Jet lag.

I learned early on to stop asking questions. It seems so irrelevant, the "why" behind the "is". Maybe this mentality is just another form of escapism, of taking the easy way out. Maybe it's a form of survival, of self-preservation, self-defense. Personally, I find actions to be more informative that thoughts, which explains my aversion to psychology, though not so much my love of philosophy. But I can reconcile this. The former pertains to the mind, the latter, the soul. Perhaps philosophy is what lead me to detest questions, for of all the times I asked them, I almost never found an answer. In one way I lament this; in another, I'm relieved. Sometimes there's no answer better than no answer. When digging, it's admittedly frightening to plunge the shovel into the dark mess and immediately clank upon something solid. Oh the irony of insecurity. She craves affection, but once she recieves it, she feels empty, hollow, void. And yet when she provides it to another, which in her case, often requires her to drain herself of energy and emotion, she feels fulfilled.

As I write this, I don't believe in the soul. Or maybe I do, I just don't trust its infallibility. To believe that any part of oneself exists after one perishes requires a great leap of faith. Frankly, I am not ready to make that jump, without the knowledge that a spiritual net exists. So I write these words to protect against my potential transience, fleetingness, nothingness; an insurance policy, if you will, that guarantees at least a trace of permanance, if not immortality.

Tumbleweeds.

Since April, I've been writing for a Jordanian magazine (hence the absence of blog posts since then). Unfortunately, the magazine doesn't yet have a website. When it does, I'll link to it from here.


That's all for now- just an explanation of why I've been e-MIA.

Rust.

It's been too long since I've blogged. It may take a few short posts to get back in the swing of things. I'll have start by describing what I see. I see a computer screen. That won't do- I see a bookshelf above me, filled with only books that I've actually read, all the way through. I have many bookshelves in my room, but the one above my desk is only allowed to hold books that I've read. This stipulation is meant to encourage me to read more, so that when I finish a book, I can place it on this shelf, display it for all to see. I feel like a cheater- or a fraud- when I display books that I haven't actually read. They say you should judge someone by the books on their shelves. I agree. But not when they haven't actually read them. Sometimes I think I like everything about books except for actually having to read them. The finish of the cover, the way they smell, their weight, the sound the pages make when I flip through. I like having finished a book. I hate forwards, prologues, and introductions. This right here is only a beginning.