Tea, Fire and Boredom

“I make my first entry today”

“‘What are you doing now?’ he asked. ‘Do you keep a journal?’ So I make my first entry today.”

-Henry David Thoreau

So at long last I begin to keep a blog. I’m not quite sure yet why I’ve decided to do so. I hope to find that in doing this writing I find the meaning of why I write. My potential motivations are mixed and many and worth dissecting in their own time.

Part of it comes down to the year ending right now. Inevitably, this time becomes a reflective time, as students evaluate their day, their year and ultimately their life. I’ve done, for better or worse, many things in the past year. In the time that I’ve been at school, I’ve taken new classes, interacted buddies and other related college activities. And I realize now that I have liked very few of these things. Don’t get me wrong, hanging out with fellow students in the dining hall can be mildly amusing. And studies of writing techniques can have its ups. But it is but a temporary high, a kind of drug taken to numb deep seated longing for freedom and joy. I try to avoid such things when possible. I prefer a deep breath of air over a shot of cocaine any day. I have found that a few surprising small things have made me happy. As my title suggests, tea and fire both bring me a kind of joy. But perhaps I feel I would like something else.

Writing has brought me some joy. Not the vulgar scribbling for essays and class. But thoughtful, random and mildly entertaining musings or aggressive and crass tirades against an established force are best, despite what certain editors and publications may think. My main regret from the year is that I did not take enough time to put down my thoughts.

I feel like I will not have many other opportunities in my life to be simultaneously miserable, happy, reflective, introverted, critical and hopeful. It would be a pity to let my these thoughts float away into oblivion. Even now, it can be difficult for me to recollect how it was to move in. Sure I can remember putting big events like the first time I saw my room or my RA. But my life is also wrought from the infinite moments between now and then. How did I think a week after classes began? Was I scared/hopeful/happy? How did I interact with other people? Did that change over time? What did I think of that tree outside of my window?

In each of these forgotten moments is me. Who I was, who I am and who I may become. It seems that to not document or remember such details is to lose a bit of one’s identity. The peaks and valleys of our lives reveal the deepest, most hidden caverns of our personality. Perhaps there is treasure, perhaps there are monsters.

I live in a place where others constantly trying to tell me who I am, what to think and what to believe. I would prefer to define myself as much as possible. To first step is to know and understand myself. I have found that other endeavors have brought my little success in that realm. I have emerged from this year roughly where I began a year ago. Perhaps writing can help me out.