Every time I discover my old blogs, I get this, sort of, awkward "did I really write that?" feeling in my gut. I want to say because I've learned so much since writing it, but that's clearly a lie (insert chuckle here). It's actually an awe of how little I've actually learned that surprises me. I think, as people, we like to assume that we're incapable from making the same mistake twice, but who the fuck are we kidding? I wasn't an idiot at 21. In fact, I was actually kinda remarkably brilliant.
::pats myself on the back::
And yet here I am fully aware that all I've gained, since my last post, is the ability to actually not care. Life and experience has slowly eroded and weathered down my will power, leaving nothing more than your stereotypical Thriller-esque zombie. Only, in my version, there is no "king of pop" money to keep me going. Instead, there is a very confused, and frustrated little latin boy, who still has absolutely no fucking clue what is real, where he's going, or how he's getting there.
That's not to say that I have this iron clad ability to "not care" about things, 'cause I absolutely care more than I know I should. I still hurt and get childishly moody over things I know I shouldn't be whining about. But, maybe that's how I've learned to cope with the big issues. I know I whine about the insignificant, to avoid thinking about my real problems...so maybe I unconsciously get upset over little things so that I don't go insane over that which I have no control over? I dunno. I'm only 24...almost 25...and I still feel just as lost as I did when I was a minor.
Maybe that's what growing up really means--this epiphany that life will never make sense, you'll never understand it, so just stop trying. Maybe that's where happiness lies: in your ability to stop trying to make sense of the world. People with money are born with this privilege, and dumb people aren't smart enough to see they've been given the short end of the stick. And I'm neither rich nor dumb. I'm fucked.
Wah Wah.
-T
