Half-Hearted Translation of Annoying Self-Doubt into Bloggable Text

What am I good at? Why must I be good at anything? Why do I set such high standards for myself, then repeatedly fail to reach them? Is this the product of too many childhood praises? Of slow, churning thoughts in the middle of the night, concocted in solitude and unchecked by the people who anchor everyone else to reality? Of ego and pride and stubbornness? The need for acknowledgement and recognition? The simple need to make something of life? Magic unicorns? 

Where are the dreams? Why are there dreams? What is the value of your dream, when pitted against the world? WE HAVE LOST SIGHT OF GOALS and hence, banged into the lamp post.

I have suspected for a long time that, under all my wit silliness and weirdness stupid stuff I spout that make people laugh craziness, I have nothing. No intelligence, no useful kind-heartedness, no ability to help others, nothing that allows me to advance myself in whatever social/academic/real life/*insert.. thing* setting that I find, and will eventually find, myself in. Sure I can doodle, sure I can rant. Sure this happened and that. But what about now? I do not draw well; I'll need to improve myself. I do not do well in academics; I should study more. I am not nice or helpful; I'll need to try and be. But to what end? Nothing is ever enough. There shouldn't be a question of 'was it/is it enough?' No one can have such an overblown ambition and be contented all their lives.

Hm. This self-doubting thing is such an annoying mess. I wonder why anyone wants to be friends/put up with me, dear readers. I wouldn't like myself. Maybe sometimes I am likable and ca make you ignore things that are more important. But I'm pretty sure, if I met 'someone who is like me' to have a nice relationship with, we'll hate each other, because someone who's like me wouldn't like to see him/herself in another person, doing stupid things over and over again, right before their eyes. 

I wouldn't need a stern word or kind words or a hug. I just need to tell myself to shut up and do things instead of whinewhinewhine and rantrantrant and complaincomplaincomplain. I just need to tell you what I feel, inform the world, inform everyone who reads, to know what sort of person I'm like so when they finally see it, they won't be disappointed. I don't like to be a disappointment. But maybe I already am.

If I wrote Like This In Class

 "Elephantfuseboxthecolorblue and Nothing Worth Mentioning"

The key to everything is balance, and family reunions are annoying because you have to be there. You would like to retreat into your brain and play Pokemon, but it would be disappointing because the console and pixilated monsters are not real. The human mind treads the very line between the abstract mind, soul, emotional self and the concrete body, physical being, and appendix that brings no end of trouble. Why we do it have left scientists puzzled for centuries, but back then they were called philosophers because ancient Egyptians, advance in medicine as they were, threw the brain away and marinated the physical body in hopes that their dead relatives will get resurrected. We as the living, however, would perhaps love to exist in a non-physical state like a cloud – a cloud of emotions and feelings and the occasional thunder to zap another cloud that annoyed you – and discard altogether what us higher beings regard as sometimes pointless, like when you bash your knee on the corner. But alas, the Pokemon, a mere concept brought to life by programmers and pixels, are concrete. We cannot exist in either state  - as a zombie or as a dead, freeflying soul – because we are human. 

But what does this all mean to us, as humans? Let us examine the intricate web of roti jala that we live in. Each person is in effect a strand, and each strand is connected to the other. If you get enough of these strands tangled up, you’d get a ball of lint – dirty grey – that you fish out of your pocket and wish to discard. It’s a mess, and sometimes, it seems useless. But then you realize, after throwing your wad of lint away, that your house keys were stuck in it. Conflict. Drama. Cathartic experience. Don’t throw your lint away, especially when it is suspiciously big and heavy.

Still, what does this all mean? And what do elephants have to do with anything? Everything, says the wise man. Go fix the fuse box, it’s malfunctioning again, says the wise woman. Silly woman, I can’t do that, says the man. O why not? Says the woman. Drama. Conflict. The house burns down. The elephants watch from afar, pounding the wires they pulled out of the fuse box into the dirt. They are smart, after all.

In the end, it means nothing, because the Egyptians’ culture died out and no one threw out the brains anymore. This has brought no end of trouble, because there are debates on what blue means, but in the end, there will always be someone who insists that the sky is blue and the clouds are white or grey even if you see it as yellow with purple speckles.

So, writing

So, writing. Apparently I am a good writer. I am tempted to take creative writing and see how well my 'creativity' and 'writing' holds up in an academic setting, since I've never won any story-writing competitions except the ones you have in school. For marks. In the span of one hour and a half. During exams. Hur hur.

Apparently I am not doing well in expository writing because I don't answer the question. But insert course seems to only want specific things which I cannot seem to provide, either because I gloss over them or I don't see the point. But that's the problem, isn't it? I can't see it in my own perspective. I suppose I shouldn't spend so much energy and time trying to please insert course because it's not a problem that can be solved by reviewing grammar or changing my writing style. But it's such a waste, isn't it? To do terribly because of how you think. Maybe this time I'll do something predictable, and maybe that will work.

Why does it even matter?

After a moment of thought, I found out that I place my ability to put my leg behind my head higher than my expository writing skills. And my extensive bibliography of Diana Wynne Jones books higher than those meaningful prize-winning, cathartic books that I've read. DWJ's books are brilliant, by the way, because you might end up hating everyone, for good reason.

Oh how priorities have changed.

Hello, Blog 2.0

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