This is my second Honest to Blog post, a post free of edits or careful rephrasing. This also mean it probably contains some typos and potentially annoying grammatical errors.
My goodness it is hard to blog these days.
I love to write. I love sharing my life with other people, starting conversations through blog topics, changing and exploring how I feel about things through posting about it. But sometimes, especially recently…I’m finding I have almost nothing to say.
I have plenty of things going on in my head. I have so many things I want to do. But I’m not doing anything interesting. I’m not actively working toward a goal, just an overarching ‘life happiness’ one. Trying to figure out what I actually want to do, what I think is most important to get out of the life I’ve been given. This is such an exciting and terrifying beginning part of my life…I feel like I’m just inching closer and closer to the start of a big rollercoaster drop. I only get to be here a few times—only get to look out at all that’s stretched in front of me and then choose which way I’m going to go, with dramatic differences between the choices.
With all of that, I find it a little silly that I’m saying “I can’t think of anything to write about.” I have so much to say. I am thinking so, so, so much about every possible direction I could take and everything that I could do with my life.
The problem is that I’ve run out of immediate things. I can only post daily updates when there are things to update. Right now I’m in a still period—I’m standing still while I figure out what it is that I want to do next—and so my days mostly consist of waking up, walking to the bus stop, getting to work, working, walking back to the bus stop, riding to my other job, working, coming home and falling asleep. I love the busy-ness. I love the rush, and the way I can lay down in bed at night and fall right asleep and that I don’t have hours and hours of unobstructed time in front of me that I feel like I should have something to show for when they’re over. I was working, all that time, so it counts. I finished something.
But it doesn’t make for very good blogging material. You don’t want to read about the same thing every day, and I don’t want to write about it. I definitely don’t want to write about it.
So why can’t I share what I’m thinking? What I want to do?
I have so much I want to do. So much. I could write and write and write and not finish it all for days. But I’m hesitant when it comes to starting—and I think I’ve figured out why. I think it comes down to that sharing them makes them real. Sharing them means telling someone else what I want out of life—so that more than just me knows if I end up disappointed. Sharing means saying “I want this” and people knowing if I got in the way of my own goals, or thinking that I don’t know what I’m talking about, and will be so disappointed when I find out what the real world is like. I can’t just decide that it’s a little silly or too much work or too far-fetched later and let that particular dream fall through the cracks. It means taking responsibility for getting the experiences I want out of my life.
Sharing makes the things that I’ve so far just been lucky enough to dream about more substantial. It means that I might have to see some of them in a more real sense, and deal with the logistical things that come along with realizing them. It means I might have to let some of them go because they weren’t what I thought they were, or that they simply won’t work. My life and my dreams can’t just be dreams, untouched and still perfect in my head anymore. It makes them vulnerable to damage and disappointment. Nothing is ever how you imagined it, and it’s so hard to let go of the dream-version of your life and actually get to the living part.
And that’s so, so, so scary.