on being twenty and quite stupid

 it is not a fact lost on me that all of this is quite pointless. that i could write today, learn something tomorrow and make art about it over the weekend - and i can keep falling behind. theres always an answer to this; that everyone moves on their own timeline and it is not up to us to worry about the ifs and the whats and the maybes. the maybes have been pissing me off quite a bit lately. 

i keep isolating myself. the more i fall into this pit - this forsaken fucking pit of footnotes and addendums and the madness that says more more more; i fear that there is no real path for me. i could make something out, a vague creation of something, somethings, a somethingsomething but i dont think anything could satiate me. in my dreams i think of a life as an artist but

(i could sell my work. this is not lost on me either.)

i think ive spectacularly fucked up being twenty. i had no grand love story this time, no extravagant adventure, nothing new but for the old grief escaping the careful containments of its own rot. the unsureness - the godforsaken unsureness slowly makes its way back for what i can assume is to be a tumultuous year. 

i used to be so sure of my dreams. i wanted to touch the stars - or burn bright enough by getting close enough - and i wanted to know the secrets to everything. everything that i could perceive was a puzzle waiting to be unraveled and i and i and i. even in my best days, i dont know where i torched those dreams. i didnt, really. i left it out in the open to rot, more food for the grief. 

the thing was, i kept trying to be something great. then i kept trying to be something. and finally - i kept trying - everything and nothing, together and separately, all at once. and eventually, i just gave up. 

now im twenty (and quite stupid). sure my not-quite-dead dreams of astronomy and mathematics might never truly come to fruition - and i dont think i'll really shake off the uncertainty. i write too vaguely, i repeat themes, and refuse to learn anatomy or perspective or any of the fundamentals of art. i order out food way too often (i think. i dont really know what to measure it with). i do some graphic design, play some guitar, learned some crochet and even lesser some of the language from the state i have now lived three years in. ive picked up all the wrong things, in the wrong order and dont really know how to get started on the right ones.

and there isnt a point to this, to that or whatever i could ever have done. 

(i did clear out the spam in my mail today though.)

i started writing this as a rant, really. halfway through i sort of subconsciously shifted into thinking this should have a conclusion, it should mean something. but my point (ironically) is the opposite. everything i do, as self declared 'quite stupid' does not need to serve its purpose or work out - and i am trying to get better at failing. 

2026 seems good a time as any to become more familiar with this unsureness. i hate it and i wish i could skip ahead a few chapters, but maybe i need a year to trip and fall a whole lot. 

i dont expect things to get magically better over a year. hell, i dont expect anything - really. i write this with half-certainty since my real goal is to 'write more', not 'be more positive' - but if i get one done along with the other, all the better. i think its wholly pretentious and narcissistic; this urge that comes with calling yourself an artist - to want to ruminate and analyze, to pause the continuity of the whole fucking world to go back to something and ask if the colours were deeper, if they could have been richer. 

to stop the mightiest river with the force of a forest fire. 

balance. thats what i hope 2026 brings. i hope i tread lighter.