Living In The Moment Vs. Lying To Yourself


Lately, my definition of ‘writing’ has become an uncertainty of where to begin the tedious task of trying to understand what the hell is going on inside my over analytical mind. Where does one begin to describe a series of events that we so easily lump together in a simple word: “life”? I’ve found the majority of my existence has been spent thinking about my past. especially the most extreme ends of the spectrum of emotion. The rest of my time I’ve wasted wondering and creating anxieties over what hasn’t occurred yet. Why is it, that we, as humans, fret so much about what has already happened, can’t be changed and what has yet to come? I constantly push myself in the direction of living in the moment; enjoying the little beauties that are directly in front of my furrowed eyes. Yet, as I grow older, I find this task to be increasingly more difficult. More times than not, I’m almost positive that I’m blatantly lying, trying to convince myself that I’m living in the present moment.

What a bunch of bullshit.

At this moment, I’m sitting in my overly pillow-clad bed, overfed cat awkwardly strewn at my side, with cheddar cheese poof crumbs haphazardly littered across my blouse. I feel like I’m relaxed. Content, even. I reassure myself that I’m in the present moment. But alas, a lie. My mind is riddled with uncertainty, doubt, and every normal worry of a 23 year old female living in a chaotic metropolitan. How I got to be in this exact place I can’t really seem to fathom, or even remotely understand for that matter. How did a brainy, band camp-attending gangly teenager turn into a confident, sultry internationally known sex icon in a matter of one year? I’m not tooting my own horn. I’m just in disbelief.

Writing about my experiences upon moving to Los Angeles has to be one of the most daunting and challenging experiences I’ve ever faced. Trying to decide which memories, which may be special to me and a bore to the general public, are worth mentioning. Trying to decide which memories NOT to share in fear that my family will completely disown me (if they haven’t already). Then again, there’s a hell of a lot more enjoyment in being the black sheep than another clone of the herd. What do I dare divulge about myself? Do I want the general public knowing my inner- most secrets? Fears? Desires?

Although, at my age, most would probably agree that I’m not even old enough to have felt the challenges of life that would even classify as “hell.” Regardless, I’ve come to realize that nothing worries me more than the countless number of people I am sure to completely and irreversibly piss off. In that, I apologize in advance for my blatant and sometimes cruel honesty that will occur throughout my future ramblings. Being so harsh, frankly, is simply meant for authenticity, rather than malice. So, to say it in the wise words of my sister, “get off my balls.”

I’ve spent a lot of time wondering what the intent was for the carefully thought out babble on each page that I somehow manage to produce. To complain? To give some sort of explanation for the way I am? To guide the population of supposed helpless females into following their hopes and dreams? Okay, I know I’m starting to sound pathetic… And to be honest, I really don’t have a concrete answer to give you, as much as I’d like to. My sole intent, initially, was to write in hopes of finding some sort of clarity in all of this mess. I have no idea if I have achieved “clarity”, or whatever the hell that even means. But in the transformation of the tumultuous tangle of thoughts in my head into actual words, I have accomplished something. And that’s really all that matters in my eyes.