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

Right between the eyes

I feel heart sick.

It is one of the worst types of sick to feel, in my very own opinion.  Earlier this fall I had lost my best friend. It was unexpected in the worst way, we had been texting up until he had died. He wasn’t that far along into adult, he shouldn’t have died.

He should still be very much alive. I feel very heart sick over that. My best friend died. That’s not supposed to happen until much later.

People wonder why I’ve been so distant, why I suck at group things more than usual this is it. My best friend died. Did you want me to proclaim that at every function where I was trying to not burst into tears?

My best friend died and it isn’t fair.

My best friend died and now I have no real people who have known me for years to talk to.

My best friend died and somehow this has inconvenienced you.

I’m really sorry about the last one. I know that it doesn’t help anything but still. My best friend died and it really fucking broke me. It still fucking breaks me because he was always there. Even if we didn’t live in the same city or province or he was always. We would always make plans to meet up and just talk.

I remember walking through the snow with him, talking about his feelings and how he felt. He told me that I was one of the rare people who he felt he didn’t have put his facade on around. I remember his smile and how he could wiggle his nose like a bunny.

I miss him so much. I wish that he was still here.

He was one of the first people who met me and said you’re going to make a wonderful top one day. I remember how he told me that he would introduce me to his mom’s friends in the community, that if I wanted to learn how to do things he would help me find people to teach me. Vetted people. Non creepy people, but people that we both knew.

I remember how much he believed in me when other people didn’t.

And how easy it was to be around him. I miss him so much.

And yet it does get better.

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!