8 months since I created this blog in an attempt to record my life in posting styles again, as I did when I was 15. Seems my desire to write, and my initiative to perform the writing, are lacking in coordination.
I spend too much time thinking, versus the time I could be doing. All my lackluster probably derives from my history of mistakes, following up my risk taking past. Often times, I wonder where I'd be today if I was as nonchalant as I was back then. My connection to others is minuscule these days, and I have no certainty on whether it's because I'm distant to others, or if it's because others are less connected than those I was connected to before.
There are so many young, up and coming individuals today, with great talent and potential that pushes them further into my sights than others. And I desire to offer them words of wisdom from my archives of thought and experience. I believe though, that more of them are afraid of being alone with me in conversation, than they are willing to take in words of advice. Maybe it's independence, or a sensation of fear that I feel I instill in everyone I meet.
My initial diagnosis of encounters with new people, is that they find me creepy or frightening. And at times, both. Over time, and for each individual a different amount of time, the diagnosis becomes: that I am sweet and kind and a great friend. I'm using the words of others who have told me such things, for both evaluations of myself.
Perhaps I'm rambling on an idea that is merely my own perception, without any true insight from others. My instinct tells me though, that while many tell me face to face, or through textual words that I'm sweet, many others say other things while I'm nowhere in sight. But I'm still, for the most part, a stoic inside. While generations change and grow and have a different idea of what's comfortable in today's age, I remain unchanged in ideals and expectations. It's my ancient idealism that leaves me alone these days. While I may be granted participation in the company of some, part of me feels that it is only to not "hurt my feelings". And despite such shows of welcome, my pride hurts more that things must be kept from me at all, rather than told to me frankly.
C'est la vie, no? A creepy man who continues to grow older, spending any time with today's blooming generation is, with high certainty, unappealing in any perspective except my own. I may be one of the very few who still fully believe in the idea that "Age is but a number."
I just wish that some of them would take a leap of faith and get to understand what lies behind these broken eyes.
