This post was first written in ink.
So maybe it’s time to write, it really does feel like ages since the last time I picked up a pen and saw the contents of my head come to life, in a neat checkerboard of black and white.
It feels amazing, I know I haven’t said a word, well strictly speaking, written a word about the troubles that walk within my mind. But there’s a sense of satisfaction to the clean cut nature of writing, an almost opposing image to the chaos in my head.
I thought this, university, was a new beginning. But I’m still the same as I was a few months ago – ridden with insecurities about not being normal enough, sociable enough, there enough – really it’s just a fear and perhaps a knowledge that I’m not enough. Physically I’d say I’m okay, but that’s where it stops, I’ve never quite mastered the art of acting perfectly confident, jovial and all round normal despite hours of quietly observing friends around me. Fake it till you make it, they all said – I’m just not quite sure when it is that I’ll make it.
My expectations for now, this period of my life, that I’ve always viewed as the impending yet unattainable future we’re so grand – they didn’t involve old habits, there was no not initiating plans, no pining after things that don’t want to be caught. They involved rather, adventure – well really anything that isn’t this routine mundanity I’ve allowed myself to settle into.
I used to view myself as somewhat of a leader, but for the life of me I want someone else to grab the reigns – to create my own adventure for me – so that all I have to do is experience in accordance with my expectations.
However, I think I’m not warranted to feel this way, given my lack of drive to resolve my current state of emotional dystopia. I’m scared though, I’m not sure of what, but I’m so scared it’s paralysing – I really don’t know what to do. I’m scared and stuck.