It's not about this blog.

I tagged all my posts according to their respective subjects in very thinly-veiled pseudonyms (I was never one for creative naming), added some recent thoughts and investigations of the self, then took everything off public eyes. I have yet to work on my backlog entries. But as soon as the opportunity comes, it shall be written. There is too large a void in that important period of time and it is really time I face my own mess rather than landing in the neurotic level of defence mechanisms at every turn. It's time to move onto some sublimations.

But to the point of this post: I am highly amused that the largest fraction of posts so far is of the Nerdinator. Yeah, you know who.

I foresee that to change as time goes on and perhaps when I finish my backlog, but the blunderings of a sixteen-year-old self really does not cease to amuse.

One more serious matter: in the beginning, I wrote because I could not let my hair down just a little. Now I write because I still can't let my hair down completely to at least one person in this world. I wonder if that person will ever happen.

I'm not the only one who can you that I run, run, run, intellectualizing and isolating where I can, suppressing where I cannot.

As if feeling rules were not competently learnt.

Affect display requires sincere affect in the first place.
Internal sources disturb the baseline, seeking attention and expression but only feels like a strong general sense of wrong;
External sources are even more so frightening in its perceptibility. (They are either masked by my egoism, deep beyond my capabilities to accept, or suspected to be not really what's happening.)
(So maybe it's just easier to not deal with the can of worms.)

Isolation is so easy.

Rather than say that my life is hectic, maybe it just needs a bit of sorting out to comb out the tangles in the thought trails and find my goals and locale on life again...

I need to relearn how to keep a straight, prioritized thought in my head and finish it.
There is much to sort, much to say.

Confession: I have a criminally intense interest in people. At the utmost general, trying to understand people and their thoughts and behaviours is why I'm studying what I am studying now. In the utmost specific, I have a drive to know about the processes and history of ones closest to me.

Problem: I don't like committing nosey acts, but nor do I understand the socially acceptable line between caring/casual inquiries about close friends and snooping. Perhaps my tendency to keep to myself plays a part.

Fear: But the intense curiosity about closer others sometimes eats away at me. I do not have much in the way of drama and life (and I seek to avoid it), What if I lose control over my curiosity and went too far?

No, absence of awareness of my inquires should not be a justification.

Misdemeanor: My legs shook with guilt of my weakness and tightening of innards from the blurred boundary between sadness and pull of curiosity, tinged with jealousy of more the capability of feelings and daring and than of the history themselves.

Sometimes I wonder if there's really something differently constructed about me in that minute way that makes it hard for me to truly be comfortable talking about the important things. Put enough trust in others to being understanding, non-judgemental, and believe that they care enough. Because most often, there's always this twinge of mistrust from me, projected onto others.

I fear non-acceptance when I am unattached.
I fear loss and instability of that sole source when I am.

Invariably, everything becomes a quest about the inadequacies of the self. Properties, behaviours, abilities, capabilities...there's always a lack of a certain something.

And always with an oxymoronic fear and disgust about my egoistic and juvenile preoccupying thoughts.