some honesty

just signed up for a two-year contract that's going to take me away from the safe and familiar. well, even if this place here isn't entirely safe either (hello, knife/gun-wielding muggers abound!), there's a cozy, warm-soup comfort in knowing that when something goes wrong during my day, i can always run home, laze around my bed, cry a little, maybe talk some, and then put my heartache to sleep.

why do i do this? it's work. i can get work here. the pay's not much but i've always been a low-maintenance kind of gal. no ambition. no dreams of making it to the forbes' list of twenty-something billionaires.

it's a character pattern, i think. i've seen it play out within a stretch of the past 3-4 years since graduation. i think it's because i've never felt i belonged anywhere. i had, have friends. my family, even if a bit on the weird side (well, whose family isn't weird), are dependable, generally likable, and sensible peeps.

am i supposed to worry? is this a crack in my psyche that i have to fill in with excerpts from self-improvement books?

i like the feeling of movement. walking, running, road trips, even getting lost (except getting gypped by strangers). i like seeing, hearing new things. maybe i'm meant for a life of transit. haha. i'm romanticizing. no one's meant to do anything. we choose to or it's imposed on us. at least, that's how i see it.

at the same time, though, i recognize the trade-off. never having the chance to lay down roots. having to lose friends over time. never losing the newbie feeling (that's both a good and bad feeling). having to trade familiarity with uncertainty.

why is it that an experience always has that duality? both happy and sad. both frighteningly scary and awesomely scary. both freeing and paralyzing. hay, urong-sulong, kabayan!

delaying the unavoidable

Why is it, dear (and incredibly frustrating) self, that the spirit of dilly-dallying possesses you at the most inopportune and inconvenient moments?

Yes, exactly like this minute that you are about to enter into 55 seconds from now.

Write, damn it! Write for money! The 20-plus articles you have to submit by the end of the month won't write themselves on their own. The all powerful and knowing Internet will not cough them up and unto your desktop screen, so stop meandering from one web page to another!

Aggh. (I would add another g if it made my seething more apparent.)

Wait, hold on. What's this? There's a rogue idea that bumps into the conscious corner of your mind: What if writing for money ruins the experience for you? You've heard people say (and bloggers write) that "Do what you love and you won't have work a day in your life". But what if you stop loving what you love to do because your dysfunctional brain associates it with "work"? What if what you hold sacred loses this quality when it gets tied in with "money"?

Ah, my brain. What will I do with you?