On a serious note...

I've worked hard to keep this blog "light."  I have several drafts of entries that were extremely serious or, at least, not light-hearted.  I mostly keep it to NaNo, hot men and lustful feelings, the general "this made me smile" kind of things.  There's been the occasional introspective post, but generally I leave it out of here.

I guess I'll break that now.

Here it is, 1:24am, I'm reclining in my bed reading the last dozen or so pages of "The Calligrapher" by Edward Docx (review coming soon!), hearing Glee music coming through my laptop, and for whatever reason I looked up in front of me.  I see my desk, which has a ton of papers and boxes and odds 'n ends on it (product of organizing the last of my moving boxes the last 3 days), and atop it are the books and journals I have deemed important enough to be set apart from my two bookshelves.  Including but not limited to: French Dictionary, Italian dictionary, Man Search For Meaning by Viktor Frankl, The Outsiders by SE Hinton, A Little Prince/Le Petit Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery (both the english and french versions), the leather journal my father gave me as a going-to-college gift, and the book of poems my mother gave me as a going-to-college gift.

And it hits me: I am desperately, hopelessly, unequivocally, undeniably unhappy.

Not that I hadn't had an inkling of this feeling.  I've known for awhile that I'm searching for more, that I'm getting more and more agitated - but I never thought it would amount to something this powerful.

I can't even begin to describe how much I am resisting San Diego.  I love this city: downtown, the suburbs, all the winding and connecting freeways, the many malls of all sorts, the "ghetto" parts, the beaches, the cliffs, the people you find.  But I can't shake the feeling of resistance and, inevitably, resentment.  I've conquered this city.  I know it, i know the places within it (of course not all, but you get what I'm saying), I know what it's like to live here.  I know.

And now I can't stand to be here.  I'm trapped, in a weird way.  I feel as though there's nothing left here to challenge me or offer me.  I know I should probably just search a bit harder, but it will never leave me that I don't want to search here.  I want to search somewhere else, somewhere I've never been.  I need that feeling of brand new, of a place I have no idea of anything.  I need the exhilaration of walking into the street and having zero clue what is around me.  I want the anonymous feeling that comes with knowing eventually I will connect with something.

I miss it.  All I've ever known is being faced with places and people I've never seen before, and now that it has been taken away from me I have no idea what I'm doing anymore.  Right now, I am so unhappy with the idea that wherever I go, whatever I do...I already know what's there and who I will return to.

And I can't stand it.