I should be working on my Protest article right now. I actually have a couple free hours before bed, which seems so rare these days, and so I ought to be putting them to some productive use: the Protest article, or maybe even, god forbid, finishing cleaning my room. (Hey, I got it like 65% clean this past weekend-- who could ask for anything more?)
But instead, I feel like writing. Somehow I've started thinking in journal entries again, in sentences and paragraphs, like
I used to. And now I've got all these thoughts and feelings connected in strings waiting to pour out of me, and I can't help but write.
Yet I'm too wedded to coherence. I have a thousand things I want to write, yet I'm mentally arranging and re-arranging them, trying to come up with a logical flow, a theme, an
entry. It's the voice inside me that's always trying to order and make sense of how I'm feeling so that I can understand who I am. I resist throwing my thoughts onto the page like spaghetti up against the wall, because then I would end up staring at the wall for hours, trying to figure the significance of why each piece landed where it did. My neverending stream of thoughts pushes me to be conscious of who I am, but sometimes it intereferes with that process, too.
See? I'm overthinking my overthinking.
But I'm too tired now to find coherence, the strands of meaning that tie together how I'm feeling tonight. So I'll grit my teeth and just be random. It always ends up that way, anyway.
Our bill passed ASG's student services committee tonight-- step number one, and probably the worst is over now until a week from Wednesday, when the whole Senate votes and everything's on the line. I'm calming down a little, and the knots in my stomach are loose, lazy ones, instead of the tight tenseness of the last 24 hours or so. I still can't help but be nervous and on edge until it successfully passes, but now there's only 9 days to go.
I am moody, these days. I waver between feeling isolated and connected, and it can change from hour to hour. I feel like I'm floating around in limbo, and it's merely a question of whether I mind it or not at any given moment. I am often happy and grateful; yet usually, I'm yearning for more.
I have so many IM exchanges, and so few good conversations in person. Eileen thinks that it has to do with her, but she's not the only one. I love IMs, and they do help you to connect, to some extent. They can make people into an integral part of your life even though it's completely inconvenient to see them face-to-face very often, and let you share so much of the minutiae that being friends is really all about. They can pull you closer to someone when it might not otherwise happen.
But they can only go so far. They cannot communicate the tone of someone's voice, or the look in their eyes, or their body language. You can share a lot sometimes, but there is always something missing. And I feel that lack.
