there was a time, not that long ago when I just couldn't figure out how to be myself. I didn't know how to express myself, how to stand up for myself and confront my feelings. I didn't know how to confront my feelings to not only my friends and family, but not even to myself. I just didn't know how to be me. I guess I can still say that I'm still trying to figure out my true self, but for the time being I think I'm very close to getting there.
my realizations.
you know, life isn't all about proving yourself to the world, trying to live up to the expectations the world laid on top of you the moment you were born, attempting to fit in with the "in crowd" or climb some non-existent social ladder. I believe this is all plastered in people's head, that this is just the way society has always been so therefore that's the way society still is or should be and nothing anyone does or says can remove it. Honestly, who cares? That's not what life is about, it's more about the little things that no one really notices and when they do, they realize that it's actually a lot more bigger than it had seemed when they were all nonchalant and ignorant of it before; something someone never really noticed because they were too focused on measuring up to those expectations. In the end, once someone realizes they just don't care anymore and just be themselves, it ends up being a lot more easier to move on in life and be comfortable with the way you're living.
the little things.
well, for me, during that time when I couldn't figure out myself, I started resorting to writing. I mean, for a long time I had imagined myself talking to a therapist even if i didn't have a legitimate reason but, you know, someone to just talk to. Someone that could just listen to me, listen to my feelings, my stories, my disasters, my experiences, and my realizations, or just stuff in general like about life. Someone who could bear emotions and dreams and realities; someone who could do all that when I couldn't. But getting to that point would be that i would have to confront myself, confront my friends, and again, confront my family. And because I couldn't even confront myself or figure out who i was, I never got there. So instead, I cowered over journals and paper and books to find the inspiration i needed. Of course, this eventually occurred when I eventually took a pencil in my hand, let the weight of it sit between my fingers and began writing. I wrote and wrote and wrote, mostly about nothing, just everyday stuff, but here and there pages began to fill up with my emotions, my true feelings, my stories, my disasters, my experiences, and my realizations;
my realizations.
you know, life isn't all about proving yourself to the world, trying to live up to the expectations the world laid on top of you the moment you were born, attempting to fit in with the "in crowd" or climb some non-existent social ladder. I believe this is all plastered in people's head, that this is just the way society has always been so therefore that's the way society still is or should be and nothing anyone does or says can remove it. Honestly, who cares? That's not what life is about, it's more about the little things that no one really notices and when they do, they realize that it's actually a lot more bigger than it had seemed when they were all nonchalant and ignorant of it before; something someone never really noticed because they were too focused on measuring up to those expectations. In the end, once someone realizes they just don't care anymore and just be themselves, it ends up being a lot more easier to move on in life and be comfortable with the way you're living.
the little things.
well, for me, during that time when I couldn't figure out myself, I started resorting to writing. I mean, for a long time I had imagined myself talking to a therapist even if i didn't have a legitimate reason but, you know, someone to just talk to. Someone that could just listen to me, listen to my feelings, my stories, my disasters, my experiences, and my realizations, or just stuff in general like about life. Someone who could bear emotions and dreams and realities; someone who could do all that when I couldn't. But getting to that point would be that i would have to confront myself, confront my friends, and again, confront my family. And because I couldn't even confront myself or figure out who i was, I never got there. So instead, I cowered over journals and paper and books to find the inspiration i needed. Of course, this eventually occurred when I eventually took a pencil in my hand, let the weight of it sit between my fingers and began writing. I wrote and wrote and wrote, mostly about nothing, just everyday stuff, but here and there pages began to fill up with my emotions, my true feelings, my stories, my disasters, my experiences, and my realizations;
