Es muss sein

In “The Unbearable Lightness of Being”, Tomas is a highly intelligent man with a woman problem–he has too many of them. And despite the the companionship and dedication of his wife Teresa, he’s always had a problem keeping away from the warm beds of his mistresses.

I feel the same way about this blog. Although I know that it’s been waiting for me all this time like a doting wife staying up for her husband, I’ve always had a problem committing to it, coming home in decent hours and affirming its existence. My four month hiatus is testament to my unwillingness to be tied down. It would seem that every time something major happens in my life, the blog gets shoved into a corner and left to gather dust until things mellow down. It would be unfair to claim that I never had the time to document the progression of my existence, because I did. I just never felt the need to do it on a regular basis. My blog of a wife is a constant in my life, and I’ve been out about town looking for other things to do.

Since the start of the year, I haven’t really had enough time for myself. Now that I do, my only desire is to send my lonesome own packing to go somewhere far, far, away. Perhaps this thing itching me to do something is Wanderlust, or maybe it’s just a really serious case of ennui. It’s uncertain what kind of bug has hit me, but Raymond suggests I let it out through catharsis.

Tonight, as I was trying to force myself to bed, I came to the realization that the most beautiful and most important moments of my life are those I purposely leave unshared. For all the years I’ve kept my journals, I’ve documented nothing but mundane stories of whos whats and wheres, never the full meal, always just the fillers. Looking back, I wish I had enough chutzpah to write a less cryptic entry to explain my sudden loss of word appetite sometime in September. For everyone else, I was having too much fun travelling around Europe. The truth of the matter is, I didn’t have the strength to say that my boyfriend dumped me while I was en route to Paris to meet him. My pride wouldn’t have allowed it; it would’ve destroyed the whole image of a reckless Eurotrip experience.

Now that that is out there, I wished I kept some written memory of better times, like I did in when I was much younger. Surely the writing of my adolescent years wasn’t coherent, but the content was priceless. Now that I’m in a point in my life where beauty unfolds itself each day, I feel like I am doing a great injustice to myself if I don’t capture my more mature musings. I feel like I should be pressing the delete key less often and keeping in tune with more candid insights. If I wrote love letters with as much enthusiasm as I write my journal entries, I would never be able to proclaim love and affection for anyone. I am painfully self-conscious, and I detest the thought of making immortal something that I can possibly regret in the future.

I’ll publish this before I end up deleting it again.