Reasons, Reasons, Reasons

While I often find myself thinking diligently about what I can and should be writing here, 99 times out of 100 I don't find myself writing at all, here or anywhere. It's been a source of great consternation and, quite honestly, confusion over the past few months since I've started graduate school. The many experiences and thoughts I've had should have given birth to quite a lot of writing, yet only sourced doubt and, as referenced before, a great deal of confusion.

Now as I start the new semester, I very much want to break that cycle of confusion and thought without action. I'm not proud of the fact that I'm often the guy who acts without thinking. But I'd be fundamentally ashamed if I became the guy who thought without acting. So, why do I do this?

I think I have an answer. I believe that more often than not I find myself unable to write basically because I feel pretty inadequate almost every day. And by inadequate I mean intellectually incapable of rising to the challenge bar that's been set before me.

I know I'm a smart guy. Concepts and thoughts have always come easily to me. 95 percent of the time I could bullshit my way through an assignment or abstract thought and do just fine. But this time...there's no way I can do that. To sound like the priviledged white asshole that I am: I've never had to work this hard for anything intellectual in my life.

That's situation which is inherently exciting. It's a cool thing, or would be if I actually knew I wanted to be doing this...this economics. But I don't. So I'm stuck between a rock (my procrastination, legendary) and a hard place (not knowing what I want, or if I can get what I want). I should try, though. At the very least I should try. Right?

I'm buckling down, working harder than I ever have. Though, it's still not very much.

I could resolve to do and be a lot of things. But there's just one thing I'm going to resolve for myself.

I don't want to feel stupid anymore, day in and day out.

Please, Sir

In the past few months of actively not writing in this blog, I have been activiely engaged in thinking about writing in this blog. Every thought that would come to mind (though perhaps not all, as not all of my thoughts are kosher enough for even the most intimately acquainted), would come with the desire to write and write here.

So when it comes that I have myself set down before my computer, the blog pulled up and my heart equating my mind's desire to write (as often it does not), I find myself unable to call upon an idea tonight. Sure, there are many things I could write on. I know all of the topics intimately. Yet none of them strike with the same urgency as when I think of them.

Perhaps this is why I am still not a writer, I have not yet learned to conquest the inability of the heart to move my fingers.

Perhaps, all the more, this is why I do not know what it is I should be doing - or how I should know it - or what I should do about it. That said, it is an easy venture to acknowledge that much else explains the why behind the preceding sentence.

Life is a struggle for me, in more ways than one. Of recent days that struggle has fragmented - yet the utter truth of it remains whole and untainted. We all struggle, I am nothing special because of mine nor is mine unique. A line of thought which I had to learn. I was born an utter egotist - I've had to learn many a lesson of humility - humility which guides an understanding of my place in community, not outside of it.

I remember as a child, running on the streets of my hometown in South Carolina at 5 am, dreaming of finding myself caught up in a mystery or fantastic adventure. There was a hill I remember climbing as I ran which I always felt would be the perfect place to be abducted by some secret organization. That was who I believed I was - someone special enough that circumstance would find me, and I would be ready. In a lot of ways, I still wait for that circumstance.

But as I see my eyes opening more and more into the world, I realise not the pithiness of making one's circumstance, however true that might be. No, I realise...something. I guess I realise that I am still special, unique and with something to offer this world. But that uniqueness, I have to find it - I can't wait, nor should I have ever, waited for someone else to find it. I never quite understood why I got so angry when I was told I would be someone special in this life. Sadly enough I was told that quite often - and by the people who mattered enough that I listened implicitly, all the while cradling my anger which was righteous enough.

I understand now, though. We all must rely on others, must lean on one another, right now. But the thing we can't do, I can't do, is rely on someone to rake a timber in the midst of soul, catch the fire and then lead on as if leading with a torch in the midst of darkness. Poetic language aside, if the fire can be wielded, I must dance with it myself before anyone else can.

I have always claimed to be one with a fire burning in my heart. Now is the time to stop ignoring its presence by only acknowledging the warmth and sometimes heat. Now's the time to stick my head in the fire and breathe who it is I am.

Fire once burned my gloves and the soles of my boots, now its time to let it burn my soul.

(Not nearly as dark as the imagery would have it be read. All I say: time to stop ignoring who I am, find out, and then...live it. I'm poetic, it gets me into trouble more often than not. Happy place, people, I'm in a happy place.)