Here is where I am now:
Thanks for ever caring enough to read my stuff.
Posted at 7/16/2016 9:25:51 am by Pablo D. Andrade-Carranza
It was a good afternoon and evening. For some reason my moments of memory are always small flashes. It's always an out of body experience but it is all contained within me, what does that say about how I go through life?
I can remembering not having conversations and staring into the fire we made. Something about it seems comforting. Maybe it's the warmth that seems familiar or maybe it's because it is surrounded by all the darkness in the miles of emptiness. I can almost convince myself for a moment that there isn't a whole world out there of responsibilities and unforeseen consequences to situations that have not presented themselves yet.
Then you are back in reality, like none of it existed. You remember who you are, what place you are in and where your life is. It all comes crushing down on the small moments of emptiness that I can only later dream of. Whatever it is I am or what I will become is an unpredictable principal. It doesn't really amuse me to fear the unknown or to welcome it, I can only endure the present and wait to see if my future is as bright as I am suppose to believe it is.
And maybe there is something empty in that. Maybe the belief I've got anything to gain is a fallacy of the life I've chosen to live. Hopefulness is not based on reality but in the faith you have to get yourself there. Wherever 'there' is, wherever it is that 'there' will take me.
You are never ready. You can't gain experience to deal with what you haven't experienced. You can only gather pain and suffering and moments of brilliant joy spread out over the time you've managed to live through the mud. You can't teach yourself to be OK with the pain, only learn to live with it.
But reality is a joke anyway. One that keeps repeating itself every time there is someone new to hear the punchline. It changes depending on perception, inner and outer perception. And you can never be really safe from it, you can never build your own little world and populate it only with the things you understand. Eventually the unknown creeps in when you drop your guard and you will learn to live with it. Hopefully.
I guess the biggest unknown is dying unaccomplished and alone. That is the bottom line for the human race- not getting the pride of following through with your dreams and never finding the soulmate to complete it. You can always settle, go for the quicker route to a simpler life. Frankly, I admire those who have come to terms with giving up. In a real way, a way of understanding that you never really get what you want but you live with what you have. The people who don't hold a secret resentment towards someone they wish they were but found a way to be happy despite what they consider to be personal failures.
I admire the power of letting go of dreams. There is power behind being down and out for the count but raising your fists to the world and deciding to go for another round even when the match is over. I admire it because loss can bring life to a halt but those of us who lose ourselves and still manage to endure are wonders of world.
You find a precious treasure you didn't know you had only to have it torn away at the height of it's glory but you survive. You become the rock that cuts the river in half. You become stronger through your weakness just through the endurance of it.
That is what I tell myself. That is what helps me sleep at night.
As far as giving up goes, it's just not my time.
Thanks for reading.
Posted at 2/6/2016 10:13:01 pm by Pablo D. Andrade-Carranza
It's 4:04 AM. Can't sleep. Just sitting here listening to music in the dark.
Have we all been here? Has everyone collectively and individually been where I am? Sitting here just as I am, unable to sleep, waiting for there to be a point to it all? Why are things so pointless and why do you have to keep searching for a purpose?
A purpose. What possible purpose can one single life have? What difference can one person make against the tide of nothingness we stand before? The constant resistance of race, nation, funds, dreams, hopes, sadness, depression, fantasy, reality, interactions and sex. All of it hovering over as what the brain needs for you to conceptualize your life. As if it's so easy to box a handful of air and try to say that it's matter that can be seen with a naked eye.
The life is limitless. THE life because it is not mine, it just is. It's as much mine as a piece of land is if I plant a flag in it. It's a collective life, it is time, it is space. It'll move forward without me and has before me. And yet on this space of time, on this planet, on this little microscopic corner universe, I'm sitting here complaining about my problems. I'm sitting here carrying the weight of a truck on my shoulders like it all matters oh so much for me to cry about.
Well, It doesn't. All my problems are as pointless as my victories. So what are you left with? Nothing right? Exactly.
And from nothing you have everything. You lose concepts, you lose form. You become the formless. You become part of what the natural world is suppose to be, just an existence to exist. No other reason to exist then to just do it. To survive. Be present. Whatever the fuck you want to call it.
Am I just a vague bashing together of atoms in the smelter that made life or am I something more? Something beyond logical concepts of past and future? Can I just be too be? Can I just live too live? No purpose, nothing behind or ahead. Just a rock while as the world moves around me.
And is that what I should be? Is that disengaging from the world or engaging to the natural order of what things should be?
I don't know.
But that is something that's worth thinking about when I don't have a fucking headache.
Posted at 1/10/2016 4:04:12 am by Pablo D. Andrade-Carranza
It's the new year. January 8th. The Revenant comes out today in theaters and I don't have the money to go watch it again. It's a masterpiece.
In our news, I feel sick to my stomach. I've been feeling anxious and sluggish for the last couple of days and I can never figure out what I'm suppose to do about it. The only thing I can do is sit here and write and hope that maybe something I put down will make it go away. It never does but at least it's something I can control.
I can't control whatever it is I feel or when people talk to me. What they say doesn't hurt my feelings but in moments like this it can create a pressure where I have to try and be a good person, or whatever I think a good person is. Someone who is a confident and charismatic type. Balanced, opinionated, unable to allow himself to slow down under any circumstances. Just busy in a constant influx of movement towards an objective that no one knows or understands but that most of the times I don't even know if it exists.
I am barely conscious of my own existence let alone of anything else.
There are parts of my life that are a blur. A vast collection of numerous flashes of thoughts and feelings. It's hard for me to think back and remember who I was then and what I have learned since. It's hard to know which me is real and which is just something I made up for other people. I really don't know where the mask ends and where I begin, most days anyway.
All I can do is try. Try to be good. Try to listen. Try to learn. And most importantly, try to try. At least I don't have to try at trying, I can just do it. Most days anyway.
Trying is choosing to be alive, I guess. If I had to come to some sort of thought to consider what it is to try, it would be not deciding to kill myself. But that would be just a posthumous cry for attention. Like most art tends to be.
But you can't just walk away from an ongoing art project, you project yourself into it. You make a point of expressing whatever at the time seems important or overwhelming. It comes in a flash and becomes worthless just as quickly. At least worthless to you, personally, as the creator. People may experience it in their own way but It'll never be in the way you did when you made the fucking thing.
It's easy to relive the past, to hold onto it. I guess past history influences future history after all, look at where I've been to try and figure out where I'm going. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy that none of us can escape from. Well, you can but a lot of us don't want to. At least not yet.
It's actually pure insanity to choose to be alive. Consciously aware that there are people you will never meet, experiences you will never experience. And more that your entire life means nothing in the grand scheme of things. All your problems and joys and fulfillment are as numerous as the stars in the sky and the space in between them. It's nothing to be depressed about, just fact. It all only has a point to you and no one else. You're entire life is a little capsule that you get to experience and no one can really understand. You can share yourself, you can find a soulmate, but together It will still amount to two people who's separate paths can exist side by side for a while.
It's beautiful and heartbreaking. Which is how I like to live my life so it works for me.
You care enough about something so It can break your heart when it's gone.
That's enough melodrama for one afternoon.
I'll see you later.
Posted at 1/8/2016 1:21:41 pm by Pablo D. Andrade-Carranza
I thought I'd write here now that it's the most festive time of year. I'd like continue this right now but something is going on with my body. Hold on, brb...
OK. Well, yeah. Better. Was in the bathroom. TMI but whatever.
Internet acronyms. You'll have to put up with them. It's 2015, bud. kthxbye.
Alright so, I'd like to start off by saying It's been a long time coming for me to sit here and write. I've been avoiding it (like always) just as I have been avoiding the novel (also, like always). I can't seem to push myself to get any work done so I come here to get a sense of satisfaction of getting least one thing done today. It normally works.
I had a small part in a film recently (acting, two scenes total). It had a fancy premiere at a fancy cinema in a fancy part of town. They had us dress in clothes that I can't afford to be seen in without losing my living-in-almost-poverty street cred. I wore the only nice dress shirt and pair of dress shoes I have. I think I bought them for job interviews at some point. Anyway, it certainly gave the whole evening a sense of importance that being broke doesn't give you. Like walking into one of my fantasy novels; I'm talking about the after party of course.
It all took place on a rooftop lounge at one of the nicest hotels (and probably nicest places overall) that I have been in. Food and drinks had a budget, by which I mean it was all covered by the folks in charge of the film. I sat there with normal Ivan and genius writer and all around great guy Terry. We sipped and supped and bullshited on someone elses dime. It felt good. I sat there drinking aged scotch with ice and eating some of the most delicious finger foods this side of anything I've had. All around me were beautiful woman in dresses that probably cost more than my family makes in a whole month and the handsome men who's careers have earned them the privilege of being next to them. It was a surreal fantasy for me, filled with people I've only seen in films and read about in books. A life far removed from my own- Terry put it as "not real life". I agree with that to the extent that it is not my life, or at least hasn't been my life so far. I can see how addictive it could be to live in such a way. A constant high that you always crave the more luxury you obtain. You pay for that high with every over priced drink and every time you are made to feel important when someone holds the door for you and calls you "sir". That is the service that life of glamour expects. A constant ego boost, packaged and sold to you as a brand of high self esteem. All of it for a single moment where you are made to believe that little old you is a special little snow flake among masses of uninteresting snowflakes. So you pile it on: the clothes, the alcohol, the drugs, the women, the view, the food. So easy to be an addict. So easy to fall into it and lose yourself.
And so wondrous for me to see with an objective eye. An outsider spying on how the other side lives. There are people in the world who never know what it's like to walk around with pairs of socks that have holes in them or wondering if you can live with the last 40 dollars you have in the bank till next Friday.
Some will work hard and some will become those fantasy people. And some will argue that they deserve every single luxury and ego boost they get. I am not one to disagree, hard work has it's rewards.
But the closer you come to the sun, the easier it is to lose your wings. I can see how it is to become one who takes it all for granted. When privilege becomes expectation is when I have a problem. I am not staring into those differences that I see between me and them with a judgmental eye. I am only stating the gap between the life of the poor and the wealthy and how each one lives a life the other can probably not even imagine. It is difficult to find the ground from the top floor but I'm willing to bet that some of those on the top have never even seen the bottom before.
Coming from nothing doesn't make you better but at least it can provide perspective to someone who is self aware enough to remember.
And this is what was going through my head at this after party. Instead of mingling, I'm sitting there like a sack of potatoes with my drink, writing in my head. What a bummer I am.
The important thing is that I did enjoy it in my own way. It made me feel SLIGHTLY important. I dressed like a bum but got service like a king simply because of association. And who doesn't like getting stuff for free, amirite?
Anyway, thats enough.
Posted at 12/19/2015 11:36:41 am by Pablo D. Andrade-Carranza
Here's the deal.
This whole blogging thing is ancient. No one does this shit anymore aside from people who don't keep up with technology or those of us who are 15 year old Malaysian girls. Nothing against Malaysians or 15 year old girls.
But I have to keep it up as some sort of forcing-me-to-practice-writing type blog. I don't think I have anything to say here like the glory days of ups and downs or bitching about shit that is totally in my control but I just refuse to do anything about. My situation with women is still the same, and It doesn't stem from bad luck. Just stems from me being a fucking asshole. Not like an asshole who just treats everyone shitty, I mean an asshole who doesn't really try to make anything work. I could sit here and write how it's tough to get along with folks my age but honestly, I'M even bored of hearing that shit from pretentious 20 year olds. They name call others as 'millennials' like it's a bad word without realizing those dudes were in the same high school class as them. Do the math, you'll get it.
It just doesn't work, or I don't work. It's whatever. I just don't get this whole relationship/talking-to-and-flirting-till-we-fuck-each-other thing. I am my own burden so I have to live with it.
What else? The novel is coming along. Slowly but surely. Who cares about that really? No one is going to even read it for at least a couple of months, and thats only if I ask them too. At least look at the rough draft, please. Tell me I'm good, please. Praise me, please. Please validate the last few months of my life, please. Ok, I hear what you're saying but you're wrong and I'm going to ignore all of it and do what I want anyway. But thanks.
Ughhh I fucking hate quirky writing. I fucking hate it. I fucking hate seeing myself type funny shit. I always feel like a retard. Not mentally challenge, I mean a retard. Like "hey broski, let me pop open the hood of my car so you can check out my engine in a Tim Horton's parking lot. On a Monday. At 2AM" kind of retard. I fucking hate it because I can see myself doing all the moves to get the point across or to make what I think is good. There is a fucking bullshit confidence in it that is annoying to me for some reason. Like telling someone that you are funny after saying a funny joke. In reality, that confidence is probably driven by a sense of wanting to give you something out of what you are reading. A chuckle or some sort of feeling about...whatever. Maybe a feeling about who I am? Writing can be a source of communication that other mediums can't obtain. Because It can be anything. It is personal to each reader, beyond what the words are. I don't think anything else can do it the same.
I guess thats the key word. Communicate. That's all it is except you can't hear my voice or see me sitting here, moving my sausage fingers across the keyboard with my fat baby hands. And that's not self-deprecating, thats just a fact. I have hands like a fat baby. My fingers are fat on the bottom and skinny on the top. It's fucking weird.
It's part of crafting something with my mind because maybe I think whatever I say normally day to day is not good enough. Like I have to earn readership, earn eyeballs or interest. There is a part of that that is true but perhaps there is also percentage of it that is pure bullshit. Why do I have to mask what I say behind cleverness or craft? Craft can just become a manipulation for me to try and control the results of how you experience my bullshit 'art'. Is that really self expression? If I put who I am and what I want to say in metaphors and search keywords for whats relevant, is that any different from advertising for Nikey? You think they were always the cool brand? No. It took years of manipulation and 'brand-awareness' for everyone to collectively agree that it's ok to pay 200 bucks for a pair of faux-leather covers for your feet.
In terms of branding, I don't know what my value is. I am not much of a good representative of my own brand because I can't meter my own talent against a monetary value. I don't know how much is fair to get paid for what I do but I do know I like money so please give it to me. Maybe it's a game of self importance. The more important I'm made out to be, the more I can bullshit my 'brand' as 'cool' and 'exclusive'. How long before I'm selling shirts with my face on the front and "Pablo 'Baby Hands' Carranza" on the back? Hey, If you'll buy that shit, I'll sell it. If you actually bought a piece of shit in a box, I'd sell that too. I'd even sign it for you.
But anyways thats enough, so fuck it.
Thanks for reading.
Posted at 11/25/2015 3:52:52 pm by Pablo D. Andrade-Carranza
I got a headache but I promised myself I'd write once a day so here I am.
Not much to report. Been having writing circles once a month with a representative of the Asian arts community who also happens to be a published author. So thats cool, if you're into that sort of thing. Have been writing a novel, which is what I should be working on but instead I am here because It's easier. I'll get to it tomorrow.
Been trying to find work. That has had it's ups and downs. Wrote a few articles freelance for online publication which has got me a one time payment of practically nothing. Still it's work and I enjoy it when I have it.
Aside from that I've been trying to make things better for myself. Better living. Better sleeping. Better eating. Better surrounding myself with better people. At least trying to, you can't avoid assholes all the time. Sometimes they tend to creep in like the parasites they are but thats life.
I guess the important thing is to take note of the life thats calling to me and that anything that isn't what I'm suppose to be doing is a distraction. It is all part of living a healthy life but it should never take the place of what you need to be doing. I mean whatever it is you have inside that you are scared of but that you know you should be doing. That's how I'm trying to approach things. Using fear as an indicator of what I should pursue.
Some days it's tougher, like today. I haven't written a word all day and this blog has turned into another distraction/resistance. But the fact that I have slain the dragon of procrastination once and have gotten as far as I have fills me with determination. You do it once, you can do it forever. Even though that dragon is always there waiting for you to have your guard down.
It's not a fight. It's not a struggle. It is a choice to work despite your fear of failure or of your work being pointless. There is all the time you need. Everything you need to do it is within you. You just need to trust yourself enough to let go of what your thinking and just do it. Act, don't reflect. Reflection comes later. That's what rewrites are for.
Anyway, that's all for today.
Posted at 10/10/2015 12:01:06 am by Pablo D. Andrade-Carranza
"Now go and play and don't come back till you're somebody!"
With a satisfied grin, Pablo leaned back in his chair and smugly crossed his arms. Do I even know what I'm doing? he thought to himself. Maybe not. Maybe all it amounted too was pretty much nothing. The struggle is whats suppose to be important or rather the idea that you can chisel something decent out of nothing. He thought about what that would mean for the rest of his life. It would make it that he would never find satisfaction in his work, he would never see his finished product in the light that others would see it. While others might say it is good or enjoyable, all he saw were mistakes and ways to make it better. And that feeling of never really being fully satisfied never ended, it was as infinite as all the possibilities he felt at that point in time. It was all part of the infinite web of choices he would have to make for the next couple of decades until he died; death being the only thing that was truly perfect.
The midday sun beamed into the room from the balcony windows. Outside it was a chill Wednesday afternoon, perfect balcony standing weather. As he looked down and saw the world go by he realized what a joke this all was. To think, we all go about our lives never knowing anything beyond what we consider to be reality. He would never see the world from the eyes of anyone else but him yet writers go about their lives trying to give perspectives to characters which all end up being different parts of the same person. How one denominational it all was, how egocentric. He couldn't even get a good night sleep much less try to will into being a world of wacky characters and place them in interesting situations. How did anyone expect him to be anything but decent in a craft that tries to replicate the realities of so many people? To tell a story is one thing, to tell that story from a viewpoint that is not your own is impossible.
He noticed something odd down there on the sidewalk, a dog without a leash. He stared at the dog wandering and who seemed lost and was looking around for it's master. Seeming to give up the search, the dog lays down on nearby grass and lets the hot sun do it's work as if he didn't have a care in the world.
Like a fright train a subtle realization came to him. The dog has no master, it is bound by no leash. The dog has no one to lead or control it so what does it do? It adapts. It enjoys his situation for it is and doesn't suffer for what it isn't. A dog doesn't look for ways to fit into this world, he makes the world fit his needs. He is the one putting the world on a leash and he is the master of it. And what did the dog have to do in order to acquire this level of power? Submit. Complete and total submission to his situation is where he found his own control. Without the key element of submission, the dog would continue to perceive itself loss and would have never found the grass to lay on and the sun to warm him. He would wander scared and afraid looking for his master to give him a sense of meaning.
And who was Pablo's master? Fear. The fear of failure, the doubt of uncertainty. The pervading shroud of despair he wore in order to mask him from the dangerous reality of the world. A reality that may or may not exist. The monster under his bed only existed in his mind. The more he thought about what fear was, the more he realized it lacked a face. It was as an abstract figure that had no physical representation. In fact, the only real physical representation he could find is him. He manifested this fear both in his head and in the real world through his actions.
No way to face it but only by submission. "I am afraid" he thought. "I am a coward, and my cowardice allows me to not push myself. It makes me weak and alone and scared and without empathy for others. It makes me center the world around myself and my fears"
With this realization came an intense sense of dread. I have created this, he thought. My situation is a physical representation of my submission to my master of fear. I am no better then the dog looking to be led. The only thing to do now is submit. Submit to my failure, submit to my fears. Give in to all the negativity that has been stewing in his body for as long as he can remember. From there, and as he knew, something would grow. The best crops are grown in bullshit and he had plenty of it.
He looked down and noticed the dog once more. The dog had not moved from his spot on the grass. Suddenly, it jumped up with a bark and ran towards a man who had just come out of a nearby apartment building. The dog licked the man and jumped on him as if they hadn't seen each other for a life time.
"Fuck it", Pablo said to himself, as he walked back inside to continue his work.
Everything is temporary.
Posted at 8/5/2015 2:37:08 pm by Pablo D. Andrade-Carranza
So I've been thinking about what I'd like to do with this thing and after a long time I figured the best thing for me is to treat it as an outlet for quick artistic expression.
The trade of screenwriting involves a lot of spec work, meaning you write things without getting paid and pray to god that they are good enough samples to get your foot in the door somewhere. That being the case, it's easy to fall into the pattern of feeling like you are not really working and the structure of life you're taught from birth doesn't do much to help. Work is always considered that which you get paid to do for churning out a product for some sort of machine. A machine that is a gear in the bigger machine that makes up the structure of being a "contributor and productive member of society". So therefore, my work has no value to anyone. It means nothing, it is "meaningless". Writing is nothing but something someone needs to know in order to sign paychecks and file disability paperwork. It isn't significant, it doesn't change the world. You are not at the level of a doctor or a firefighter. In fact, you are probably not even at the level of the person who wipes cars dry at the car wash or who pumps the gas into your car. At least they have a purpose to society, their jobs having a meaning. And you, the little speck of dust not worth noticing, are sitting at a computer typing words no one has said for characters that don't exist who are in situations that never happened.
Yet you want to trade your imagination for currency. Convert your dreams to dollar bills. Who do you think you are? Do you think you are so special, so talented, that people will be lining up to pay 15 of their hard earned dollars to watch your movie or 8 bucks a month to stream your show on Netflix? You are a nobody. A worthless nobody who works in the opposite direction of everything anyone has ever told you is suppose to be important.
In my case, I am a fat, aging, bearded man-child with a receding hairline that types into a computer for no one. You really can't do anything but feel sorry for this sad waste of space who thinks he's smart enough to outwit life. Who thinks he's talented enough to break through the mundane with originality and still maintain his integrity. All you can do is mourn for the life that he could have had, the career in bricklaying or plumbing he could have built for himself over the course of 20 years. The nice wife and nice children he could have had in a nice normal neighborhood with a nice normal picket fence and a nice normal green lawn. He could have been somebody. He could have worked for 40 years and retired to Florida to live the rest of his days next to a pool, just baking in the hot sun.
But he won't. He never did. Instead here it is, penniless and bored. Living in the government's house. Sleeping on a mattress that's 5 feet off the ground hoping he doesn't wake up with cockroaches crawling on his face. A nobody with nothing. Living in dreams and never waking up to reality.
All that's left to do is throw your handful of dirt on the coffin and pray for god to forgive him.
Let this be a lesson to you kids, your dreams are always just that. The only way forward is a straight line. Not giving up is for people who can't make it in the real world. Do you want to be like him? Sitting in his underwear writing stories no one cares about for an audience of friends and family? Committing a lifetime to a craft that is no better than a part time hobby? NO! You want to be strong! You want to work and be part of the numberless crowd. You want to be just like everyone else and keep the gears of the world greased with your blood and sweat. That's the way to be a TRUE success!
Now go and play and don't come back till you're somebody!
Posted at 8/3/2015 1:14:50 am by Pablo D. Andrade-Carranza
As time passes I'm feeling the urge to write here less and less.
I think the time of vast introspection on this blog might be coming to a close. It's been around since I was 15 so I guess it was going to happen that one day I'd feel like I needed to move on.
Writing has become a different thing for me. Way back when I started this blog I remember I would skip my classes in high school not to drink or smoke cigarettes/pot but to sit in the courtyard and write in my notebook. I still have a lot of those stories/poems/essays/drawings, I was looking through them yesterday. Some of it is not too bad but most of it is garbage. I try to remember what I was feeling at the time because all of it has an air of subversiveness, which is a way of doing things that I've been developing over the last 10 years it seems. That recognition now made everything a lot clearly as to why I never really made an effort in school, it was because they were my advisory. I refused to fit into what they wanted me to fit into which is why many times they made me feel as if I had a problem or was slow or dumb. I remember all I would do back then is drag myself to school, sit and stare and not really try to take anything in. I would listen to music and write and then later I'd watch endless movies. While people were talking about the next party or how drunk they got I was thinking about how 2001: A Space Odyssey possibly changed my life and kick started my journey to try and understanding things. I had never seen anything like it before but even at that age I knew there was something worth thinking about. It was one of the main things that lit the spark of what I know and hold to be sacred, my overwhelming feeling of the importance of art in the functioning world. Not as a distraction but as the blood of industry and everything we consider important.
Art is really not a joke to me, even when it's suppose to be. Writing is not a joke to me. It's not a road to self importance or inflated ego; if I didn't have a computer, I'd write on paper. If I didn't have paper, I'd write on napkins. If my hands were tied I'd write in my mind and bash my head against the wall till something is spelt out in my own blood. Writing is a driving force thats beyond me, a constant internal monologue of my life. The world to me is an infinite story that I'm a character in, all I have to do is put my fingers on the keys and I'll tap into it. Writing is not escapism but rather it is the clarity I need to keep on living and remind myself that there is something beyond this weak flesh. It is a conscious understanding of the unconscious world. Like a hallway of mirrors reflecting itself infinitely.
And yet I claim no ownership over it. It is as much my writing as the air that I breath in belongs to me. It's a internal combustion engine that doesn't have enough room to run and the small release I can give it is typing a few sentences and paragraphs on a computer which, in the end, are still not enough. It never stops but rather I have to try and keep up until I can't which naturally creates it's end.
Which is the point I think I've come to in this blog. I feel as though the life cycle is coming to a close and a new era might be dawning. Writing, as I said, has become different for me. This blog created for me a platform for expression but mostly it is a way where I could acquire attention, as all blogs are. Through the years I feel as if the part of myself that required that attention has slowly diminished and this blog slowly turned from a soapbox into the equivalent of me having a conversation with a dear friend. But the reality is that this little space of the internet that I've carved out for myself is not a friend. It is built to be ego circle jerk for our technological generation who need the admiration and understanding of strangers. It is easier to type my feelings here then it is for me to speak them but that has also slowly evolved throughout the years. Now I want people in my life, I try to ask for help when I need it instead of writing about it and talking to myself.
And I don't make no bones about it, I know no one actually reads this because It is just another blog in the sea of people who blog about nothing. I don't think that what I write holds anymore importance than a food blog, at least not to anyone else but me. With that being said, if you do read it, I thank you for even bothering to do so. Don't feel shy about discussing anything I write here with me in real life, thats what it's for. Even if you read it as pure entertainment, I thank you. Thats all I can really say in the end.
I don't know if this is the last time you'll see a new post but In any case I'm signing off now. Thank you so much for reading anything I've ever written and take care of yourself. I'll see you around someday in the future.
Au revoir les enfant!
Posted at 1/25/2015 2:57:45 pm by Pablo D. Andrade-Carranza