Selves are not as escapable as we would have them

I really wanted this blog to be something different from my last one. I was quite proud of myself when I shut the last blog down; I thought that I was finally making some steps away from emotional, melodramatic, self-pitying posts. The last blog wasn't much of an attempt at chronicling or story-telling: it was more of a poster board for teenage angst and frustration.

I'd thought that this blog would be different. I thought that I had moved past that bitter-edged self-hate that motivated and tormented the last blogger me. I find, however, that though I may be older, more experienced, well-traveled, I still suffer under the same nameless, blameless angst, still mope through brightly lit days, still frown at smiles, and write in abstract melodramatic sweeps. I generalize more than I explain. I theorize about the world more than I take the time to actually enjoy the day to day moments of it. I daydream more than I dream.

I thought this blog, this me, would be different. I had grand hopes of writing about important issues and ideas that were important to me. Maybe something dry and scientific almost. I hoped that there would be a lack of emotion, a lack of misdirection. I was wrong.

I haven't written on this blog because I wanted it to be different. I thought that if I held off, things would change. I thought that I could change myself, the way I think, the way I react to things, the way my brain fills itself with sappy self. I was wrong. My pride kept me from writing here. It wanted, among so many other things, for this not to be the truth. For me not to be so egotistical and self-centered. For me not be so pointlessly unhappy. I've swallowed my pride, and put it down on paper: I haven't changed as much as I had hoped. I haven't learned to like myself. I haven't learned to accept myself for who I am. I haven't learned how to be present in the moment, to appreciate people for who they are, to not let tomorrows deadlines be the stresses of today. I am still trapped in the same self-pitying box that I've constructed for myself.

And so this blog is what it is. Me. Myself. Uncensored, yet flat. Personally unpersonal. Practically a bore. Nothing of interest than that that is interesting to myself. Nothing that speaks to anyone other than those who only speak to themselves. Dressed up pretty, spewing ugly. Yuck self, yuck.