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I write because it is compulsive for me to put my thoughts into written form. I find that, if I do not organize my thoughts onto paper (or a computer screen), they become abstract to me. I want everything I think and feel clearly defined, where I can see it, or else it is not real to me.
I also want my thoughts clearly defined for others to see. Last year, for almost the entire year, I kept a private diary detailing almost everything that happened to me. Despite the fact that it was private, two or three people were able to read it. My best friend and I regularly exchanged diaries for the other to peruse.
Another reason I write is because I ABSOLUTELY CANNOT CONTAIN that expression. If I am not keeping a personal diary, I keep a blog. If not a blog, I write short stories and poetry. I have been writing non-stop since before I could even type.
This is a quote that aptly describes it:
“I write because, if I don’t, I will explode. I will start banging my head against the floor and, when the night comes, I will do a Goya and paint monsters on my walls. I write because the words pack themselves so tightly inside my head—with all their energy, dread, joy, hope, and abject misery—that if I cannot get them out, they will consume me.”
-Camille Moffat (Why Write?)
I am not the only one who experiences this, and writing is not the only medium for it. Van Gogh would make sketches in his letters to others, sometimes to exchange ideas, but other times simply because he wanted to share the beauty in the world around him. It was so compulsive for him that I believe he would have drawn on any scrap of paper available.
This is the nature of an artist: compulsive output. Not to say that all of it, or even any of it, is good. To produce something worthwhile, immense dedication is still required; any novelist will tell you that they often wanted to quit, sometimes that it took years to produce a novel. But they wanted to write. Musicians I know are always touching their instruments, unable to leave music alone. If they are without an instrument, they hum or whistle.
Not everyone is an artist, a writer, or a musician, though. What about other people? Do they have that compulsive need to express whatever it is that they have to express? My particular art, manipulating words, gives me a better perspective on myself. I also feel that part of who I am is what I produce. What would I be without that? Are others without that?
Do you have that compulsion?
My laptop, Chibi (aptly named due to it’s immensely small size), has a virus. Therefore, I will be unable to post until it is fixed.
Presently, I am experiencing what I suppose is withdrawal. Due to circumstances, I decided it would be better for me to separate myself from this person I love (since I am still exceedingly attached to him, but our relationship is over), which means limiting how much I talk to him.
As a result, my energy levels are incredibly low. In his absence, I become decidedly lethargic. If I could, I would choose unconsciousness over being awake. But, instead, I pushed myself to get some exercise, and will now proceed to write a fantastic few paragraphs about age!
I was thinking about it, because my friend said age has less to do with time, and more to do with how one presents themselves. I agree, to an extent. Physical age is dependent on time, and physical maturity on biology, but how I treat someone (as a child, a peer, or a superior) is separate from these things.
One of the factors is experience. In certain things, I have experience, like in dealing with people. I have talked to and had varying relationships with many different people; therefore, someone who has had little experience in this area is younger than me in that aspect.
The second factor is understanding. One can have a good understanding of life without being very old, or be of a more advanced age and know very little. Understanding life does not mean possessing a lot of knowledge, it just means knowing how to live. Nobody knows the correct decisions every time one needs to be made, but the wise develop and discover guidelines.
I am not very old physically, and not the most wise. But there are people I know who may be four years my senior, with so little understanding of life that they may as well be four years my junior. I know people older who, to me, might as well be twelve. There are also people younger than I am, whom I consider peers. I have adults who respect me and with whom I would consider myself on respectful, but friendly terms; I know children who have good understanding, but less experience.
I think that there are two different kinds of age: physical age, for which one must take into account physical maturity and legal restrictions; and this other sort of age. One can be many decades old, and still very young.
So how old are you?
Because I am too tired to provide anything actually philosophical, I will instead write about my visit to the doctor, and how I fainted in his office.
I have not been to the doctor in three or four years, so, upon receiving a basic check-up, I also learned that I needed tetanus and meningitus immunizations before going to college. I was okay with this; having needles poked into my arm isn’t too scary.
After the nurse had given me the shots, I stood up and held my sister’s hand while she had blood drawn. I was also okay with this: seeing blood is more or less a normal occurrence for me.
However, I had not eaten anything more than 8-ounces of soy milk that morning, and I was starting to feel slightly dizzy. “Slightly dizzy” suddenly became “too dizzy to stand”, and I found myself in a chair wondering why I couldn’t see straight.
Symptoms of me fainting:
- My body felt like it was heating up, but my skin was clammy.
- Extreme nausea.
- Incoherent statements, including “I feel black… not ethnicity-wise” and “I’m not fainting, I just want to close my eyes”.
- Inability to see, caused by my eyes rolling up into my head.
- Complete loss of what little color I had.
I almost lost consciousness completely, except that I heard the nurse say, “Elizabeth, wake up, sweetie.” Apparently that worked, because in the black I saw her outline, and then I began to see clearly again. My mom and the nurse were both fanning me, and wiping my face with a wet towel.
She gave me a lollipop for my blood sugar. After that, I quickly improved.
I have to say, fainting is one of the most interesting things that has ever happened to me. It was completely worth the fact that I had to go to the doctor.