Mortal Bodies, Immortal Thoughts

 

I hate how I've let the world's expectations of my age change me. I hate that I've allowed myself to be backed into a corner.

Somehow, I feel as though I need to be wholly original. Inspiration drawn from other sources must be minimal and accurate.

But is not every trope, story, and belief built off another? Are not we entwined with our past?

What is the purpose of originality if it is meant to remain within boundaries and never be played with again?

These bodies our not immortal, so our thoughts will have to do.
...

I often wrestle with my thoughts, who I am and who I want to be. This blog, for example, is an attempt to give these battles of mine the space to breathe; the sort of space you're hard-pressed to find on a social media platform. Instagram, Tumblr, Twitter, Facebook, YouTube, and so many others where users seem to be screaming over each other in a desperate attempt to be heard. Influencers and wannabes plaster on bright masks, even in serious, depressing discussions, to please viewers. You've got to be loud, bubbly, short, sweet, and to the point if you want a fan base.
But what if I don't want a fan base? What if I want to truly connect with people? What if I miss the sometimes uncomfortable,  yet genuine intimacy that the internet had at one time offered to the lonely and isolated?
That's why I've run back to Blogger. Though, considering most people seem so condensed in the main circle of social media platforms, no one really stumbles upon personal blogs and websites anymore.

I think I've forgotten how to be meaningful. How to be myself and write in a way that satisfies me. I've spent the past year trying to get published in poetry publications. There are multiple factors why that clearly didn't work out. Am I giving up? I'm not certain how to answer that.
I'm not interested in being published; rather, my desire had always laid in connecting with other people. I want to reach, not an audience, but a community of kindred spirits.

However, I've allowed myself to believe that I'm only any good published, or constantly posting on SNS. But I'm miserable doing that. Those are the exact expectations I've been running from, yet I had ran right back into them.

It'll take time, to untangle the conflict in my mind. Even more time will be needed to finish the projects I have slowly been piecing together, due to present chaos.

I lost a lot of sleep last night, due to Brown Butter mewing and fussing for me to walk her all night long, no matter how many times I took her for a walk. But the same cat is now curled up in my lap, sharing body heat with me as we keep dry from the rain under a pavilion in a small town outside of Albany, New York. This is a rare moment of peace, granting me the opportunity to type out these thoughts that have been wearing me down.

There is no hurry. I have no deadline. No audience to please. I only hope to share my work before death comes for me.

For this body is mortal, so my thoughts must live on.