Irony is when an entire blog post justifying why I’m not irregular gets a five-day delay.
Yep, that’s what this blog post is about. Not about diarrhoea. Or constipation. If you’re disappointed that it’s not, I’m sorry to say this is WordPress, not WebMD. You’re on the wrong site.
Getting down to business. For those of you who didn’t pay enough attention, my previous post said my intentions were to let you, the readers, discover me through what I wrote. And if you’d paid close attention, you’d have noticed that I published the previous post in August of last year. Naturally the first thing you’d pick up from that is that I am highly irregular. Inconsistent. Just a bad planner.
I am here to tell you why I’m not.
At least not in this case. Can’t make the same promises when it comes to Aunt Flo or making omelettes. Ugh.
As I’ve previously mentioned, I’ve never felt like I was a writer, or a blogger. I did have phases of poems, back when seeking out rhyming words was easier for me than seeking out friends. But I never sat down and penned some fancy write-up on say, my pet. Or myself. Or anything at all. All of that changed a few years ago. I was raging with anger about something (likely a burnt omelette for all you know), and in that fit of emotion I opened up a Word document and started to type. My unusually podgy fingers slammed into the keys so quick it’s no wonder they stopped working sometime later.
Turns out the nerves that express thoughts running from my brain somehow shot right past my mouth and went down into my hands instead. And so, from August of last year, right up until now, I’ve only ever written when I was in situations of intense emotion. I could argue that I barely had the time to spare to even think of writing anything otherwise but, given the time, I knew I’d have spent it doing art instead.
Naturally, those ‘intense’ musings I’d jotted down were not something I’d blog about. It felt a bit like I was revealing too much of myself to an undefined group of people. The ones who don’t matter wouldn’t care, and the ones who do… well, what’d they think of me? I didn’t want to be perceived as someone who felt low and sad, and who thought low, sad thoughts, and who converted those thoughts into 500-word rants.
As if being that sort of person was a bad thing. As if it suddenly invalidated every other bright, lively, happy thought that filled my head.
And so I’ve decided to make two changes to how I approach this. For one, I’m going to, at some point, post one of the ‘something’s I’d written while I was emotionally charged. It’s time we (I) stopped being embarrassed about feelings that are only natural. Who knows, maybe someone might just relate.
Secondly, I am actively writing through any/all of my phases, be it a phase roiling in too many feelings, or actually in need of some. No excuses. Every weekend, I shall put up a blog post, and you shall get to know what my week was like, what I irrationally obsessed over, and what the voices in my head seem to think of it all.
This weekend, I’ll be telling you all about why the backdrop to my mind is the swirling mass that is Van Gogh’s Starry Night. The only delays here will be in making sure I don’t ramble on incoherently; I have so much to write about one of my most favourite things ever. Until then, may you find consistency in all aspects of your life, from pooping to periods to good hair days. The only exception is finding rickshaws of course; no powers can help us there.
The Girl with Kaleidoscope Eyes 