What to Do, What to Do...

1. I find it distressing that I haven't written any works of creative fiction at all in at least a year- longer for short stories.
2. I find it doubly distressing that I'm not agonizing over that, considering writing was- is- one of my very favorite activities/skills.
3. I am considering loafing around- and by that, I mean getting some generic BA degree in something that won't be related to how I will "make money"- at some Florida university for a year after receiving my AA from the community college I attend. I figure I could push myself and get a BA in just a year more, as some people do. The problem with this plan is that I don't particularly like Florida, for one; for two, none of the colleges around here scream to me "KRISTEN! You will love me, both for what I shall teach you (and how) and for my wonderful programs/food/location"; three, I will likely be getting a BA in psychology or English, which is not very related to my intended BA (MA?) of Nutrition/ Food Sciences. Can I just get a "random" BA and then transfer and get another BA and then an MA?
4. Still no new friends have been made at either of my schools. I'm working on this! I feel good today... I will be open today... (I hope...)

Maybe...

Maybe...

Maybe if I let this glimmer of a crazy idea spread its fragile roots in my mind...

Maybe if I let myself believe that all the craziness, the loneliness, and the absurdity of my life years ago was the strange outcome of a girl on the verge of diabetes, a girl with an endocrine system struggling to find equilibrium...

If I believe past what has been hinted, that diabetes is tied into so much of one's life and that an autoimmune attack brews silently for years- if I extrapolate and say that with my diabetes diagnosis and, in time, with the restoration of my health with the continued addition of synthetic insulin- I can believe that now things cannot and will not be the same. If I attempt a re-integration into society, I can manage now. I think.

The Past

Pale and anemic
Always and only me to blame
Shaken and frail,
Silly and insane.
Ever time will fly, and oh, I do so miss... The
Days I made my bed in which today I lay!

Fall makes me nostalgic. Really, really, really nostalgic, to the point where all passion for the new is stolen from me and I walk in weak surrender to memories of past years. I remember the days Sarah's mom was alive, the days spent in premature and sickening company with the many guys I've dated, the days before everyone became callous (there was a time when I was the only one among my friends to be so), the days I found magic in my removal from the oven of Florida's summer to the coolness of the cellar, so to speak, the times spent with my two best friends when we were so very much younger, a night at Hallowscream, the friendships and relationships I'd cultivate but then neglect that would dissipate so hastily.

Why, why did I wait for a time when things would get better as they were good so that I could look back when things are okay and miss only those times that could have been fantastic? Why am I doing the same thing again? Shall I perpetually be stuck in the past? Is it really as much of a tragedy- to me- as all make it to seem?

Today's topic is to be THE FUTURE

Frail and
Unpredictable..
Too
Untrustworthy for me to
Rest
Easy

I am of the group of people who, on occasion, feel pressured about their future- surprisingly enough, I don't mean college or career here- and allows that pressure to deplete their energy for a few days. I don't really mean to let this happen any longer, but I am not quite sure how to make it cease its process.. Yet..

The future, for a dreamer like me, is shrouded in mist that is incessantly evaporating and regrouping. Next year is hidden in a mystical fog of my making, which shall disappear when that time arrives, just to re-form its shifty shape around a later date. I dream the abridged dreams of a modern (how I hate to admit it) romantic.. Tragedy, that will likely never come to fruition, lay ahead; my un-faced obstacles loom, knives in hand (for such were the weapons in the 1800s, of course), ready to maim when I fail to conquer them; I fantasize about creating art through all sorts of mediums- written and spoken word, song, instrument, clay, paint, pencil, etc. I dream of creating medieval retreats so complete that I may, in fact, sink into such times and never be extracted nor be bothered to be extracted. I dream of simplifying my life to an extent un-heard of by any American.. But I know so many of my ambitions shall come to naught, and indeed, some of it shall be God's will. What I fear is that I shall miss God's purpose for me and instead chase these thoughts that others presume to be quite irrational.

I don't trust the future- technology grows in it's survelliance power each day; people grow more and more narcisstic with the help of the internet and its habit of transforming humans into something egocentric and thoughtless and decidedly not human; technology is growing to, perhaps one day, take on its own individual persona. All of these things wait in the shadow of the future.. Each taunting me as I inflate their threat with my gaping eyes.

So, for the time being, I write. I read. I record and think and feel so that one day I can accomplish my goals and face my fears and fight technology. I sleep well, as is characteristic to me, but rest uneasy.

“There is a time for departure even when there's no certain place to go.”

-Tennessee Williams