Here it finally is. The cliché "I just went to college, let me talk about myself and my inner feelings/thoughts" post. I hope it doesn't bore you too terribly.
I've never been good at sharing. There's always a sense of jealousy and anxiety in the back of my mind whenever I give someone something of mine, whether it be a physical object or something more precious, an experience or a memory or a pain. But in the past four years, I'd like to think I've gotten good at it. Between creative writing classes and camps and AP English discussions, I've learned how to talk about myself in a way that applies my situation to an exterior idea. I can relate my life to literature and theories and other people's lives in a way that makes me feel less vulnerable toward sharing my own story. But in this place, it is much different.
The people I've become comfortable with are not around and in front of me are a crowd of strangers. They are beautiful strangers, ones that I can sometimes see myself relating to and ones I want to know more about, but strangers nonetheless.
For example, there's my creative writing class. My writing is something I've learned to share. Though much of it is personal ad often written about painful, intimate subjects, I've found a few people who understand it and accept it, whether it is about me or not. But in this new atmosphere, I find myself censoring my writing. A book I recently started reading for fun, called Writing Down the Bones, explains that you needs to just write. Don't worry about who might read it, but write what's on your heart and mind in the moment and try to make sense of it later. But I can't do this anymore, at least not with the confidence I used to have. I find myself thinking, "Oh, if I write this, people will think this about me. And if I talk about this, they'll assume this."
So I'm selfish. For now, I'm keeping my thoughts to myself and listening to those around me. It's a position I've been in before and one I'm quite good at. It's not uncomfortable or unpleasant, though it does feel like I am in a waiting period. I'm waiting to find someone who I can let know me. And for now, I'm keeping everything to myself and holding out for the right person to come along. Whether or not this is the right or wrong thing to do, I don't know. I'm probably cheating myself out of a lot of great relationships and hiding myself from a lot of brilliant people, but this is where I'm comfortable for now. I'm not yet ready to take that huge, spontaneous leap into risk and insecurity. And even though this atmosphere of accepting, diverse people is the perfect place for that leap, I'm going to take my own time to prepare for it.
So I'm in another waiting period, a time to try to discover more about myself when I'm not busy writing papers or reading textbooks or taking exams. I think this blog will be a good place to start. Though my entries have been few and will most likely keep this pattern until I settle into some sort of schedule, I'm going to try to make them count. They are a form of sharing in their own way, are they not? Perhaps they are a bit indirect and cowardly, but they at least give me somewhere to start rediscovering and redefining the way I share my story.
I've never been good at sharing. There's always a sense of jealousy and anxiety in the back of my mind whenever I give someone something of mine, whether it be a physical object or something more precious, an experience or a memory or a pain. But in the past four years, I'd like to think I've gotten good at it. Between creative writing classes and camps and AP English discussions, I've learned how to talk about myself in a way that applies my situation to an exterior idea. I can relate my life to literature and theories and other people's lives in a way that makes me feel less vulnerable toward sharing my own story. But in this place, it is much different.
The people I've become comfortable with are not around and in front of me are a crowd of strangers. They are beautiful strangers, ones that I can sometimes see myself relating to and ones I want to know more about, but strangers nonetheless.
For example, there's my creative writing class. My writing is something I've learned to share. Though much of it is personal ad often written about painful, intimate subjects, I've found a few people who understand it and accept it, whether it is about me or not. But in this new atmosphere, I find myself censoring my writing. A book I recently started reading for fun, called Writing Down the Bones, explains that you needs to just write. Don't worry about who might read it, but write what's on your heart and mind in the moment and try to make sense of it later. But I can't do this anymore, at least not with the confidence I used to have. I find myself thinking, "Oh, if I write this, people will think this about me. And if I talk about this, they'll assume this."
So I'm selfish. For now, I'm keeping my thoughts to myself and listening to those around me. It's a position I've been in before and one I'm quite good at. It's not uncomfortable or unpleasant, though it does feel like I am in a waiting period. I'm waiting to find someone who I can let know me. And for now, I'm keeping everything to myself and holding out for the right person to come along. Whether or not this is the right or wrong thing to do, I don't know. I'm probably cheating myself out of a lot of great relationships and hiding myself from a lot of brilliant people, but this is where I'm comfortable for now. I'm not yet ready to take that huge, spontaneous leap into risk and insecurity. And even though this atmosphere of accepting, diverse people is the perfect place for that leap, I'm going to take my own time to prepare for it.
So I'm in another waiting period, a time to try to discover more about myself when I'm not busy writing papers or reading textbooks or taking exams. I think this blog will be a good place to start. Though my entries have been few and will most likely keep this pattern until I settle into some sort of schedule, I'm going to try to make them count. They are a form of sharing in their own way, are they not? Perhaps they are a bit indirect and cowardly, but they at least give me somewhere to start rediscovering and redefining the way I share my story.