Life is so strange. Why is it that even when there’s nothing wrong, I feel like not everything’s right? Even when I know I have every important thing I need, I feel like there’s something missing. I am lucky to never have to starve, to have a wonderful house to live in, to have a family that genuinely cares for me, to have the ability to spend on objects I truly desire… then why have I been waking up in the morning these past few days with a heavy heart, and feeling like I could bite someone’s head off?

Often, I’ve thought that I don’t give a tiny rat’s ass about what people think of me or of the things I do or why I do them, as long as my own conscience is clear, and as long as the people who matter to me have the right idea. But lately, I’ve come across people, who I think ought to have mattered, and they’ve seriously misunderstood me or have the wrong idea of certain things about me, and I’ve given up, more or less, trying to convince them otherwise. It’s like I don’t give an even tinier rat’s ass about what people of me anymore, and scarily, this includes people I wish would know the real me, and like me, and think good things about me… so, what’s going on?

1. I can’t be arsed to try to convince them of certain things. I do it anyway to a certain limit, but people believe what they want to believe anyway.
2. People should have a right of opinion, and unless someone’s asking me to justify myself or someone wants to know my side of the story, it’s not really worth pushing it onto them in the hope that they’ll believe me.
3. I’m getting to grips with the fact that perhaps no one will really completely understand me. The girl I dream about has no face, and that’s probably because the looks don’t matter to me, but I always assumed that she’d be a perfect match for me because of how well she’d be able to know me… I think I’m also beginning to accept the idea that I might never find her.

Sometimes, it’s just so frustrating to think about writing and then having to worry about it being good. The thought and direction of what I want to write sometimes gets lost in the attempt at beauty in the words. I’ve never been one to have a stunning message to deliver in most (maybe all?) of my posts. What I write is good (if it is) primarily because of the way I write it.

But what’s wrong with that? ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ is one of my favourite books to read, and there are 2 passages that stand out in my memory, mostly because of the magic that Dickens has created with those words. I won’t tell you which ones of course, because I’d rather you learn to appreciate things by yourself, rather than I tell you what to appreciate or how to appreciate it.

I, the mountaineer, with a thousand mountains in front of me… all challenging me to reach the peak, and dig my flag in and stand in the glory. I search for the peak that’ll call out to me, to make home, to settle down and enjoy the view… watch all the other peaks calling out to me, and yet smile away the challenge they throw at me. If I find this peak, I’ll never need to climb another mountain again.

Till I get there, though, what about the peaks I’ve already reached, and left behind? Baring themselves to me while I’ve climbed, and I may never return to these mountains again. Selfish me? Or am I just searching for my own special place, my own special peak? What’s allowed, conscientiously?