I’ve never really fancied myself a writer, or considered myself particularly gifted with words. That has never affected the centrality of language in my life though; the world of literature has always been very close and dear to my heart. As a child, I was always reprimanded for reading books at the dinner table (my parents thought it was rude, truthfully, it totally was – but in my mind today, much more polite than texting at the table); I read through the night under the cover of my blankets, craning my neck in strange positions in order to get along even a little bit further in whatever tome tickled my fancy at the time. I don’t know what it was – is – about books and words and letters and language, it always seemed to be so vast, so huge, so infinite to me – full of possibility and wonderment.
I regret to say that as I grew older I grew more distant from this world of words. Life got in the way. Friends, school, extracurriculars, keeping up with the hubbub of being a teenager and now young twenty something seemed to be more important. And I’m not negating the importance of my social life – but lamenting the lack of role words have played in my more recent life, my incessant need to be in the now, the current, and to forget about the past and memory.
The past six months have been a whirlwind for me. Life threw me a curveball – no, a 180 degree ball (physicists don’t get all up in my grill). It smacked me in the face and forced me to seriously reconsider everything. To be honest I feel like I haven’t given myself any time to really sit and digest all that’s happened in the last few months – reconsider and reflect on how it’s changed me as a person. And I think part of the reason for that is that I don’t want to admit that it’s changed me as a person, I want things to be exactly as they were and I want me to be exactly as I was. But one of the epiphanies I had on one of the many days I spent on my living room couch recovering and wasting my time away was that I wanted a better record. A better record of what was happening in my life, my day-to-day life, from the most mundane and trivial to the hugely exciting and life-shattering. I’ll be completely honest, something that totally scares the shit out of me is just not knowing. Not knowing and not remembering. Too much happens in the course of a lifetime – in MY lifetime – for it all to disappear and be forgotten.
I’ve always been at a bit of a loss as to why I keep a blog. I could never figure out what the best way to funnel my interests and energy towards it (thus, the haphazard posting schedule)…to a certain degree, I think I’ve been doing what I want to do with it, though perhaps not as consciously as I wish to do now. I’ve always been a person of the present – never particularly concerning myself with either the past or future – but more and more I think it’s important to actively take a role to remember.
I don’t think any of this really made sense.