It seems that my momentary phase of happiness and ignorance to the pain of those around me has hit a speed bump. Lately, I've been too busy living life that I don't stop to think of what or why I do the things I do. Several events have occured which have forced me to re-examine my philosophy on life, love, and tuna sandwiches.

First, although I've only recently read it, Paul seems to be in a bit of a slump these past few days. It's interesting to see how he deals with his problems (in fact, that's what an online journal is all about), yet I've begun to care for his health and safety a lot lately. No, it's not a reaction to the rivetting entry he posted that day, it's something that has been building since shortly after we began exchanging emails. Funny thing is, my concern for him is even more so than for friends which I know and see almost daily in real life. I dunno... I feel that I can relate easier to him than some of my other friends. Sure, a majority of my friends are out going and love to have a fun time, but I can never be introspective when around then... and I always have at least one in each class, giving me no real moment of peace and quiet. Paul, a fellow kindred spirit in the life of the literate, has help my writing plenty through his critiques and suggestions. Probably more so than he himself knows. He's a person who can express every feeling he has through some rather captivating imagery, if only through words. Yet, the written word, I believe, is a bit less transient than the words of a family member or friend. Sure, speech can induce a memory or inspire one so that the words are engraved into our minds, but we can only recall so much at a time. Eventually, memory fails us and we have to write down what was so important to us. Words can present even an abstract idea as proof that it existed and that someone actually thought it up and took the time to write about it.

The reason why most do not choose to write, is that they're so set in their inability to formulate the right words to do so, to express what they truly want to say. However, writing, as opposed to conversation, can be edited. This is both the saving grace and the death wish of the literary word. Because it can be edited so, a person can rewrite the things they don't wish to keep and delete the things they do not. Yet, once you have shared your thoughts to the world, people can plagerize it and pull out the editor's axe; decimating the original text to sound like something completely different.

But anyways... I haven't written an email in forever, because I can only write introspectively or in third person. When it comes to written conversation, I'm... terrible. Sure, I can pull out different slang words at the drop of a hat and talk casually with friends. But when I sit back and try to write exactly how I speak, the transition is never smooth. I write down the words and phrases I've practically trademarked as mine, yet I sound like a complete thug when I read it, and I know I am far from that. In otherwords, when I address someone personally and in writting, I don't sound like me. And when I try modifying the words to suit what I think is "appropriate", I lose all the charm, flavor, and sarcastic wit I'm accredited for.

So, I hardly write emails anymore. I can, however, relay my thoughts to those who read this blog. Which is what I'm going to do... Paul, if you're reading this, thank you for being a part of my life thus far. I probably won't work up the courage or determination to put this down in writting ever again, since I'm far too shy with emotions when it's directed at an actual person, as opposed to an idea or dream of a person. So, I'll leave this on my blog as testimony.

Another note-worthy event which took place over the past two days, was a near traumatizing conversation I had in my English class. Ms. Miller had just passed out our copies of the book The House on Mango Street and began a huge conversation. The spark that lit the fire: "What makes someone successful?" Then she began asking whether her upbringing in a trailer park made her trailer trash, which she isn't because she rose above her current surroundings and became something better than the stereotype. Then Sydney started giving her background story of her poor family who lived in the back yard barn of their parent's farm, and how they were able to go from that hell hole to a seven bedroom house here. I was too shaken and too timid to share my experiences with living in hell holes, but even now I haven't come to terms with it and am still ashamed of that particular year of my life. Afterclass, my friend came up to me and expressed her guilt for living a privilieged life from the start. I just clammed up and didn't answer her.

Lastly, today at lunch, Robert had a nervous breakdown about his girlfriend Desi pushing him away because of the 'cult' of over-zealous anime fans which has more or less taken control of half my friends' lives. Now, Robert is very talented, yet he's prone to outbursts of bipolarism and excessive eccentricity. This particular incident was rather interesting. As in all the usual confrontations, my other friend D and Robert would exchange screams and yells as several other group members crouched under a tree and cried silently. However, I just stood, in the midst of all this chaos and trauma, and I was laughing silently to myself. The situation was completely... near farce-like with the wailing and screaming and melodrama. I had almost convinced myself that I had walked onto the set of a soap opera. Then, almost instantly, I was struck with the sudden realization that I had a moment of complete apathy. I thought myself sensitive to other's feelings, and yet I was being hypocritical. It made me sick.

... I've written entirely too much today. I apologize.