See title above to understand the current state of my brain.
So much to think about, to process, and to understand. I put it off, shove it in the back of the filing cabinet I have called a brain, try to forget it all in the ocean of things to do, places to go, and people to see. Well, this ship (or filing cabinet?) is quickly sinking.
A filing cabinet in an ocean is a very interesting situation. First of all, why is it there in the first place? What wise guy decides that he is going to take all of his important documents, all those "Perfect Attendance - Except One Day" awards, and all those carefully-used minutes trying to fit that last file, meticulously labeled "Ye-Z," into the overstuffed cabinet and shove it into the ocean without a care in the world? Or was it a hard decision to make?
Alright, you know what, forget that analogy. This is why you should never wait this long between writing. Your ideas all start mixing together into this jumbled mess of files and books and sharks and muffins. (That is where the next idea I had was headed.)
Ok, Angela, get to the heart of this. I am terrified of my own thoughts.
I feel like I can never get away from them. Like every second of the day, they are stealthily hovering over me, reminding me of this or that or the other that doesn't even really matter in the grand scheme of things. They remind me of that look someone gave me earlier that was probably just a result of having eaten too many chocolate-covered cherries that morning, but maybe not... Or of how I have summer writing exercises to do before I head off to the big bad world of college that I don't at all feel in a position to complete.
Let's run with that last idea. I, Angela Kettle, the girl who talks about "loving writing" and "wanting to be a writer" and how "writing is the heart of life," do not feel capable of writing.
Writing is such an interesting concept. Fine arts in general is. First of all, most people who succeed at it are just a little bit crazy. Edgar Allen Poe and Vincent Van Gogh come to mind. Maybe you have to be a little crazy to understand the world - or at least to make it bearable. Without creativity, life is just a string of numbers or of cells dividing and re-dividing and re-dividing again. That may be considered life, but is it?
For me, life is seeing the smile on my 1-year old puppy's face when I come home from work - even though some might say that dogs don't smile. Or going with my future roommate to IKEA, more just to play around and buy cinnamon rolls than to actually shop. Or even just sitting on my porch right as the sun sets, thinking about how much I want a porch swing when I get my own house. And how I should have put on bug spray. When I describe "my life" to my grandchildren someday, that's how I want to explain it.
And yet, I feel so bogged down with this whole idea of the life I'm living. It just feels so forced and routine. Every day, I wake up at the same time, I eat the same breakfast, I turn on the same Pandora station, I go to the same workplace, I use the same interview formula, I go home at the same time... everything is always the same.
And at the same time (you see what I did there?), I feel like maybe I should get used to that. In 4 years I'll graduate college. I'll get a job. And even in a job like journalism where you are out exploring the world, it's still all the same process. Make initial calls, get story, make video, edit video, do write-up, publish. I have more freedom in my job than most people could ever hope for, and yet I still feel like I am going a little insane from it. I still feel like I can't WRITE when I come home at the end of the day because I can't FEEL. I can't experience the world around me even though I am technically experiencing it firsthand. I feel like there is this glass wall between me and the world. I can see it, I can even hear it and smell it... but I can't FEEL it. I can't gather my experiences and reflect on them and see the connectedness of them to everything else.
Which is exactly why I don't feel equipped to do these summer writing exercises. It would be a petty attempt at a string of words. Although it would be my words, it wouldn't be my writing. My words come from my brain, my writing comes from my heart.
And it begs the question for me: Am I ever going to be happy as an adult? No matter that new things are happening everyday, especially in a career like journalism, I can't see myself going to the same place every day and doing the same thing.
The only way I can really see myself as being happy is by just being. Waking up when I want, going for an afternoon walk, watching the kids across the street play soccer. Drinking a cup of tea, reflecting on if Freud actually had a point about that whole psychosis thing. Reading a book, having a conversation with the author in a local coffee shop.And the occasional African safari.
That's how I want my life to be... and that's how people become homeless.
And there is just this huge part of me that screams, "Make it all stop! Slow down! I don't want to be an adult! I don't want responsibilities and jobs and money and all this adult-like stuff!"
I don't know that a career and a routine is ever what I will want. Because I feel like when that's what I have, this is what I get. A jumbled mess of ideas. Bdajhfjwjek.
Things just don't feel right when I can't write.
How do you make a living while still having a life? That's the question I need to figure out.
