Long have I toyed with the idea of "blogging." The idea never convinced me enough. Friends have suggested a blog; I had dismissed a blog. The very word brought to mind a vision of myspacian teenagers spending long secretive nights camped in front of a computer screen as they chat, post, and disseminate their thoughts across the electronic verse.
That is an image I hold to this day.
Why then now, amidst the turmoil of a life following college, do I dare carry through with something that I have deemed for so long to be the cry of angst-ridden teenagers?
Because of envy. The simple four letter word has graced my lips and thoughts little in the 23 years of life I have enjoyed and yet; now, it fills the very core of my being and fills my soul with its foul stench. I can do nothing but think it, feel it, see it, and hate it.
To say that I am strong willed is an understatement. Quite simply put, I'm stubborn to the point of angry opposition. So I wonder how such a word as envy, and all that it implies, could uproot my life so completely...?
I think I have it. Its not the word or the actions it represents that disturb me so, but rather the source. It is a cold day amongst the living when you discover that your parents, the people with whome you placed your trust, your love, and your safety, are envious of you. So, I find myself, as the myspacian teenagers before me, sitting here in front of my computer screen disseminating my thoughts amongst the electronic verse. Perhaps in the vain hope that in doing so, my concious might cease its turmoil and allow peace and sleep to overtake my fragile frazzled mind.
I haven't had children yet, but it seems to me that any success delivered upon your child would be met with joyous praise and jubilation. Is it not, after all, the goal of a parent to raise a respectable offspring that will bring admiration and praise upon the family name? Maybe not. It seems I've read too many books that romanticize chivalry and the like. I should really stop. The 21st century seems to have no room for the ideals of former centuries' great literary works.
To say that I am bothered would be correct. To say that I am hurt would also be correct. To say that I look like I'm about to cry, vomit, deficate, and sneeze all at the same time would again be correct. Simply put, I'm unable to express how I feel and oddly enough, one of my very first thoughts: "I should write about it in a blog."
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