Really, please excuse all this stereotypical girl blog with Sex and the City screen caps thing. It's just pictures make me feel the words and right now this is what I'm feelin'. Growing tired of waiting for Netflix, I took it into my own hands and bought Seasons 1 and 2 myself. It's been nice having the four ladies and their lives at my remote control's dismay without worrying about the sixth episode on the disc being over. Followed by that treacherous two-day waiting period. I don't really know how to construct any of this into words but let's give it a shot... I believe that certain things come into your life for a reason. Now let's take that corny phrase that we've all heard our mothers say to soothe our heartache and expand on it a little. It's MY personal belief that the desires of our heart is an incredibly powerful thing. When our soul longs for something, it calls out a favor from it's buddies in the universe and whether we are aware of it or not, some thing enters our life to aid it. Now I think it's also pretty safe to say that these lessons or helpers aren't always welcomed because we don't always know what our soul wants. Alas, the never-ending battle of mind and soul reading two different books. In my life, when I'm aware of these "soul-aids" I welcome them with open arms and I indulge. I've been known to collect books by authors, listen to single cds, and watch television shows because in some weird way it puzzled into my life. For those mere moments, I understood myself better and whatever situation because of whatever outlet was presented to me. Right now, it's those damn SATC episodes. I don't find myself at the receiving end of the television static feeling hopeless, wishing for love, or even wanting to put on my best dress and have a drink with my girlfriends. Instead, I find myself watching solo scenes between characters and thinking to myself, "Holy shit, that's how I feel" or "I get it now." I may not be able to process those feelings of comprehension into beautifully articulated words, but it's a rest-easy feeling in the soul that clarity has come.
When I speak about the man that my heart has found affection for, I no longer speak of him to understand emotion. I get it and I accept it. I write about him not even to tell the story, because honestly I hate writing about him. Yet, sometimes the soul calls for the words//emotions to be pressed against the page. I try my best now and days to write without thought. To not think about eloquence or even if someone will still think I'm a good writer after it's all over. It's these thoughts that make me lose myself and the joy that I get out of this simple act. Sure, there are still things I wish to keep between myself and the notebooks that sit on my shelf and off the virtual bookcase and I don't write as much as my mind tells me I should. But you know what? I'm tired beating myself up for it and I'll just allow myself to feel grateful when I do follow the page. As scarce as these intimate times between soul and blogspot are, I feel that this is where I'm suppose to be. Experiencing these moments and pulling the pieces together to form the puzzle of paragraphs, transitions, and creative jingles.
I'm scared about a lot of things. While I've dipped many toes into the world outside my comfort bubble, it's sometimes slightly provoking of an anxiety attack. In many ways I feel like I know where I'm going and what I'm doing and in so many opposite ways, I have no fucking idea. The latest bit has come from researching colleges and majors. Struggling between an English and Journalism major and just trying to figure out how the hell one comes to edit books. Looking into S.F State showcased many things required of a Journalism major that really just didn't interest me at all. I don't want to be on television or even be a reporter. The idea of possibly working for a magazine or newspaper is intriguing but nothing I'd really dedicate my life to. And an English major? All that screams is TEACHER. Which I would do if I could accio an entire room of students that gave a shit about exploring the written word and practicing the craft of listening-- so that they may tell your story. This is where I simply just don't know.
What I do know is that my soul calls to write. Someone put me here to write. I don't know exactly what they want me to write about but I know the words called eleven year old me for a reason. It is the simple act that makes me feel closest to myself. Who doesn't want to experience that for the rest of their lives? The choice to become a book editor came out of pure choice to help the fellow writer. I'd love to spend my days with the creative juice of a fellow creature offering insight and grammar construction. These are the faults of my being. I see the BIGGER picture, but the smaller get-theres are always a little fuzzy and it's those steps that scare the shit out of me.
So we'll see where all this goes. The major, the college, the boy.... it's a process I will continue to write about and soak in.
Good thing though is one thing I know I absolutely do have is faith.
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