Sometimes, I wish I was someone else. Like, some kind of magical, powerful creature with one red eye, one green, who can wield plants, make them magically appear and charge towards people, wrapping around people and saving them from certain death—
Ahem. I’ve been writing. Writing is a curious thing. It really is. On the one hand, it’s blissful and amazing; on the other hand, it’s horrible and hard, difficult and annoying; and one never seems able to write anything that is satisfactory; I always seem to fall short of what I want my writing to be. I’m in the process of looking over a piece of writing, of 60,000 words, a YA novel, that I’ve been working on for a while, and which I’m putting through its final edit. While editing is fun, and I enjoy, very much, reading my own book, I can’t help but feel fear that, once again, this book will get rejected by publishers and I’ll be pushed back to square one.
I don’t want the fame or money that comes with writing—those things are temporary and alluring, like will o’ the wisps that lure you to your death in some swampy river water. What I want is to have something I created to be read and enjoyed by other people. Obviously, on some level, I’ve accomplished this through this blog, but there are so many words and stories inside of me yearning to be seen and known, and enjoyed, that it’s nearly impossible for me not to write. To not write, for me, is to not live.
As for life itself, I still haven’t got it figured out. I wish the trees and the roads felt less…empty. The world feels so empty sometimes, like it’s the loneliest and saddest place that could possibly ever exist. This feeling tends to fade when I am surrounded by people, but when I spend long stretches of time by myself, it grows and grows, like taffy when it is pulled apart, until I can barely bear it. Why do we exist? Why do we live? I believe in God—I am Christian, after all—and Jesus, and I believe God gives me meaning in life, and has put me on this planet to share my writing and the words inside of me. I don’t know where my path in life will lead me, but I do hope it meanders towards something bright and beautiful.
I ended up deleting a post about some students who bullied me in school, because, lo and behold, they managed to get onto my blog, and one of their friends started to harass me on Instagram, telling me to take down the post. While I felt it was somewhat giving in, I had do it, because harassment is not cool and I needed to put a stop to it. Sometimes, I wonder how people live their lives, and how they find pleasure in the shallow world of trips to nice countries and physical pleasures and pretty clothes, because those things, lovely as they might be, don’t bring me lasting happiness. Words do. Magic does. Kindness does. Giving to those who needed, helping people, doing God’s work—all those things bring meaning to my life. Books. Music. Pets.
If any of you would like me to do more posts about INFPs, I’d be happy to do it. This blog sort of evolved into a blog about INFPs, even though I changed the blog’s name to my own name (the reason is present in the previous post) and I’m still always wracking my brain, trying to think of more INFP posts I could write. It feels as though I’ve exhausted many of the avenues of blog ideas already.
Loneliness still hits me, every now and then, but instead of filling it with something that doesn’t actually fill the hole, like a boyfriend or food, or fantasies of magical worlds and whatnot, I fill it with God’s love, which surrounds me every second of every day. Some people might think this is pathetic, and just a way of dealing with loneliness and singledom, and, for those who don’t believe in God, even delusional, but God does exist, He is real, and He is there for me, every single second of everyday, deep inside my heart. I wish everyone a brilliant, beautiful start to the new year, and hope you live happily.