Sunday, April 10, 2005

Still I can't escape the ghost of you . . . .
Ah the joys of the online journal. Hmm, what to write what to write. What are these things for anyway? Are we all exhibitionists or narcicists, or do we actually have something to say? I guess it would be a little from all three of those columns. Though I suppose that everyone has something to get off their chest on occasion.

I wonder what makes people stay or leave. It seems sometimes that I'm always chasing after people or maybe I just think that I should see/talk to people more often than others think is appropriate. Thinking back I marvel over all the friends I've lost in the course of my life. It can be hard to remember these people, sitting here thinking about Elysse or Sarah or any of the others. Some of these people I still miss while others I know I can do without. Strangely enough I still care about the them all, even the ones who hurt me. I don't thing this is a sign that I am a loving person, I think it's more of a drive to have to the good opinion of everyone I meet.

I wish I had that trick of not caring what people think of me. I'm good at saying it and stubbornly remaining myself no matter what, but sometimes I feel that inside I'm still a little girl who is longing for somone to hold her.

I've learned a lot of hard lessons in my life, but the most difficult, and the one I still haven't grasped is knowing which parts of me I need to change to become someone who moves easily through life and which parts I need to hold onto to remain 'me'.

And how do we decide who we are in the first place? Sure I can see and touch my body, but what about the more ephemeral parts of me? How do I define what they are when I still have trouble defining where I end and other people begin. Sometimes I feel as though I'm a sponge, just absorbing the traits of the people around me. This is something I definitely don't do as much as I used to, but that sense of loss of self is still omnipresent in my life. Wouldn't it be nice if we came with operating manuals.

Ahh, good old existential angst. I feel so self-indulgent, pouring these thoughts onto, well not paper really, as if they mean something. I never could draw or write without feeling that I was imposing on the world by doing something that I wasn't perfect at. But there's that saying, if only the most talented birds sang the forests woould be silent. I suppose I should take this to heart; after all, who am I to say I'm not good enough.

I wonder if you, my elusive reader, has ever realised how differently life appears to other people. I sometimes have troubling grasping the concept that people don't feel the same as I do about things or that they could have different priorities. Things can have totally different interpretations depending on who's looking.

Well, I think it may be time to wrap this up, I seem to have been doing this for a while. Well, I hope people respond to my introspective flight of fancy, I could use the feedback, though I'd appreciate it if you left the negative to a minimum.

Ja ne . . . .
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