Everything's Going to be Alright

Once in a while, and I don't know how, things just seem to brighten up. And I'm not even exactly sure what's getting brighter. My mood is so precarious that even though I have tricks and trade secrets to make sure I never sink into an unimpressionable melancholy, any given stranger on any given day can ruin my entire week.

And even though that is accurate--a flawless statement--it is dangerous to think that way. I realize that now. Every once in a while, even if it's just for a few moments, even if it's a complete daydream and you've actually been spending your entire day sloshing through the blandest of assignments that you're sure will never get you to what you actually want to do, it's harmful to be hyper aware of you're every action and not see that it is just as possible to fail as it is to succeed.

I suck at sewing. Sometimes my sewing machine will jump into a setting that I can't get it out of. I've thrown away so many strips of cloth because I've scavenged and re-arranged them until they no longer consist of anything of value. I never use patterns, and I often curse to myself as I'm pinning something straight onto my body--that life would be so much easier if I could just follow rules and set everything out as it is meant to be. But then every once in a while I make a dress that actually makes me look beautiful. Fuck. I own a ton of dresses. But only the things I make actually fit me in a way that is pure transcendentalism. It's not that I have weird proportions. I have weird everything. My arms are too big, but I have nice shoulders. I'm not the color of the people companies traditionally tailor to. And although that is changing, I still have to guard myself against buying disgusting "colors" that would look disgusting on me. Yea. Beige? You were so IN last year! But you are totally a white person's problem. I have curves, but in a way that is not normal... for example, I love pencil skirts, but if they're made of an unstretchable material, they end up leaving way too much space around my waist which is... a waste and obnoxious and hardly as professional as pencil skirts should be. But I've made three dresses now that I absolutely love. Only one of them is actually suitable for wear outside of my apartment, but I don't even care. Because just having a mental image of me looking spectacular in something I spent at least five hours on is enough to make me believe that all the vagabond strands of thread that get stuck in my vacuum cleaner are worth it.

Little things like that make it so much easier to believe that you're going to make it. I don't know what I'm trying to make it to. I'm intuitive, but I have no idea what's going to happen to me after this. I spend a lot of time worrying about my future, but in the moment of a hundred little things, just as easy as it is to forget that such things ever happened, it is plausible to take such moments to piece together a more hopeful narrative of everyday events.

Determining that you're really good at landscaping just because you play the sims. Promising yourself to keep using a catchphrase until the end of time (sparingly) just because your friend thought it was tearfully hilarious. Developing a new accent. Learning you look good in orange. Remembering a childhood dream that you've fully realized. Life can be incredibly plain, and this often makes things feel much more depressing. Being alone isn't depressing if you're not bored, just as failing isn't depressing if you're doing other things of merit. Being overweight isn't depressing if you live an active life. Hell, I'm an incredibly vain person, but I would be half as attractive if I could have twice as many adventures.

How dull days can be when you've planned them out to be as successful as possible. How tiresome it is to continue guessing whether or not you're truly fucked, if maybe this time you've messed up so much no one will ever take you back.

How much time do I spend gauging whether or not I'll survive my next set of trials? Instead of actually... preparing myself for my next set of trials? How much more fun could life be if I just stopped thinking and started... actually doing something? I love being stuck inside my own mind--this is not sarcasm--but after days of it, anything, even things of little value, seem more enjoyable than being alone with myself... thinking. Perhaps this is why I like drinking? Perhaps this is why I like hurting other people? Perhaps this is why I watch so much television and read so many useless blogs? Perhaps this is why I write in a blog? Perhaps this is why I play video games that actually suck? And all of this could be avoided if I just told myself, or if I just spent ten minutes arguing with myself, that "everything's going to be alright."

I used to think saying that was like a ridiculous form of escapism with little practicality. But I realize now just how useful saying that, hearing it, thinking it... how useful that phrase is.

All my fears seem more easily dealt with. I may be a crappy writer. I may be a crappy friend. I may be a crappy doctor. I may not be intelligent. But I am a writer, I am a friend, and one day I will be a doctor. My intelligence is rarely explicitly questioned, and at that time, my ability to lie will surely help if my own intelligence is not sufficient. I already know I'm in love with myself. And sometimes, even if you doubt how many people in your life actually care about you, being able to respect yourself to deal with your own insufficiencies for a bit longer is all you need to get yourself through anything.

Literally.... anything. Everything's going to be alright. Literally. Everything. You'll forget about the little insignificant failures along the way. You vaguely know what you want. You know who you are. You know your options. You have your thread. Everything's going to be alright.