I've been thinking about writing a lot lately. Thinking is not doing, oddly enough. It came as a major surprise to me. I was under the impression that the mere act of thinking was action in and of itself productive. It's pretty easy to overlook how quickly thoughts can dissipate before you can get them down. There's a definite feeling to it as it's happening if you're paying attention, like little pieces of yourself just dying off like old skin cells and floating into the atmosphere. This calls to relevance the question of whether or not the thoughts were even worth putting down. If they had meant a damn thing, surely they'd stick out and beg to be appreciated in the context of time. Well, they're gone now and it's time to move forward.
Let's go through the typical livejournal topics. First and foremost, I'm not dating anybody and I'm not wishing I was or wasn't. There's always going to be uncertainty until something tangible happens that I can make something of in that department. I've had the fortune to know many great females and many terrible ones, often mistaking one for the other and almost routinely fucking it up somehow. I've got a lot of growing up to do.
Work? Yeah, sure. I do that a little bit. Clock in early, leave four hours or so later. It's very good for the ego to have my own office and overhear the incessant complains of my co-workers about how frustrating our little retail jobs are. Granted, I do a lot less work than I could be but a hell of a lot more than anybody realizes. I can't help but smile every time somebody finds a better job and puts in their two weeks notice. I hope to join them soon, but I'm not exactly holding my breath to ever find a job that won't be repetitive, trivial and nerve-wracking all at the same time. It's a loss every time you fight it but you do a little better each time.
I moved to a new house with my parents. It's bigger than our last one and smaller than the house I lived in most of my life. There's just enough room for me to be comfortable and have my own space, yet there's that ever-present feeling that I've got to get out of here soon. It's pretty much expected of me in general and I consider it an opportunity to make a move on my life. I haven't ever been very good at that sort of progress. My priorities and ambition are much different than those I was raised to believe I would someday hold a candle for. I haven't even lit a path, but I've always been somewhat skilled at seeing in the dark.
Which brings me to my next update, and that's my dread of the education system. I was spoiled for being told in high school that I didn't even need to go to college if I wanted to pursue a career as a writer. While a degree would certainly help me prove my ability, I don't see that it would hold any weight as to my worth or talent. If I have actually been given a gift, it is arguable by some that I've been wasting it. I don't see how writing bullshit essays on the relevance of classic literature in modern times is beneficial to me. I cannot begin to fathom how forcing myself to produce a work of any kind under a brief time constriction can do more than prepare myself for possible deadlines in the future. I most certainly don't grasp how sitting and having to listen to thirty-five different people who have raided the set of some British soap opera to appear more like the writers they've seen on the back covers of books give their interpretation of the same awful Plath poem can do anything less than further my squandering of my writing hand if for nothing but fear that I will someday be revered only by young students who will attempt to replicate and yet never fully grasp my work. Being the next Shakespeare would suck, too. I have no plans of going back unless I choose a major for the purposes of learning how to make more money and feign success in my free time.
I think that about covers it.
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robweyman's journal
