm; yes, i played sports; yes, i mount my own furniture; yes, i play musical instruments. so what. i do things i like, just like you]
maybe it's because i believe that, before trying to make sense of how other people behave (or how they direct movies, or write books, or rule countries) and think, i at least have to try and make some sense of how *i* behave and think. if i am unable to make sense of *my* self, which lies here, close by, a thin layer of skin away, how would i ever be able to make sense of selves so far removed from me? selves i can't even being to comprehend, not just as bodies, but as embodiments of human beings each with their story, their background, their traditions, their upbringing, their quirks, their beliefs, their own personal disasters they deal with.
[someone once told me, be nice when you deal with people, you have your issues and problems, but they have their own too, so be respectful]
and it's hard enough to make sense of this self as it is. the ups and downs, the joys and sorrows, stairways to heaven and descents into hell, all in one day, on repeat, like an old dysfunctional juke box. it's hard enough to come up with sentences that make sense in a language in which i dream but in which i do not *feel*, to use the right words at the right time while my brain is running away to the next thought, leaving the fingers behind.
[i need lotion on these aging hands; the rough skin is starting to show signs of time. so do my eyes. so does my soul. is there lotion for the soul?]
the insightful thought of the day is that i project me/myself on people. not in terms of expectations - i hate that word - but in some kind of behavioral pattern. i dislike being by myself, so i make sure my closest friends know they are never alone. i dislike being invisible, so i make sure my closest friends know their absence is noticed. i dislike feeling like nobody cares, so i make sure my closest friends know i think about them, just a text or a call can suffice at times, no need for huge displays - as the saying goes, it's the thought that counts. i dislike not having anybody to talk to when i need it, so i make sure my closest friends know they can count on me to listen, no matter what/when/where we are. it's a total devotion they get, a "no strings attached", "you owe me nothing in return" unconditional friendly love. sadly but not unexpectedly, this dog-like (not my description) devotion has earned me quite the number of "use then toss" tickets. i call them my battle scars. i refuse to give less than this, to a very select few. do i expect them to behave the same with me? no. would i like to be treated the same way? yes. for once, for a splendidly precious once, yes. i dream of being somebody's best friend, and to be told so, as childish, sappy, weak as it may sound.
[30 years and counting, i wait, maybe someday, one day, it will happen]
in the meantime, i end up watching a funny romantic comedy.
at 4 am.
alone.
in my room.
in the dark.
[cue gut-wrenching dreams]
