Sliding

I wonder about if I am a good person. If I do things that even though they don’t induce feelings of guilt or moral wrongness or sad, if the things that I have done make me a good person. It’s complicated.

The scale of good or bad is an incredibly personal one that changes from day to minute to hour to year. It is constantly in flux, depending on our feelings for that day it might be wholly changed from where it was just a few days ago even. Events that normally would be shouted down in the senate of my brain suddenly stand their grounds, their arguments are suddenly more enlightened, more profound than previously thought. The rate at which the arguments begin to sound reasonable, sound adds to the terrifying mess that occurs later on.

After this apex, the climax of bad decision making (though it isn’t necessarily bad but rather emotional and knee jerk) when the cards have fallen, when the chips fall in their respective places that the question of am I good person makes it’s first appearance.

The question, unlike others in it’s family (What have I done, who is this, why do I have that road sign) is insidious in it’s approach. It approaches innocently enough, normally when you’re feeling well enough. You’re feeling hopeful, strong, like everything is amazing and awesome then it inches into your cortex. It begins to steep, slowly turning those feelings into traitors.

After it has infiltrated enough, it then turns to gaze at you, staring down into your soul. Am I good person, it asks quizzically, eye brow raised slightly bemused. I couldn’t quite tell if it has a serpentine voice or one schooled by corporate public relations coaches.

I am a good person, I say back. In my minds eye I am standing there, in a steam punk sky pirate apparel with a rapier held out. This is who I am, when I need to have fights with myself I arm myself up. I make myself into the person I would love to be, that I am slowly turning myself into since my mind and the insidious question can take whatever form they wish.

I am a good person because I am trying to better myself, that I am constantly evolving to be the best that I can be. I know where my boundaries are, that I don’t give in or turn a blind eye to things that I find or feel are wrong. I uphold my own sense of right and wrong, while aided by what society deems is morally right or wrong while seeing the blind spots within it.

It’s just a little complicated sometimes. And that’s where we find out who we are, in the complications.

À bien tôt!

Zed

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Snow flakes and neurosis

It’s a snowy afternoon here, it is much warmer than it had been earlier this week and it is a little more calm. I finished up with the workshop I went to because of how bad my GPA last semester was. As a workshop it was nice. It was a lot better than many of the workshops I’ve had to go / take part of in the last year.

It gave me time to think, to re evaluate. I like writing, I like english however something one of my friend’s said yesterday is kinda digging at me. She said that she had to give up English as a major, had to accept writing as a pipe dream because she has a child and needs to have a career after her undergrad. She’s majoring in psych so far.

It came off as very defeatist to me.

I don’t like defeatist things. There is a limit on how hard you should try for something and lines where defeat is acceptable however to me it should not be accepted right off the bat. It’s counter productive, it doesn’t help anything when you’ve already determined that you’re going to lose at something, that no matter how much you may want or believe in something that because you think you cannot do it, that it is futile any effort will be wasted. It bothers me more than it really should.

I dig in. I throw everything I can into the things I do, I run head long into the unknown sometimes. I jump before looking and I know that somehow I will land on my feet. That I am strong ,maybe a bit more lucky, enough to make my own luck and survive no matter what. So I have faith in my convictions, I have belief in what I believe to be right and what ideals I adhere to. I know that I am hard to deal with, that I am full of sharp edges and things that many people may not agree with. I know that I am complicated, that I am incredibly lucky and that many people would not to chose to go through life like how I have.

I know these things.

It still bothers me though. It’s almost like it’s a personal attack on me when people are incredibly defeatist, when they accept mediocricyinstead of wanting to be better. Do better, try harder, to change how they are perceived in the world and how their world is perceived by them. It shouldn’t but it does.

I am always, in the back of my mind, striving to be better. To be better at life, to be better at being myself and to someday be better off than I am now. It’s kind of self centered to say that I am the only who does this, I’m not. Lately it has just seemed that many people are fine to be trapped into a life where half assing it fine. Rewarded even and it grates at me.

I’m not perfect. I do not have the answers.

However I do know that I can only do the best that I can. And at the end of the day, it’s something that I have to accept.

I am so rant-y in this.

I’ll write again soon!

À bientôt!

Zed

Getting there

So as I sit here, casually attempting to study for a midterm I have tomorrow, I have come to a conclusion. I want to write. That’s all I ever want to do, write, expel words, get lost in a moment of conversing with someone that’s entirely one way.

When I write for assignments, it takes forever to get started. The words refuse to come and instead it’s the blank page waiting. I don’t know for what, since I’m the one that the words come from and if I don’t know what I’m waiting for, what I’m expecting, then the page is no expectation. Maybe something profound, amazing, stellar, something that’s amazing.

So when it is not amazing, stellar but just a start I tend to become rather judgemental. I think, edit away at it to make it sound more polished instead of hashing out the skeleton of what I want it to be and how I want to arrive at that conclusion. Instead it becomes one amazing sentence, a partially developed thesis and then more blank page waiting.

It is as if I am pulling teeth. My own teeth.

It is not fun at all and being not fun at all dissuades me from writing.

I know that I can write. And that it is good, that if it is not good enough for me in that moment then I can always edit more to make it good. My idea of good is very different from other people’s idea of good. I hold my writing to a higher standard because of how badly I fail to communicate with people verbally.

Since I communicate not as well as I liked to verbally, it is essential that I be as clear and send the message that I want to in my writing. Which appears to be a larger problem of why I don’t write as much as I would like to anymore.

The remedy to this, I do believe, is to write small amounts everyday. Then it becomes more useful, more natural. There’s less of an importance placed on it. It does not become this monstrous mountain to climb and overcome.

Well. That’s what I hope anyways.

À bientôt!