8:13 on a frigid Boston evening. The thermometer barely reaches into double digits. Add a few paced and calculated gusts of wind and you are feel as though the mercury is reaching double digits...in the negative. All of a sudden that extra sweater with the puppy dog, which on first glance was an embarrassment that would destroy a long standing reputation, is now coveted. Smooth move, kid. Besides it could be worse, it could be purple bunnies or something like that. Now that is the stuff you got beat up for in high school. Until the Jonas Brothers do it, then it's totally acceptable.
What did people do before blogs? Write in journals/diaries/whatever you want to call them. I can dig that. But I often feel that in blogging you lose something. Often times the things most sacred to us don't find their way to the electronic pages of the internet- and rightly so. I can understand not wanting to admitting your deepest desires and fears on a publicly accessible venue. But, I wonder, where do they go then? I believe that there is something deeply cathartic about writing. Sometimes the things you want to say can't be shared with another person. You aren't looking for somebody's evaluation of your life or your opinions. Ok, then do those things stay inside? Maybe that is where they belong. But somehow I think we often need to get these things out. Most of what is kept inside is our fears. And, at least for me, it is the inability to forgive myself. I have failed in this life. And I'm guaranteed to fail again. But I don't forgive myself for the failures. As I sit and reflect on some of them I wonder when they really began. You can't fail as a child. That is just a fact. You're too innocent but this world in which we live seems to wipe that away pretty well as you get older. The morals we once clung too adamantly now find the grip easing. Well, I need to make sure my grip realigns and holds on tighter than ever.
When we are younger we have dreams of who and what we want to be. I'm starting to worry that I'd disappoint my younger self. He was a pretty smart guy I have to say. He worked hard and was true to himself. I owe him an apology. For quite some time I think I've done him quite a disservice. Maybe I should move my flight home and spend a weekend in New York to find myself. What happens to the fish in the pond in Central Park? (The Catcher in the Rye references there for you if you're keeping score at home. If you remember the author give yourself an extra 2 points.) I just look at pictures of myself as a baby and hope that through it all that little guy's life goes as he wanted it to. We both agree where we want it go but I think I'm starting to change the course, not on purpose, but to my chagrin, consciously. There is no one to blame but myself. Just because you can doesn't mean you should.
So there it is. Truth. I'm sorry but I don't know that I can forgive myself. No excuses. Oh and I'm afraid of snakes.
