(no subject)

It's this time of the year again...

(pt. 1, which mostly struck me after the belly-dancing lesson last week)

I really don't want to be this person any longer who is always so self-conscious and bound by fears. Afraid to possibly look or act ridiculous, of not doing things right and not being good enough, and (as a consequence) not being liked, afraid of not being always in control to the point where I'll almost desperately try to avoid situations I can't control, relationships where I would risk myself emotionally... It's not that I've been unaware of this tendency in myself before, but I never realised so forcibly how much this is ruining my life, and I'm so tired of that. I want to learn to let myself go at least a little, but I don't know how. I don't even know where to begin.




(pt. 2, which occurred to during a cleaning-, dusting-, & tidying-spree in preparation for soavezefiretto's visit)

Stuff, stuff, stuff; too much of it. So many things that are remainders of the past. Why do I cling to these things so much, why is it so hard to part with them? Is it that my life is so poor that I'm afraid that if I let go of the debris of my past there'll be nothing left? I tend to mock people who define themselves over material status symbols, designer clothing, etc., but in a way all that clutter defines me, and part of me needs it for that. If I threw out everything but what I am now... I'd be left with some books, some cds and dvds, my digital camera, my computer. Some of the more recently acquired art books would remain, but the shelves full of archaeology books would have to go.

This apartment isn't even who I am, it's ghosts from five years or more ago, a pretence I can't let go of.

Bowie records, Soft Cell records, random Eighties stuff I haven't listened to since I moved the records here five years ago. Marilyn Manson CDs, NIN bootlegs. Tapes with musical recordings from the The Crush era. Stones and shells and two big boxes full of diss stuff on top of my wardrobe. Hippie skirts and blouses from more than a decade ago within. Books about Achaemenid history still on my desk, partly because there is no room on the shelves, partly to keep up (for myself more than anyone else) the pretence that I might actually work with them again. Other history book on court art I bought for comparison when I started to work in the books-shop and still pretended I was going to write a diss, and have never actually even read. All those ceramic sculptures, when I haven't even touched clay in four years. An almost dried-up bottle of green ink and I don't even remember the last time I used my fountain pen.


Ghosts from a brighter time.


I don't even know who I am, now. The reason why I've written so little recently is that there is nothing write-worthy. No adventures, no epiphanies, no inner development except for the worse. I've always maintained it was important that one should be able to define oneself in a positive way rather than by what one dislikes, but right now, this seems impossible, and this, too, scares me.


How is it possible that I seem to know less about herself as time passes, rather than more? That I get more and more insecure about myself as time passes?