I’ve recently become very disappointed with blogging. With my blogging. I suppose that’s why it hasn’t been happening quite so often.

I feel this huge urge to talk to someone. To pour my heart out.

Someone once told me that that was my biggest mistake—that when I really speak to someone, I speak from the heart, in the all genuine non-manipulative truth of my thoughts at that moment. (That is, once you get me talking.) This person told me that I needed to realize that communication was specifically to get a point across, to get the other person to hear and think something from what you’re saying. You’re communicating a point. I, on the other hand, had been making the foolish mistake of communicating my actual thoughts, my true hopes, fears, dreams, and desires…to who? And to what end? Will these people really see the value of it all? He told me I needed to learn to not speak so directly from my heart and soul, that I would suffer less if I did that.

I thought he was very wise.

He’s also a guy I hold in very, very low personal regard. But, that’s another story, already covered here on this blog.

As anyone who reads my blog probably knows, my life is currently rather mixed up. The most challenging situation for me is what’s happened, is happening, will happen back home. The most difficult thing for me to face is the daily discussions with friends here who cannot wait to get back home, who talk about their parents lovingly, without that little knot in their stomachs that I have here. This hard knot of anguish and torment that squeezes and squeezes, until I almost feel nauseated—every time “parents” come into a conversation.

I desperately need someone I can trust to talk to, to really say everything to—a friend I can trust. Funny how they’ve become so scarce. I need someone I feel close to and someone I know will be there for me. Really be there.

The blog doesn’t work for this. Though I’ve broached the issue many times before in some somewhat obvious, and lesser obvious ways…that little flame of filial love has not died out (yet), and I only hurt more when I publicly shame my own family. That’s not the way.

I long for those cheerful, brainless blog entries that used to pepper my days. I often feel an urge to do it, but well, I cannot do it with such feelings gnawing at me. Impotency. It’s a problem.

It’s not only that. I don’t even really like to write. Perhaps that’s obvious, or maybe I've made myself think this because I'm so lazy. But, well, I just end up doing it. I felt compelled to blog today. In fact, I feel compelled every day. One day perhaps I will just bare all, completely, entirely for this site. But I don’t think I’d do my life, or anyone in it for that matter, justice.

Today I read through some stuff that I found, and I felt like throwing up with rage. No, that’s not right. There was no rage. It was disgust, jaded belief (as opposed to disbelief) and pent-up anger.

I want to rage though. I’m just scared I’ll never stop.

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