Of course, I would re-design my blog and color it pink. What else would anyone expect? If I had to explain I’d say, “People named ‘Elaine Roselle’ are typically into sissy colors.”
That’s just me.
Once I get over this color (which I think will only happen after eleven centuries), readers the world over will hopefully think better about my maturity level.
Anyhow, I’m collaborating with a friend to start this exciting project that thankfully involves a combination of truthfulness, awareness, and some serious pseudo-naming. As of the moment, we have decided to keep the details a secret until after the finalization and realization of the project I shall henceforth term as “Project X.”
Project X is something to look out for. But since I might be using a pseudonym under this project, it’s actually pointless to write about it here unless I don’t mind exposing myself to just about anyone with a PC and an Internet connection. So why am I writing about something I am in no position to talk about? Beats me. I feel like I’ve been doing this same silly charade talking about stuff I’m not sure I should talk about ever since I started blogging. But, hey, you don’t call it Internet freedom for nothing.
The truth is… I just miss writing. I miss this blog. I miss each and every one of my imaginary readers. I miss those delusional feelings of grandeur every time I post an entry… and I simply miss the writer in me. Yes, I won’t be ashamed of calling myself a writer anymore. I have every right to do so because I’m twenty-three years old now and they say that’s a better age to call yourself a writer than when you’re only sixteen and ranting about puberty.
When I started blogging, I felt like a could control the world with my words. Right now, I just feel like controlling myself from possibly turning this blog entry into a tearful, melodramatic narrative of my past troubles and all. Seriously, I didn’t think I’d come this far maintaining the same blog since 2006. But I’ve always thought I’d be writing until I die.
How did we see ourselves seven years ago and how do we see ourselves now? Did we grow better than we imagined? Did we get stuck in a traumatic memory? Have we moved on from our mistakes? Did we regret getting drunk and spreading vomit all over the pavement? Did we ever make someone else happy besides ourselves?
Questions about our own personal realities are always difficult to answer and even harder to accept. But each time we realize that we were wrong and that we could have been right, we are reminded of the chance we still have to change what should have been.
I graduated a course that was expected of me. I passed an excruciating five-hundred-item board examination last December. I am now working in a job that is closely related to what could have been the career of my dreams. I met this wonderful person who I think is the other half of me. I followed the choices which I think would set me free.
What did I learn?
I learned to love each day because love is the decision you make when you accept without setting conditions. A friend and I talked over coffee a few hours ago and he asked me to define what love is for me. There you have it.
Til next time.