(and in what shadowed fascination dwells the dreaming heart?)

I often wonder why I write down the strange and insipid things I think. My daily deviations in confidence are so far apart in magnitude yet so close together in frequency that they could probably produce enough energy to power a small city. (also, beware the scientific faculties of a crazed metaphysician.) I chase my demons with hindsight and am incredibly neurotic. I over analyze things. Yet I have all these lovely inklings of worlds-to-come and noble acts of humanity, fiction and non. The tension between reality and idealism is enough to make a person snap, and some of us more easily than others. That’s why being a bleeding heart hippie is such a villainized profession, I think. I’m also completely convinced I’m the most wretched, boring, and untalented person that exists. But only 50% of the time. The other fifty, I pity everyone who’s never met me.

The reason that this dichotomy of mind is so annoying is because I really do have a lot to say. (in case you’ve never noticed.) And my changeability of mood makes it exceedingly difficult to *commit* to anything. Whatever I say today, I may disagree with tomorrow. Or, more accurately, I’ll wish I hadn’t said it *out loud*(or on the internet). Though I feel with conviction the things I do, I’m like a spooked horse when it comes to being okay with the way I feel. I’m so full of self doubt that I can talk myself out of one idea and into another, directly opposed, in the space of ten seconds. The reason that I can retain any sort of faith in myself at all is because I still must bow to my higher power: emotions. I’m incredibly skilled at logicizing my impulses, but I can never escape the feeling of wrong, even if I can adapt greatly to its presence. If I look back through years of flattened notebooks and loose scribbles, I always come back to this one, same place. There is a place where I feel balanced. A place where I feel well. It is the place where I believe in something, and that doesn’t necessarily mean God, though It can be included. It is a place where I can recognize how tiny I am in comparison to the universe around me. But this hardly makes me insignificant, because I am part of the universe around me. The way I treat the lives and energy around me ripples out, good and bad. To strive to be gentle, and tolerant, yet strong and with purpose is what I dream of. With purpose is by far the hardest to stick to, as I think many others would agree. (Or so literature would have you believe, anyway.)

I must resolve to no longer sabotage myself out of fear: I must follow through and refuse to buckle under the pressure of ‘normalcy’. I should rather keep in mind that I hardly have any idea what normalcy amounts to, anyway. And I must commit myself to commitment; to the fiercest observance of self-truth, and not the flim-flamming justifications of losing character. I should remember that most of my dark enemies are really just figments of my imagination, anyway, and the battles I’m so dreading must be fought whether it makes people comfortable or not. I must not trash my innate reactions with anger, always criticizing myself for experiencing life the way that I do. I must not hold myself hostage over my conformity. I must free myself of second guesses and excuses. It is by living with purpose that a man leaves a mark on the world. Living without purpose can have an effect as well, but it’s usually not a good one.

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