I had a dream last night that it snowed in Irvine, but there was no snow on the ground. It just fell from the sky in a steady pattern and it made the city look magical. I was disappointed to wake up to the glaring rays of the sun.
That has nothing to do with what I'm blogging about. I was talking to Daniel last night about the perils of blogging. "I've gotten more self-conscious," I acknowledged, and it's true. When I'm writing a blog entry, I'm inclined to make it meaningful and interesting and have it all flow together in this perfect little stream of thought. Which begs the question: am I writing for myself or for others? Who is this unnecessary perfection for?
I've gotten too into the habit of writing for others, what with my articles that go to print. It doesn't matter if nobody I know will read it now--what if someone does eventually? But that just goes hand-in-hand with living for other people, which is something I don't care for. I want to live for myself and I want to write for myself.
We struggle daily, it seems, with this. We can't help it though because we don't want to let other people down. Nobody wants to take responsibility for something not working out.
Have you ever noticed how much people don't want to be responsible for the most random things? "You're the planner, Traci," Fei said to me yesterday. Maybe that's true. I'm always the one asking people if they want to do this or that and figuring out the whens and wheres. "I met so-and-so because of you," people said to me at the high school reunion, and I realized I've heard that from recent college friends as well. It would be arrogant for me to take credit for friendships, so I won't. That's all you guys. I'm just happy to contribute to getting you all in the right place at the right time--even if I get blamed for poor planning occasionally.
Anyways. I don't know where this post is going. I don't know where it started, actually. I think...I'm lost--in my writing, in my days, in my life. I'm feeling anxious and restless, like I need to go and do something. Like I'm missing something. Like I haven't been living and, damnit, why not? What do I do with my days?