Proof of consciousness.

My last blog was back in September. A crying shame, though my eyes are no excess degree of wet.

I have had many interesting, clever, and potentially captivating ideas for posts. Yet, blog I have not. My empty promises to publish leave me melancholy, trapped within a guilty shell. The walls of this prison are white with nothing but a flashing curser silently screaming the dismal truth of my rut. At the mere view of the Blogger icon, my fingers curl back, laden with anxiety, unprepared to fight through the jungle of self-prepared humiliation.

Why does this happen? This perpetuating, woeful cycle of failure. At first, it's just an innocently missed pledge to write. The next week the weight of procrastination makes it more difficult to start, and the following week is practically a joke. Eventually I begin to hope that everyone had forgotten any comment made on social media about blogging. In extreme bouts of guilt I momentarily wish they forget I have one at all...

What's the hold up?

Sometimes I claim I'm just too much of a perfectionist about it. 

That's not entirely true. Usually words spurt out of me like puss from a ripened pimple, splattering onto the page with a great and brutish force. I often edit for a while to save embarrassment created by great haste and the speed of fiercely passionate typing.

Sometimes I think I'm not inspired. 

But that's mostly code for my absentminded laziness. My to-do list gains momentum and intimidation factor, and I reason that my time cannot be spared for trivial self-expression. Plus, I strive to imitate He who created all, so within me there is generally something trying to bust its way out.

Sometimes I feel I have someone to impress. 

And that's just stupid. My identity is not housed beneath the fonts of this page nor is my value calculated by the +1s, likes, or retweets I may (but generally do not) receive.

So what then is this curse? Why is it powerful? What/Who is its source?

My guess is that the source's got two thumbs and the password to edit the words you're currently reading. 

Pride clogs the pores of creativity. Sloth binds the energy of fingers. Wrath draws the eyelids shut in sheer indignation. These deadly sins creep into my brain folds, preventing the needed escape of thoughts.

Blogs are glorified thoughts. Choose a classy theme and snap some high res photos, and the internet might call you a pro. I know mine is not tremendously consistant or detailed, but I'm quite thankful for the ones I took the time to compose. These blogs may not dazzle, and they certainly don't make the boys swoon. This page might vanish in some post-apocalyptic crash of the web. My posts are just sentences, composed somewhat quirkily for hardly any purpose at all. These words are an escape route for consciousness, proof that neurons are firing and that life persists.

And what a persistent life I lead. Since my last blog...

I marched with some dear senior friends at their last performance with the Razorback Marching Band.

I spent time with precious family and friends over the holidays.

I brunched with a bestie. (WHO GOT A FULBRIGHT AND IS MOVING TO GERMANY!)

I participated in a swanky rave dance party on a moving charter bus. Crowd surfing may or may not have also occurred.

I was massively blessed by an amazing visit from my high school band director (and honorary father) at our first spring concert.

I met someone who is an entirely graceful loser at chess (and all other games).

I organized a surprise double half-birthday party for some presh roomies.

I mailed it, jailed it, bailed it, flailed it, trailed it, quailed it, WAILED it, and totally snailed it with the most fabulous small group in all the land. We walked like trustworthy people and ripped everything within reach.

These still firing neurons give me a ridiculous appreciation for this time. For this silly blog. For the opportunity to share, write, pray, think, do, praise, move, shake, produce. For you, in this merciful reading of my nearly aimless expulsion of type. There is no reason to let the shadow of my own doubt darken the doorways to what could, and often should, be.

Here's to being less of a weirdo about planning and executing my blogposts.
Here's to a future of confidence and remembrance.
Here's to life.

And I don't know much, but I do know this

With a golden heart comes a rebel fist

But I can't help agreeing with those that would not quit.