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Following My Heart pt1: Beginnings of a Writer

August 19, 2011

So it’s high time that I started living my dreams, but to do so, I must first follow my heart, and live my direction.

There was a point in my life where I had no direction– I didn’t know what I wanted, what I needed, or even what I was supposed to do. I had a pretty good idea of what was good enough to be ordinary: a job, a routine, a girlfriend, and some relatively productive hobbies. So I started working, got into anime, Japanese, information technology, philosophy, and a host of other lifestyle choices that could define me as a person, while still allowing the necessary social solidarity and integration for me to fit in with other people.

There was a point in my life– not too long ago– where “ordinary” was good enough for me. I spent my entire adolescence thinking I was destined to be the scum of the earth, and that I would have to push myself hard to achieve a level of normality just for people to leave me alone. At that point in my life, to be accepted by anyone– genuinely accepted for who I am– that was just too much to ask for.

I tried to be accepted for who I was, but I soon found that I couldn’t even accept myself. I loathed myself for being vulnerable, antisocial, different. So over time I decided to change myself. First I did so but imitating others, but I found that imitation didn’t play well to my strengths; my inability to proficiently adapt to social cues is likely what caused me to become so different from everyone else in the first place. Once I realized that I couldn’t fit in by following other’s behavior, I started to create my own. I created something bold, aggressive, daring, controversial, and dangerous. That something– my own mutation I created in a sea of evolution-like desperation– the intelligent creature. I became something that I knew no one could hurt or upset, and over time I build up this inner strength to the point where I became intellectually invincible.

Channeling my intellectual abilities to become the master of my own psychology, I overcame a multitude of severe mental illnesses, and was at that point able to, at the very least, maintain the pretense of normality. By the time I had started th3g1vr (the successor to jbcandid), I was in complete control of myself, and could become anything I wanted to be. But it was around this time, that I realized that an even more challenging issue was at hand: I didn’t know what I wanted in life. To search for what I wanted in life, I did a great deal of experimentation and self-analysis, and challenged everything that I thought I knew about my beliefs, my personality, my fate– even my sexuality. I went through a series of identity crisises as I sought to, if only by brute force and sheer determination, discover my heart’s desires.

Eventually I gave up on finding out what I wanted out of life, and decided that my own self-loathing had already corrupted my existence to the point that I had no desires or heart, and that nothing I did would ever have any meaning. Everything felt fake, and I was unable to truly follow-through with anything that I did in life– except perhaps for writing.

While my writing was never perfect, and seldom aesthetically pleasing, everything I’ve written can be considered “complete” in its own way, as all my blog posts completely accomplish their objectives. Over time, I slowly realized that writing was perhaps the only thing that I genuinely wanted out of life, and that everything else was really just building off of the creative desire that writing had given me. Writing had given me something to live for. It was my first true love, the first thing I seriously committed myself to, and the only thing that I had ever done in my life that it didn’t matter whether people liked what I wrote, or even if people read what I wrote at all. They could love it, hate it, or completely ignore it. I might have acted like it mattered to me, but deep down it really didn’t matter if my writing was read by anyone– so long as I could get it out there.

I didn’t love writing because it made me feel happy, or because it made my life more meaningful. I loved it because it was the only means that I knew of that I could express myself as I really am. Every blog post I write– every word, detail, and expression in what I write, is a flawless expression of who I am; the only “flaws” in my writing, in fact, are the flaws that make up my own character in the first place. Even if I were to edit my writing, it would only be to check for typos; everything else, from the grammatical consistencies to the literary idiosyncrasies– these are not a problem with the writing, but an accurate depiction of my literary character– who I am, on e-paper.

That’s really where it all started from: writing. I wrote not to impress or even to inspire: I wrote to understand myself, and to accurately convey who I was– my real self– in candid, raw, and completely unfiltered form. At least then, I thought…

Even if I could not forge a place for myself

Even if I could not discover a place where I truly belonged

Even if I never found out what I really wanted out of life.

I might not have a future, but I would at least have a memory– a record of who I was. Th3g1vr is better than an autobiography or a historical record, because it’s the truth and nothing but the truth. Nothing is spiced up, whitewashed, or glamorized. Everything that I write is exactly as it is.

Writing is not what I wanted out of life, though. Sure I’m good at it, owing to having done a lot of it, but I don’t aspire to be a writer, only to communicate my thoughts as accurately as possible.  I write not because I enjoy writing itself, but because I enjoy the merits that it brings. By writing I can get to know myself and the reality I live in, by writing I can share my own dreams with others, and by writing I can strike that middle ground where insanity become creative, the bizarre becomes innovative, and abnormality becomes extraordinary. I write to forge who I am, to remind myself of who I was, and to discover who I really, truly want to be.

Writing is my sanctuary, my temple, the sustenance by which I can get through each day- my daily bread.

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