Mood: Content
Listening to: Le temps des fleurs by Dalida
food highlight: Poorly cooked crepes
I just ate two spoonfuls' worth of coffee in the form of jelly in the span of 6 minutes, and I’m starting to get ideas. Jumping off of the previous blog entry, I have once again come to some grand conclusions over this long gap in time. But the most relevant one is that I realized that I have multiple outlets for OC spamming, but only this blog for my journaling. And, under the belief that journaling is a valid form of blogging, I’m going to stick to this rather than the former.
Onto the plot. This will be a wordy one.
This is where these blog pages come in. They are buried this deep into the site because they are meant only for the nosiest of people with the most investment into these characters, if there are any. I believe there is fun in waiting or interpreting, but if you are willing to allow the author to dig himself out of his grave then welcomeee get cozy you might lose some faith in meee. This is where I allow myself to geek out a little and be as open, impulsive, honest and info/lore heavy as I want to be.
Moving to the capital, adulting, living on my own, and mostly answering to myself have filled me with drastic feelings of independence. Knowing that the majority of my decisions and the consequences of said decisions are only on me has made me pretty bold. Transitioning from a small town where everyone knows the last time you took a shit to a big city where you mostly see a person once and never again erased almost all of my crippling anxiety. I am out of the shadows and out in the sun, and, quite frankly, in a daze.
This lack of fear of scrutiny and my craving for substance propelled me to seek out thrills and adventures. Not anything crazy. I’m not catching stds or filling my veins. Probably one of the biggest kicks I get is looking at the city at night, which, in retrospect, is boring. The kicks I get are boring. Because outside of those kicks, I’m even more bored. I’m bored all the time, empty all the time, I need to always do something, go somewhere, to not go nuts.
If I can go on a tangent (I mean, lol, who’s stopping me?), I want to live a life worth talking about, or at least worth remembering. I want to be somebody. Just anything. I romanticize my mess. My mess makes me. I want to be alive and exist and be perceived, and to be a person, you need to have something about you. I have my mess. I revel in my spontaneous impulsive whims, my embarrassing traits, and my failures because they create character, they make me. I am the sum of all of my flaws spun into a positive. Absurd, stupid, messy, impulsive, emotional, shady, and pathetically devoted.
I can go on a million tangents from a million different angles on why I am the way I am and what my thought process is behind it. There are a lot of aspects to consider, so many it makes my brain hurt, which feels unfair that I still feel completely unimportant. Why have a character this fleshed out and not have it matter? Make it a side character in the lives of people who think they matter more.
That’s the other part, my lack of personhood. I need to pull this entry together, so I’m going to mention a sentiment that is going to repeat itself in the future, maybe in a more in-depth way—I filter reality through fiction, through tropes and archetypes. Cuz it’s safe or whatevsss. And in this world of roles, the role I fill is the comic relief side character. You can argue that I’m not doing that well, that’s your truth. This role has a lot of pros, ones that I am glad to reap, as I chose it knowingly as a social survival tactic. I feel, up to now, I almost mastered filling it.
But living close to a decade like this has made me all too aware of the cons. I didn’t exist unless someone witnessed me, I wasn’t a priority, I was secondary to everyone, I wasn’t a real person and didn’t have the right to have the needs a real person would have, I was a walking caricature, a performance. There was no place for depth, vulnerability, or negative emotion. I am not needed as a person, I am needed as an entertainer. I am not sought out, I chase and pander, trying to prove to others they want me around to fill a need, and then I fill that need. All this I chose. Life of a parasite.
I wouldn’t blame someone for saying, “So what? What do you want? More attention on top of the attention you already seize every second you’re around people?”
They are right. That’s absurd, I don’t want that. I have enough, it’s good.
This lifestyle has me filled with a type of spite I don’t really know where to place. Because putting it anywhere but onto myself would be unfair. In the end this spite has motivated a recent change.
This is how we circle back to the start of this entry. I have decided to liberate myself from needing others to some extent. A flaw in my side character strategy is still having expectations of other people to fill my needs. Relying on others for my happiness is not realistic, and it only took about a hundred disappointments. All coming from my cruel expectation that others would treat me differently than how I force them to treat me. Like anything other than an entertainer character in their stories.
The benefit of everyone being a main character but you is that the camera doesn’t focus on you all the time. My time alone is my own. Everything that happens when I’m alone is for myself, my own enrichment, my own fulfillment. Excluding others from my activities makes me feel better because it makes them mine, I don’t have any obligations then. It’s like I’m reclaiming autonomy that nobody really took from me. During this time I get a break from centering other people. I found a balance that I noticed has made me overall so much happier. This blog is part of it, I can write whatever I want here, and, despite it being fully accessible, nobody will find it because no one will look. No one is invested in me that way. And good riddance, I guess.
I must note that without a weapon I wouldn’t be able to do this, but that’s an obligatory mention.
On top of all of my random hobbies and me never backing down from arranged plans, I started looking for enrichment outdoors. Or just doing whatever random shit comes to my mind. I bum around the city at night, in the rain, whenever. I find bliss in it. Traveling, exploring, and finding something new. Just finding myself in a new place makes me happy.
And honestly, I realize one of my most valued memories was when I got lost in the countryside as a child, seeing new parts of that one river, fields, new houses apart from my family’s, their yards, finding companionship in stray cats and a weirdly shaped stick, making up a song to quietly sing to myself as I walk, being afraid of dogs let loose, and feeling like I don’t belong there whatsoever, afraid of my parent’s reaction but thrilled to be afraid, to sightsee, thrilled that something could happen to me that I triumph through. Yes, my parents were mad, but it didn’t quite cut through that deep satisfaction that I got lost.
Back to 2026
It started with me jumping on random buses and trolleys and seeing where they take me. I want to explore every nook and cranny and immortalize my sights by taking pictures. I am happy to be dropped off in the middle of who knows where by the wrong bus and walking for ages across unfamiliar neighborhoods and train tracks. I am unburdened walking alone through a street lined with bars and restaurants, past crowds, groups, and couples. Listening to the same old classics, people-watching, and sightseeing. Going nowhere but going everywhere. Into alleyways and dark corners with a deranged level of confidence and a mission. Resting and snacking on the big concrete stairs next to a closed museum and 5 steps away another bumbler like me. And I’m okay with looking as odd as I possibly can doing this, it makes me feel safer, like I’m the creeper and not the one creeped upon. But I’m not oppressive, I don’t take pictures of people, sort of.
Due to my gripes with public transport officers, y’know, the bustapo, the people checking if you paid for your ticket, I started collecting pictures of every officer I saw. Not only has this new activity kept purchasing a ticket in my mind, but it has also replaced this artificial, useless feeling of dread upon seeing these officers at your stop with a feeling of euphoria. Absolute joy. These officers have no humanity, trust me. And I personally hate nothing more than being at the end of a stick whipped around by a random bozo I have no good reason to respect. So, their discomfort with my giddiness upon seeing them and very unsubtly photographing them does not weigh on my conscience whatsoever. I put them in a nice little album. Just one more thing to do that is mine.
I guess a lot of my activities are informed by my need for control. Me trying to claim or reclaim something for myself, which, now that I think about it, is a trait I have had this whole time.