When someone told me I was a very capricious person, the first thing I did was protest. I don’t like thinking of myself as impulsive. But every other thing I do seems to belie any truthful basis that protest may have had.
It’s hard to accept that you’re not what you want to be, or who you think you are. You can think you’re doing something for ‘n’ number of reasons, but you can never change why you’re really doing it, whether or not you choose to consciously acknowledge it.
Why am I writing this post? I don’t need to air my insecurities to someone who may randomly find this blog. I’m not here to iron out my character flaws. I’m not here to justify my existence to an arbitrary ‘you’. My reasons don’t need another person’s stamp of approval, and they don’t need to sound well thought out to anyone but me. Heck, if they seem sensible to me, more likely than not they’re going to be pretty sensible to anyone else. That thought doesn’t gratify or displease me in any manner, if I think about it. The very fact that I need to explain all this to myself shows how convoluted my perception of the ink blot has already become.
No more ‘personal insight’ posts. Writing is a very personal experience, and there’s only so much of my personality I’m willing to let the presentation of my opinions be influenced by. No wonder I get nauseated at most of my old writing. The hoopla ends now.