sweet, a little selfish

 well. i suppose this is the beginning of what may be a very successful blog story, but is more likely going to fail very quickly. i've never been good at finishing...well, anything, and knowing there isn't going to be an audience isn't particularly helpful to this fact.

so why'd i start this?

i think i just need to talk. to someone, to anyone, need to share my thoughts, need to say something, need to say anything. i feel like i have way too many thoughts for me to process on my own. there's always something going on inside my head, i'll be honest, and i'm not always sure how to make it stop. i think it's why i got so addicted to microblogging platforms like twitter and tumblr, because they let me get these bizarre thoughts out of my head without putting in the effort of writing again.

i haven't written in so long. not really. not truly. i hope i can change that.

i don't know what i'll put here. maybe i'll talk about the random thoughts going through my head at all times, but maybe i'll make a separate blog (?) for that so i can use this more for "writing" writing. but maybe boxing myself in will creatively hinder me. i don't know yet.

maybe i'll write about my day. maybe i'll write based on prompts and create stories and characters on the fly. maybe i'll write poetry. maybe i'll just talk. i think i do that best. mostly, i just sort of want to get back into the habit of writing. not writing anymore is sort of the worst thing to happen to me creatively, but also mentally, i think. because then i became reliant on other people, on other places, on short snippets to properly convey what i'm feeling.

i no longer want people to know what i mean when i'm saying nonsense. i want to be able to say things and mean it. i want to be able to say things and know for myself. i want to be able to create and stop feeling guilty for how much i create. i want to tell stories, physical stories that i can hold and print out and say, look! i've created something, and i'm no longer worthless. i want that to be something i'm no longer ashamed of.

i know no one's here, but nonetheless. i can't help but hope i cultivate some audience. i hope someone reads this.

i hope you read this, and i hope it passes your standards. i hope i keep going. 

let this not be the last of me yet.

p.s. honey by kehlani came out two years ago, and it's still one of the most beautiful depictions of love i've ever heard.

a house is not a home and all that

i guess it's true what they say - once you start doing something on your own, you suddenly feel like you're able to criticize everyone else who's ever done it.

i'm actually not sure if that's something they say, or if that's something anyone says. i'm like, pretty sure i kind of just made it up, but it's a thought that has occurred to me multiple times since moving back home for the summer. living on my own (well, with roommates, but still,) has really changed my perspective on my childhood home, and probably not in a good way.

i mean, i've been to my friend's houses before, so i have always thought it was weird that we don't actually use our dishwasher, but instead have it to store plates and such, but i figured that was just a side effect of my parents growing up in poverty - not wanting to use unnecessary electricity and expenses and all that. same with the fact that our oven is filled with pots and pans, though i figured that was also partially due to the fact that my parents are hopeless at baking. but the more i help out around the house...sheesh, this place is a nightmare. and i mean that kindly.

first of all, the growing up in poverty thing is really evident in both of my parents, but in different ways. with my dad, he only owns a handful of clothes, and i know it's because growing up he only had a single pair of pants that his mom had to wash for him every day. my mom, though, collects everything. there is nothing she can let go of. i tried to throw out some spare dollar store keychains, and she fished them out of the trash and insisted she wanted them. she washes out jars of minced garlic when they're done and uses them as storage containers - every. single. time. sometimes it feel's almost pathological. scratch that, it definitely is.

i feel bad for her, because i love her, and i know what it's like to want to hold on to everything for fear of it being taken away from you. rather too much than too little and all that. i just wish she would find comfort in her present situation, learn that she doesn't have to live like that anymore. both for her sake and (guiltily so) for mine - it's hard to live in a house full of useless trash.

we have more stuff than we know what to do with. our fridge is always overflowing because she makes large quantities of food in advance and then stores them away. our cupboards are filled with plates we don't use or really have any use for - old tupperware containers without lids or delicate tea sets when none of us drink tea.

i suppose some of this is about growing up, having adult tea sets for when you have your adult tea parties and such, planning for parties and events and what not, but i mean....we have to store all of our pots and pans in the oven. come on.

it gets a little exhausting, but my mother's a bit sensitive, so it's hard to bring this stuff up with her. i suppose i can give it a shot, but i have very little faith that she's going to listen to me at all. i love my mother, but it's unlikely she'll even fully process what's being said to her if she's not fully in agreement.

i hope that's everyone's biggest takeaway from all this, by the way. not the agreement thing, but the fact that i love my mother. because - honestly, truly - i do. it took me a while to get there, but i did, and i'm glad i do.

even if she's a bit of a hoarding idiot.