If I only wrote what I thought other people would care about, I would never write a single word. I only write what I care about – self-involved as that is. I do not write for other people, just for myself.
I share what I write because I hope to inspire people: to embrace their true selves, their imperfections, their as-is soul and personality, their emotions, their uncertainty, their love, their passions.
There is nobody I would rather be than myself, no matter how difficult it has been, is, or will be.
I am reading Lena Dunham’s book, Not That Kind of Girl, and diving as deep as I can into her reality. It inspires me to share the bits of humor I have found in even the worst of my experiences. It inspires me to throw myself into writing autobiographical essays full of what I once thought was meaningless to myself and others – but now find to be a stepping stone in making my dreams a reality. It inspires me to let others dive deep into my reality, even if it is uncomfortable and awkward and maybe even disgusting or delusional at times. I want to write words to bare my soul, as though I were taking off my clothes to bare my body.
I have nothing to lose.
My favourite quote from the book so far: “Desire is the enemy of contentment.” Contentment is my enemy; it destroys my will to live, to evolve, to be passionate. Desire drives me toward my dreams and beyond. I do not wish to be content, and yet I am driven toward fulfilment of dreams, only to create new ones before I arrive. I need a tattoo on my forehead that says “out of order.” I function, but not that way people expect me to. All disappointment comes from having expectations, and all of the best parts of my life have been a surprise. All of the words I write are a surprise to me. The extent of my love is a constant surprise. There was nothing more surprising than finding out that my life is not a dream, although it sort of is. I have exited my sanity box and I am taking snapshots of my new territory to share with anyone still captive in theirs.