A Coffee Cup Filled

I had my coffee a few hours ago, so this is really my first post sans-caffeine (horrible, I know). I have no particular topic, but I do have a lot on my mind. It’s weird when I write without coffee, because normally, I type and type – stop, and think about what I’m going to write as I sip my coffee – and continue typing. Now, I have no choice but to ramble endlessly until I have nothing left to say.

I used to write. A lot. Stories, poetry, songs – it really didn’t matter to me. Something happened down the road and I stopped writing, I lost my muse. I guess my teenage angst was a good enough outlet for my creative abilities, but now that I’m no longer a teenager, I don’t have that fuel – that anger, that sadness, that over-exaggerative view on anything that happened to me - to fire my writing. It’s sad, really. I miss it.

I went through so many phases, when I was growing up, it wasn’t funny. And every phase had its own writing style. When I thought I was a thug, my writing was packed with urban language and a swagger that I don’t have anymore. When I thought I was emo and goth, my writing was painful, metaphorical, and horribly swamped in adjectives and adverbs. When I thought I was punk, my writing was purely leftist thought, anti-corporate, and I was always claiming to fight the system.

I don’t write like that, anymore. I don’t know how I write, really, these days. I guess I’ve accepted that capitalism is a good enough system for me (anarchism and socialism just don’t make enough sense to me, really, although I think they sound really good on paper, but we’re just not a mature enough people to handle such a drastic change in our way of living), that the government is alright (even if I don’t agree with everything that happens in parliament), and the swagger disappeared with my self-esteem when I realized I was not the hottest dude out there (although some people seem to think I look pretty alright, but I really can’t see it).

Growing up is fascinating, especially when you sit back and watch how you developed throughout the years. To read something I wrote when I was 16 is depressing, though it showed me the person I was then. To read what I wrote when I was 14 is laughable, but it makes me miss the days when I wasn’t afraid of anything (whereas I’m afraid of everything now). To read my anti-social rants of my 18th year – ha – they make my day every time I decide to open up that journal.

People ask me the point of life, sometimes, and I look at them and I never know what to say – offhand. Hours later, after I’ve thought about it enough, I have a good enough reply that won’t be used because the conversation dissipated into a conversation about movies or music or books and what makes them good or bad.

The point of life is to experience it, to enjoy it. You don’t live your life for somebody else, you live it for yourself. If it makes you happy to make somebody you love happy, so be it – make ‘em happy, motherfucker. However, if you are killing the person you are for the sake of somebody else, then you’re doing it wrong. You really are.

I made myself sick trying to be somebody somebody else wanted me to be, and I didn’t realize it. It wasn’t until after we broke up that I realized that I was hurting myself because I thought that the person I was wasn’t good enough for the person I was with. That was horribly stupid of me. Now, I’m healthy, I’m happy, I’m in love with a beautiful woman, and everything is going for the best.

How does that happen? I don’t know, but things have went from horribly wrong (I was agoraphobic, stricken with panic attacks, eating disorders, and anger problems) to perfect (I am social again, I leave the house, eat what I want, and have a control on my anger).

You can see it in my writing, if you look close enough.

I think everybody should write, because it’s therapeutic. It allows you insight into the person you really are, so long as you don’t edit it beyond recognition. The one thing about this blog is that it’s all written off-hand, with no second though, aside from the first sentence. I do not edit anything to my posts after I post them, because I can’t help but feel that if I edit what I’ve written, I’m hiding what I feel behind fear. It isn’t good enough, they’re not going to like me, this post won’t even get read. So what if you don’t read my posts? Just writing this out makes me feel good.

And that’s the point of life.

Feeling good.

And you can see yourself feeling good by reading what you write when you write it. Fuck psychologists. We all have problems, but we don’t need medication unless you’re severely mentally ill. I don’t need Xanax to control my anxiety. I’ve beaten it without a single prescription, though I do have a prescription for Xanax somewhere around here should I ever find that I can’t beat my anxiety on my own.

Do you know what I mean?

What do you think the point of life is? What do you think of evaluating yourself through your own writing?

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