Pretending to be an Insomniac

I’m not, though.  Rather, I’m quite good at sleeping.  I used to practice putting my brain to sleep at bedtime when I was little, and now it seems to turn off all on its own most nights (and most days it seems too).  Exciting things can put me to sleep and boredom can put me to sleep.  I’m probably closer to being a narcoleptic than an insomniac.

Yet tonight, I will fight sleep and I will win for a while.  I am afraid of what dreams might contain and want to hold onto reality a little bit longer.

I have nothing profound to say.  Nothing of value or intrinsic worth.  Which is why I haven’t posted here in such a very long time.  The good thing is, I’m pretty sure I’ve disappeared off the blog sphere world and I doubt this will reach many eyes, let alone minds.

Not that my life is meaningless.  It is brimming with significant events and lessons but I haven’t figured them out yet and don’t feel like this is an appropriate place for such half-thoughts.

And maybe that is why I won’t sleep tonight.  This blinking cursor mocks me with the thoughts I’m too scared to write. I’m constantly searching for distraction but the world around me is in temporary death and will provide none.

Things Don’t Make Sense

To my rationalist mind, the worst judgement that I could pass on anything or anyone is: “That doesn’t make sense.”  I’ve caught myself saying that a lot lately.  For something to be good, it must be logical.  Unfortunately, this rules out a lot of the best things in life.

Like love, for instance.  Love doesn’t make sense.  It is irrational to put someone else’s needs in front of your own.  Likewise, emotions don’t make sense.  They are messy and pointless, but they are what make people real.

War doesn’t make sense.  Fighting with swords instead of words doesn’t make sense.  Unfounded hatred doesn’t make sense.  I don’t make sense.

I contradict myself daily, whether in word or in deed.  I have unrealistically high expectations for myself and circumstances beyond my control and expect the world to fall into my preset categories and calendars and it never does.  Some days I want to smile for no reason at all, and other nights I feel like crying into my pasta salad.  And that doesn’t make sense at all, because according to my calculations, happiness is supposed to be circumstantial and pasta salad doesn’t need anymore salt and it really isn’t sad at all.

The world doesn’t make sense.  It never has, and the stubborn desire of one 19 year-old girl won’t change that.  The world is broken, which doesn’t help this confusion, but so am I.  We must learn to live in this broken, senseless world regardless.  Stomping my feet and scowling at the surrounding nonsense doesn’t help anything.

You know what also doesn’t make sense?  Friends that love you when you are unlovable.   Loyalty that lasts through the test of time and trials.  A perfect God that loves an imperfect people.  Beautiful sunsets that fall every night on a world that doesn’t deserve them.

Heavy Backpacks

My backpack got progressively heavier and heavier throughout the school year.  I’m sure it had nothing to do with my tendency to accumulate unseemly amounts of flashcards.  Every night/early morning when I’d get back to my dorm I had the opportunity to experience one of the best feelings of relief: taking off the 40 pound weight that I had trudged along with me up and down the stairs to my classes, meals, and dorm.  No matter how many ribbons I put on it, that backpack was the bane of my college existence.

Yet I couldn’t go anywhere without it.  Without my backpack, I lost my immediate access to study materials and homework.  Without this access, I could potentially be in a situation where I was not being productive.  Without productivity, I felt purposeless.  Tasks and to-do lists gave me the feeling of meaning that, while ultimately hollow, kept me motivated to keep moving and learning and making more to-do lists.

The problem of the heavy backpack lies in me grasping tightly onto an identity that was built on empty definitions of accomplishment.  I don’t carry around a backpack during the summer, yet I still have multiple cross-referencing task lists to perpetuate this unfounded identity.

The paradox of the heavy backpack is that the thing that I couldn’t let go of  was the very thing that was dragging me down.  A never-satisfied need to be productive is what could make and destroy me simultaneously.

Sometimes other people’s backpacks aren’t as easily seen as mine.  Maybe they aren’t tangible at all.  I think it would be safe to suppose that almost everyone carries their own burdens that they both need and despise.

Let’s try lightening the load a bit.

Uneven Sidewalks

I bruise easily.  Yet I never realized this before I went to college where I would wake up every morning to find three new bruises with no recollection of how I got them.  I was exclaiming about this to my friend who pointed out that, at home, I knew where everything was.  At college, the probability of me running into things and hurting myself was so much greater because everything was so much more unfamiliar.

That’s one of the things I love most about being home.  Familiarity creates comfort which instills security.  Life doesn’t pause or stop while I’m home but being surrounded by things that are known, constant, and unchanging certainly helps.

I like that when I’m running, I don’t have to look down to avoid tripping on the uneven sidewalk.  My feet already know where to land instinctively.  I like that the sidewalk is one that I’ve traveled down hundreds of times.  It’s led me to the park, to parades, to farmer’s markets, to the grocery store for last minute ingredients, to the bakery with friends, to art shows and fishing trips and the library and friend’s houses.

I like that I can make scones on a whim or do nothing at all for the afternoon and not feel like I’ve disturbed the delicate balance of a life that has no room for relaxation.

Breaks are only satisfying if they actually break you away from something vastly different.  Which is why I also love my fast-paced, always-changing, bruise-inducing, absurdly productive life at college.

The Only Thing Constant in Life is Change

I wandered the slowly-vacated halls for the last hour until I realized it wasn’t healthy.  I feel so incredibly conflicted.

I am excited to be going home and seeing family and friends.
I am so sad to not be able to see these dear people here for over a month.

I hate watching people leave.
Yet I want to be one of them.

One benefit of being a hall vagabond is that you pick up wisdom, along with free clothes and food, as you wander along.  One girl described this feeling as being so scary because not only are you leaving, you aren’t sure what you are coming back to.

There will be a new roommate and new classes and a new schedule and new friends.
But I liked the old ones ever so much.

Change excites me, and it terrifies me.

Someone else described my inner turmoil to be a result of post-communal living disorder.  That’s a big part of it.  Going from constant communication and interaction to a more minimal level of people is unsettling.

Unsettling.  That’s what this is.

Yet there is always that lining in knowing that I have wonderful people to return to.  It wouldn’t hurt this much to say goodbye if I didn’t come to know and love these people so deeply.
It’s worth it.

Logic-less

I really am spending more time writng than I ought.  I should be reading and memorizing and studying.  I feel that’s a bit unfair though.  If I’m expected to keep soaking up information and knowledge, creating these giant stockpiles of thoughts in my brain than I think I should be allowed to turn the tables sometimes and release these ideas.

Besides, my entrepreneurship classes and books are always encouraging us to write and be creative.  I like it when I can find other things to justify myself with rather than just my own logic.

I realized lately that I do that a lot.  I create these little rules and mannerisms that help guide my life along.  No one else follows them but I don’t expect them to.  I like the idea that I can create up my own words if the ones I’ve been given aren’t working properly.  I like that I can create my own paths if the ones that are offered don’t look like ones I want to sojourn down.

Today, I am in one of the best moods possible as a result of a severe lack of sleep and a good amount of coffee.  I am just tired enough where nothing bothers me and have enough caffiene in my system to make everything peaceful and happy.  It’s one of those moods where I am almost impossible to knock down.  I don’t have to look for the silver lining on days like today.  All I can see is the silver, the clouds aren’t even existent.  I burned my tongue on my precious coffee today and instead of registering the pain, I smiled because my coffee was still hot.  Perhaps this foolish happinness is completely irrational, but I am determined to enjoy it today.

One of those little rules that I have is that I have empowered myself to dictate what kind of day I am going to have.  I decide whether it will be a happy day, a tired day, a reflective day, a sad day, and whatnot.  The type of day I have is completely distinct from my circumstances.  Its some kind of buffer I give myself that is built on a solid foundation of dellusion and denial.  It’s probably unhealthy, but it works quite well for me.

That’s another rule: I can do things that don’t make sense but if they work, I can continue doing them.  Today is a happy day.  As was yesterday.  Tomorrow is looking pretty good too.  Once I started deciding what kind of day I was going to have (I began this a few months ago) I have found that is very convenient to choose to have happy days the majority of time.  If you could pick what your day was going to be like, wouldn’t you go for the best possible?

Just a few disconnected thoughts

Nowadays, I have two motivations for blogging.  1)  I have studied in excess and am about to disconnect from this world, its lovely people, and sanity.  2)  I am waiting for my laundry to be done.  Tonight falls into the latter category.  I keep finding new ways to make the laundry process more efficient.  This is wonderful as it allows me to spend less money on laundry aka more money on coffee.  I don’t have a great point to make or structure to follow tonight.  Just a few disconnected thoughts.

It’s funny how you can be with people almost 24/7 and be social and all those good things yet still be completely alone.  Perhaps that sounds sad and lonely, but to me, its absolutely wonderful.  It’s impossible to engage all the time; learning how to be in your own world while still functioning in the real one is a very valuable skill.

Two things happened to me this week with counteracting effects.  First, my headphones completely died.  Later that day, my phone decided that it would no longer let me hear whoever I was talking to.  Once I realized this, I completely abused my advantage and delivered lovely long-winded monologues to the unfortunate person on the other “end of the line”.    I’m sad to say, but my headphones dying was much more inconvenient than my phone.  I didn’t realize how often I used them to block out the world. The music I didn’t miss all that much and it wasn’t that I couldn’t find quiet places to study, its just that now I had no legitimate excuse to ignore people.  I don’t like this about myself, that I have this intense need to only listen to my thoughts at times.  Its really quite selfish.

I am content with a silent world where I can only see the lips moving and the trees swaying and never stop to hear what the people and the wind have to say.  Not all the time, mind you, this is only a temporary desire that passes once I find the opportunity to be an introvert.  I was pleasantly surprised to find that, by the end of the week, I genuinely missed hearing someone’s voice on the other end of the phone.  It may have taken me a week, but at least I got there.

And now, I believe/hope that my laundry is done so I can go to bed.

Until next time,
Chloe of many worlds