There's a small part of me that misses how I wrote back then, with care and detail, a pinch of melancholy and naivety. It is a bittersweet realization to acknowledge that I may never write that way again, without life casually tossing me into the dumps. My blogs now may be short and lack reflection, but I truly am the happiest I've ever been in a long time.
Anyway, here is something I wrote January 23, 2011:
"My black track & field shirt that I wear as pajamas soaks up the sun as I sit, rocking right to left in my shabby wooden chair; its seat no longer attached, but simply resting on four legs, green paint peeling and revealing its grain, swirled with warm hues of, well, wood. I have a cup of coffee in my lap and a cigarette in my hand, feeling glorious as the warm breeze tosses my bangs across my abnormally large forehead. I exhale second-hand smoke into the sky, cloudless and bright fucking blue. A glorious morning, as always.
Y comes out to join the cancer circle as I admire the breeze. We quietly fantasize about being air--constantly moving forward and seeing the entire world with no effort. After I question the cause of wind and waves, I am casually taught about the moon's gravitational pull, the revolution of the earth, its crooked axis and their relation to the sun, eclipses, lunacy, seasons, the flow of life. I am amazed by the way everything naturally falls into place on our planet. I have been taught all of this before in school but it had never stuck until now.
Soon Z and T join us to admire the beautiful weather. None of us are in the mood to read text books. I sit, my coffee cup now sitting empty in the middle of my folded legs, a cigarette filter with a burnt edge still secured between my fingers. They fall into discussion about laziness, its similarity to a gag reflex for knowledge (in all fun and seriousness), lazy-but-loveable role models in the media, male and female character differences, the presence of a pot belly on the male and female body, the charm of the Simpsons compared to South Park and Family Guy, how Ferris Bueller can be similar to Fight Club, that the protagonist is always the character that experiences change. I listen and absorb, occasionally throwing in a comment that never adds to the evolution or progression of my friends' thoughts. Their extensive knowledge and metacognition comes naturally, only as natural and as simple as it is for me to let my bare feet play in the warm dirt beneath. In my freshman year of high school, I was taught to analyze stories in the same way--but again, it had never stuck until now. I had never considered the depths of animated tv shows, their character development or their popularity in my life. What do I think about, ever? In the midst of a 300-seated lecture hall, I am never cozy, excited or attentive. But I also am unaware of where my mind wanders. A professor may think he or she is teaching me something, but all I can do is attempt to regurgitate the facts onto paper during an exam, before it all dissipates into thin air shortly after. Strange, how I learn so much more about the world and metacognition from my friends, as I sit comfortably in my back yard. I don't know how I learn. How is it that I (seemingly) actively participated in 15 years of school and have this little knowledge about anything?
I don't know what I've been doing all my life, what I do between sunrise and sunset. I want to figure shit out. But, in this moment, all I know is that tonight will end with a breakfast burrito from Rigoberto's."
I think it's a great depiction of a calnoovian morning, and the malaise that had sedated me for a little over a year. The person that wrote this seems so far away, and I'm in such a better place now.
Although, I really do wish I was participating in Club Wednesday right now. Some things never change, I guess.