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home sweet home. I’ve been trying to write a bit for the real world, both in the form of facebook posts (rather than prolific sharing I’ve been trying to write down my own thoughts) and my more professional official wordpress blog, which I hoped would make me money and has drifted into somewhat artsy posts like this rather than focused and tight writing, although I am pretty proud of some of my meandering essays.

 

I’ve been toying with the idea of buying an appartment, my gut has said it’s a good idea, or at least that’s the story I’m going to tell myself, for a while, but I’ve found any number of reasons not to. I feel like I want a sacred space for myself, a piece of land I call my own, ideally all my own, before I get partnered up, if I get partnered up, barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen. So full of joy when I behold my newborn that I lose all sense of individuality, afraid of becoming my mother, who switched to part time work for a time after I was born, that being said her career choice was in honor of her mother. That’s my mother, a living oblation, a dutiful soldier, someone who gives everything without complaining. I don’t want to become my mother.

It recently came to me that space is not empty like a vacuum, but pregnant with possibility, like an empty womb. Space is the space inside the worm, not a terrible void, nothing like nothingness.

These are the things you think of when you are deciding to be a Buddhist, but o wait, you actually kind of are, even if you miss Christianity and are afraid of going to hell. I’ve recently found a bit of an intellectual out for potentially professing to believe despite the many contradictions of the Gospels and contemporary sources, and yet, is that the home I want to go back to?

God, I love to just riff on random themes. I wish someone would pay me for this, but then if I got paid perhaps I would be blocked, because money is evil and all that. Studies show that when given too many incentives people become less creative. I suppose creation ahs to be for it’s own sake, it’s not a matter of Thaler-esque nudging.

And don’t I feel like such a special person making references to Nobel winning economists. Once, I wanted to be an economist, and invent a new economic system that would lead to greater human flourishing and self realization. I wanted to think of a new paradigm, which integrated sociology and history and humanities rather than so much calculus, which might have scared me more than it should as a perfectionist girl who feared learning by doing and not getting the right answer the first time.

So do I need to indebt myself further, and actually buy a place? How much is it worth to me? Forgoing Russian lessons? Taking one haul flight less? Is it even possible in the next few years? Not sure.

I need a job because I am not able to create value for myself, I need someone else to tell me what to do and that it has value. I can’t just make things, write poems, without direction. I need someone to tell me to organize a party or make a goddamn brochure. I fear being freelance would be more of the same.

I wish I could hold a space for myself, and make something I could be really proud of rather than the drivel I have to do to make a living. Sometimes what I do isn’t so bad, but to be honest I don’t really enjoy being a team player, and I am smarter than a lot of other people, and because I am young people don’t always listen to me even when they should. I am reaching an uncomfortable point in my development, which can also be full of potential, where I realize just how capable I am and how little I am let to do, for fear of me making a mistake, for fear of my potential perhaps at some level. But mostly, because that’s the way things are done. I understood pretty early I wasn’t going to be let to do anything too important, and it has made me a bit unmotivated. Now the world has started to take notice of me, and they want me to do more big girl stuff, which is good but I am still stuck in a fucking girl job and in the end I’m going to do a million times more and not get paid more and it’s still going to be 20 years before I will do anything intellectually interesting. And that makes me sad. And I have to keep going further down the rabbit hole of my industry, which I just fell into my chance and not by choice. so that’s something to think about.

Why do I need an audience to rant? Is it that I am that narcissistic? or self-sabotaging that I risk this falling into the wrong hands. Maybe a small part of me wants to be discovered, told that the jig is up. But I don’t really want that.

What I have really wanted is to avoid moving forward too fast, because if I disprove too much my family and the conventional world’s paradigms of how things work, people will hate me. I will hurt their feelings with my excellence. Maybe I will never find a man, or worse, maybe I will be a self-absorbed workaholic mother who is not really present to her children and jsut gives money instead of time as my mother accused me once.

Maybe I just want to remain trapped enough to have the satisfaction of saying I could do great things if only, and not having to take the risk that they won’t pan out and fail. I am very hard on myself for my failures. In fact, I think I chose some of the most to my mind loathsome failures I could do and did them on purpose just so I could find myself repugnant, or perhaps I did already.

I don’t know if i can’t hear the little voice of what I should be doing because I’m afraid of success or failure. I don’t know if it’s because my desire to be a good girl is drowning it out, or my ego because the dream is too small and not fat enough.

Another thing I have realized during the past few days of being home with the flu, besides that my apartment is a huge mess, is that nearly all of my worry around food is just stupid. It’s something I could deal with pretty easily if I wanted to by changing around a few things. I don’t necessarily need to go full paleo or any of that. If I didn’t have anxiety and strong feelings to soothe and dopamine fires to stoke I would probably be much better. Maybe I should spend the money on learning Russian and Egyptian dancing to satisfy these aspects of myself. Not sure- but then that’s money not going to debt repayment or towards a down payment.

I don’t even know who I am, who live in a very messy flat that has the potential to be really nice, who don’t like anything to do with adminsitration or paperwork or maintenance, to think of buying an appartment. Especially since I’m still waiting for the day that my prince will come and take me away and I won’t have to live alone anymore, even though I like living alone a lot to be honest, and I’m always so relieved after seeing other people to be by myself.

Quoi d’autre? Yes, my sacred space. I think that one other reason I keep fucking up is that it stops me from feeling ready to engage in any kind of relationship. Because I won’t let myself commit before I know who I am. And what better way to stall then to throw the mist around who I am?

And yes, whenever I take that massive action, it is going to push some people away. It is going to mentally and phsycially and emotionally move me. I am not going to be the same person. I won’t have any more excuses. I will be shamed into acting by my own high principles- up, up, and away!

Because it feels safer to remain forever up in the air, and when you grow roots, you can’t pretend you’re someone else anymore.

 

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