At this point in the semester my brain is fried. Actually, at this point of my education my brain is fried. I am a second semester senior and at this point, I can’t do it anymore. I have no thoughts left in my brain. Which sounds a little funky when I read that sentence back over again. It sounds funky because I consider myself to be a writer- someone who can take a seemingly mundane topic and discover its many fascist with my words. In order to do this (successfully) I need to have thoughts, and I need to be able to develop those thoughts into other thoughts. The problem is, these aren’t just any ordinary thoughts. Well, I suppose they’re ordinary thoughts on the surface- like, where do my socks go? But then it develops into a whole thought train: I’m always missing one sock, maybe if I was a more organized person then I’d be able to find my socks, I should make an effort to be a more organized person, but I’m not an organized person, organization is not who I am, when I walk into my room after I clean it there always seems to be something off about it, oh yeah, it’s clean, I know it’s my room but it doesn’t feel like my room, when I walk into my room and there’s clothes on the floor I instantly recognize it to be my room, after awhile the clutter seems to clutter my brain so too much of a mess is annoying, but if there’s just some stuff lying around it makes me feel good, so it doesn’t make sense for me to make an effort to have an absurdly clean room because I wont feel comfortable in that space and it wont be my space. See, my thoughts always get introspective- even when they don’t have to. And my writing is a reflection of my thought process (I think I’ve written that statement at least seven times in the past year). So when I write, I think, and I think about myself and I analyze myself and delve into my brain until I’ve gone into a trance and have to bring myself back out of it. It’s exhausting. Sure, I’ve gained a great deal of self understanding and awareness- but I am just so tired of thinking. I’ve stopped being able to live in the moment- rather, I observe everything around me, as well as myself. I step outside of myself in order to analyze what I’m doing, what I think about it, and why I think that way about it. I constantly feel like an outsider, like I don’t belong. But then I ask myself: am I really an outsider, or am I just placing myself in that position? I’m acting like everyone around me: I’m doing the same things, I’m engaging in conversation, I’m very much physically present. But I’m not mentally present. Mentally I’ve taken a step outside in order to view the situation with a semi-unbiased opinion. So at this point of the semester, of the year, and of my school experience- I just need a break from thinking. That’s why I tended towards stream of consciousness and abstract writing in order to complete my project: my stream of consciousness writing is about something, but I don’t force myself to consciously consider that meaning; rather, the meaning manifests itself from my word choice. It’s the words that I’m focusing on- the uniqueness of the words, how many syllabus the words has in order to create a specific rhythm- in order to to create a certain aesthetic experience. Interestingly enough, I always manage to subconsciously create a commentary of what I think is fucked up about the world, or something that is relevant to my current state of mind. But it always goes somewhere dark. Like always. I was talking to a friend about this the other day- how it has become impossible for me to produce personal writing that isn’t depressive and semi-suicidal. She told me that it’s just my voice, that I’ve found my voice and that it’ll never change unless I completely change as a person. And I don’t think that will be happening, at least for a while. Now that I think about it, even my first personal pieces that I composed in elementary school incorporated death. (In fourth grade I wrote a poem called “From the Falling Darkness to the Bright Day” about the cycles of life.) So that’s why writing is exhausting for me, even though I call myself a writer, and even though I want to make a living through writing. Maybe I’m just going through an introspective phase and I’ll work my way out of it in time. Or maybe I’ll stay this way- god, I hope it doesn’t stay this way because every time I finish a piece of writing I feel like I’ve been through a mild emotionally traumatic experience and I don’t know if I want to go smoke a cigarette, curl up into ball and cry for hours, or just sit motionless while blankly staring at a wall for an indefinite amount of time. Is this my future?:(also is that grammatically correct? Can I place a colon after a question mark?) having to chose between one of those three options after I finish composing a piece, which I plan on doing a reasonable amount because I want to have some sort of writing career. Maybe I just wont write personal essays, but there’s no way I can write objective pieces of writing and feel satisfied with the work I do. I like thinking about myself, and I like writing about myself because I like myself and I think I’m a fascinating person. Maybe I just need to figure out how to think about myself less, while living in the moment more. So there’s my goal from this point forward: be self-aware, but not too self aware.
P.S. If any of you are curious as to what my plans and hopes are for the immediate and long term future, here you go. I plan on graduating in December, and then I’ll hang around Ann Arbor until I’ve saved enough money to feed myself and pay for a living space that cost no more than $600 for a year, and then I’m going to leave and never come back. I’ll probably find a friend somewhere in this country and go live with them for an undetermined amount of time. I’ll probably work in customer service for way longer than I’d like before I find what I actually want to do, but I suppose that’s the consequence for not having a parent approved plan. And that’s ok with me.