Blogs are strange things. It's like confessional writing, and there's really an egoism that I feel very self-conscious about behind it, especially mine. I have no darling kids to show off. I have a cute cat, who I love, but very little of anything else. No one really cares about what I read or write about, and I'm not even convinced they should. So, I honestly don't know why I'm writing this, other than maybe right now is a hard time.
I just had an embarrassing experience. My "myspace" account was phished and some horrible message was sent out in my name. A friend (that I only knew for a year in high school on Academic Decathlon team) sent me a note hoping that it wasn't really from me because she said she looked up to me. That's sweet, but I find it difficult to believe I've had much of an impact on anyone or anything. I feel utterly useless. I know we all face our little prisons in our minds, of feeling less than what we probably are. People who have nice things wish for fewer bills. People who don't own anything, wish for some symbol of status. People who have kids wish for freedom. People who don't, wish for that affection, etc., etc., etc. We all want what everybody else has or is. Actually, I've prided myself on not being a jealous person, so maybe I'm openly prideful and secretly jealous, but I don't think so. I just want to have some purpose for being alive.
I took this picture of snow in the flowers in Salt Lake City, during a trip there with my college choir. Coincidentally, it was during General Conference, and I was wandering around alone outside, listening to the Tabernacle Choir sing on the speakers. That's back in the day when I used to pray too. I used to believe there was some purpose. I thought it was beautiful to see snow with flowers, since the two come together so rarely. It was a moment of them existing, both pristine and perfect. I'm sure soon after the snow melted and the flowers were wilted for the rest of the season, but it was lovely for a moment.
Maybe there's no long rest while we're alive. It's always a lot of struggle. I had no idea this person I barely knew ever looked up to me. I'm not sure why. I did study hard and work hard in high school, maybe that's why. I always thought my books would somehow take me somewhere worth going. I don't think they lied, but they still haven't told me what it is exactly I'm supposed to be. It's hard not seeing my family except maybe once a year, and knowing that I was the one that made this choice, while spending my days just surrounded by books (as beloved as they are) and feeling a deep sadness that my life is just passing away. Days mean nothing really anymore. Days are raising the blinds, lowering the blinds... over and over. Somedays I don't even bother raising them.
I just had an embarrassing experience. My "myspace" account was phished and some horrible message was sent out in my name. A friend (that I only knew for a year in high school on Academic Decathlon team) sent me a note hoping that it wasn't really from me because she said she looked up to me. That's sweet, but I find it difficult to believe I've had much of an impact on anyone or anything. I feel utterly useless. I know we all face our little prisons in our minds, of feeling less than what we probably are. People who have nice things wish for fewer bills. People who don't own anything, wish for some symbol of status. People who have kids wish for freedom. People who don't, wish for that affection, etc., etc., etc. We all want what everybody else has or is. Actually, I've prided myself on not being a jealous person, so maybe I'm openly prideful and secretly jealous, but I don't think so. I just want to have some purpose for being alive.
I took this picture of snow in the flowers in Salt Lake City, during a trip there with my college choir. Coincidentally, it was during General Conference, and I was wandering around alone outside, listening to the Tabernacle Choir sing on the speakers. That's back in the day when I used to pray too. I used to believe there was some purpose. I thought it was beautiful to see snow with flowers, since the two come together so rarely. It was a moment of them existing, both pristine and perfect. I'm sure soon after the snow melted and the flowers were wilted for the rest of the season, but it was lovely for a moment.
Maybe there's no long rest while we're alive. It's always a lot of struggle. I had no idea this person I barely knew ever looked up to me. I'm not sure why. I did study hard and work hard in high school, maybe that's why. I always thought my books would somehow take me somewhere worth going. I don't think they lied, but they still haven't told me what it is exactly I'm supposed to be. It's hard not seeing my family except maybe once a year, and knowing that I was the one that made this choice, while spending my days just surrounded by books (as beloved as they are) and feeling a deep sadness that my life is just passing away. Days mean nothing really anymore. Days are raising the blinds, lowering the blinds... over and over. Somedays I don't even bother raising them.
There's nothing anyone can do. I'm just complaining. I'm very lucky I've been paid to go to school, but I'm tired. And the thought of not having Mars with me, makes my feelings of loneliness and uselessness all the more severe. At least he needs and love me, and I make a difference to him. What do we live for if we can't make a difference to anyone anymore? Maybe I'm just really co-dependent. I need to be needed. All I know is that when I feel like I can't give affection, lavish it really, I begin to feel myself slipping away. Even if the other person rejects my gift, I can't live without offering--whatever it's worth. Although today, that doesn't feel like much.
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