Have You Seen My Rose-Colored Glasses?

Note: I was hesitant about posting this particular entry, as it is not a Pollyanna-ish one about traveling. However, I thought some of you might appreciate knowing that even a traveler like me couldn't avoid having those thoughts while going abroad. I would like to emphasize that I am getting by all right :-) 

My weight is fluctuating. My hair is coming out in lumps. My skin is becoming darker and more freckled. My flip flops are wearing out. I am more confused than ever.

I am falling apart. 

In other words, I am an ordinary adult currently dealing with an existential crisis. 

Or more accurately, I am simply a blabbering fool who is mystified by her ability to live a life, whatever it is. 

Again and again, I sit down and write, eagerly pouring my heart into a story, only to walk away in frustration. I do not know what I want to talk about. Hell, I don't even know what I am talking about. 

Life confuses me. I am okay with this confusion, but I loathe this terrible sense of wondering, "Okay, so why do I bother doing this?"

I write a truth only to come back and find it a lie. I write a story with no beginning and no end. I say things I believe in only to realize I no longer believe in them the moment they are uttered. I sprout out everything that means nothing. I talk like I know what I am talking about only to admit I do not even have a remote idea what I am talking about. 

I am plainly a blabbering fool. 

Am I supposed to tell you that traveling has transformed me into this even more wonderful, wiser, and happier individual?

Am I supposed to help perpetuating the myth that you are nothing if you do not travel at all? 

Am I supposed to be grateful and appreciative every single second that I am far away home, that I am living my dream? 

Perhaps I should insert cackles between these questions. A cackle of self-doubt, a cackle of confusion, and a particularly Voldemort-like cackle of existential crisis.

Nothing is the truth. 

You are what you choose to be. If you manage to be even more wonderful, wiser, and happier, so be it. If you are the exact opposite, so be it.

If you feel that traveling is a change you long for, then travel. If you feel that traveling will bring nothing into your life, then don't travel. Either way, you live the life on your own terms. You do not miss out on anything, no matter what others might tell you otherwise. 

If you could not manage to muster up a small ounce of gratitude and appreciation into your soul, make peace with that. If you could, be peaceful with that. 

See?

I am not even sure why I am saying all these things. I could be wrong. I could be right. 

I am talking because I am confused. I am talking in hope someone will interrupt me and go, "Hey, sweetie, that's okay" while patting my hand and solving the mystery of life for me. I am talking to sort out life. 

I find myself starting to disregard people's advice when they go against my desires. They may have good intentions. They do love me enough to offer advice, but I find my eyes shut to their advice, particularly when it comes unsolicited. 

Am I getting old? Am I starting to prefer my own wisdom, however fucked up it might be, to those of others? Am I learning the gift of following my heart?

Ah, I don't know. 

To me, the meaning of life is changing. While I am blabbering on, pretending I know what I am talking about, deep down inside me, I am vigilant like a hawk. I am watching myself. I want to study why I pretend to know it all and why my appetite for life is so fucking unsatisfied. 

Just by listening to my inner chatter, I am left breathless by the depth and the width of my unknowingness. I have no fucking clue. Thoughts float around inside, playing the chord with emotions that appear and fade away in their responses. 

I am adjusting to this existential crisis. In fact, I suspect there is no such a thing as an existential crisis.

I mean, you exist, you don't know what to do with your life, and then you die. All these three things are probably what we all would agree upon as three most constant facts of our existence. 

Ah, I could be wrong about that. 

I could no longer tell the difference between right and wrong, kindness and meanness, and all the other shades of life. 

I have tried to be right, kind, and all the good stuff. God knows I do, but sometimes I fail even at that because of many unexpected events, some of them involving only the state of my own mind.

What does it mean to be all the good stuff? Am I simply pleasing people when I should just let go of the fact I could not be perfect?

What does it mean to be imperfect when people poke at your flaws and insist at you improving your flaws? Am I supposed to tell them to shove it up their arse? 

I have been wondering about what it takes to be truly myself. It certainly takes a lot of strength and a lot of self-love to just be myself. It is hard. Especially when I am not sure what it means to have a self. 

Frankly, I am feeling so anxious and so shaken up by the shock of actually having a life to live out.  

Am I okay? Yes, I can honestly say yes. I eat. I sleep. I smile. I have my moments of happiness and sadness. I feel human. 

Am I not okay? I can also honestly say no. I freak out. I overthink. I do the opposite of what I intend to do. I feel like I am losing control over myself. I feel abnormal. 

In my quiet moments, whenever I could shut myself up, I recognize that regardless of whether I am okay, I am gradually growing into someone who is coming to terms with herself and is working diligently at making peace of having a life to live out. 

Phew. Isn't it exhausting just to be human? 

Ah, I will be all right. I've seen so many people managing to get by with their lives. Simply by accepting their unknowingness, they make me feel somewhat reassured. I am managing to get by so far. 

After all, I've managed to get myself thousands of miles away from Perth by choosing a rather unconventional method, a method I shall attempt to spin into a sweet tale in my next entry.