So, this is the first personal blog post I've vomited up onto the interweb, which isn't to say that I haven't had opinions I've wished to express in a public forum, simply that I was not familiar with the format. I started by writing a few articles for a performance psychology website created by one of my professors here at Boston University (Amplifying Performance), and being the fan of creative and analytical writing that I am, I've now decided to leak my ill-advised issue-centered rants into an arena not solely reserved for any specific topic.
A good day is the day that I look at this blank page and don’t feel compelled to fill it with my ramblings, the days when all of my gibberish lays dormant in the back of my mind. It is no secret that in order to be a decent writer one has to have experiences to write about, stories worth telling, and interpretations of this world that are compelling and authentic, but if you happen to be like me, you realize that rational interpretation is not overly conducive to the production of happiness. These observations often paint a less than glamorous portrait of our society, our species, or us as individuals, while concurrently revealing the humanity and the endearing fallibility we all possess. The brooding poet and the disheveled scribe are stereotypes just like any other, they exist because someone, somewhere, personifies them. The novelist who manages to concoct a disturbing plot line whose twists and turns seem nonsensical is haunted by the confusion and constant frustration of seeing things that no one else wants to, or having a perspective no one else can manage to understand. For every demented movie that grips the subconscious of an audience, there are a thousand more that the writer thought were too unsettling to pour onto the page.
I have a unique method of describing things and events in detail before examining what they mean or what I think about them, but when it comes to attempting the interpretation of my own mind, I employ a slew of avoidance techniques, textbook exhibitions of dodging my own thoughts. . . I reach the spot on the page where I have to say what I feel, and that indicates that it is past time to use the Windows update tool or perform a disk cleanup. The truth is that I want the voices to shut up. The majority of us would prefer not to think violently or overly analytically. I’d prefer not to seek out the historical allusions and social commentary in every bit of media that bombards my senses, but I do, and it is part of who I am. I study psychology because I ultimately believe it helps me to understand the inner workings of my own mind, it is a selfish endeavor, and a purely intellectual one.
I aim to be a happier person, and while accounting for the things in my life that make me stronger, I also tend to indulge in some basic tomfoolery and debauchery. I have no desire to be surrounded by psychologically disturbed people, because I have plenty of issues that I constantly struggle with. I yearn for positivity and humor in my compatriots on this journey, because it offsets the negativity and self-criticism that is incubated by my own brain. So what do I do?
When I write, I feel better, especially when addressing personal topics, but it also unleashes this monster within me. The feeling of vulnerability, the idea of creating something that doesn’t stay concealed in the sanctity of one’s own mind, but is instead placed in a public forum to be assessed by other human beings having completely different perspectives. . . it’s terrifying. Expressing vulnerability on the page, however, creates familiarity with the feeling, and it influences one’s willingness to reveal aspects of their character with the people around them, something that has proven paramount in true human connection as well as happiness.
Thusly, I begin.
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