On cutting the strings that bind us

I've gotta say, I love December here in Puerto Rico. The temperature drops to such a nice level that it feels comfortable. I always know that Christmas is officially afoot when a nice breeze starts blowing through my window, the one next to me. Or well, y'know, when stores and malls put out insane sales that turn people into savage animals almost. And for those that think it only happens on our fair island, fear not, it happens in the US too (and at times, is far worse). Seriously, I'm going to find the bastard that came up with the concept of "After Thanksgiving Sale" and punch them in the groin. If the person is male. If the person is female, then I'll punch their breasts.

Very recently, a girl that I spent a summer with, when I was about four or five, messaged me on MySpace, asking if she remembered who she was. She was my grandmother's neighbor, in the barrio of Minillas in San Germán, and some time later, she would move to Sabana Grande. She's some years older than me, I think by about four. That summer, we spent every day playing and doing random things. It was really fun and it made that summer much more exciting than it might've been. Our friendship could've gone a couple of different ways from there. We might've kept hanging out if my father had decided for sure that we were going to stay in San Germán. I remember that my parents even took me to Colegio San José to enroll me in kindergarten. If my family was, instead, returning to Germany (because my father was still in the Army), or if we were to move to Conneticut with my father's youngest brother, then we would've just kept writing to each other. As it turns out, we ended up in Conneticut, mainly because my father left the Army, so my friend and I became pen pals.

After awhile, though, we finally stopped writing, since we were each going in our separate ways. Though I'd think about her from time to time, I figured she might've forgotten all about me. Now, here's were things go a little "wait, wow, really?" Last year, when I was but a Sagrado freshman, slightly confused but not entirely lost (and I thank high school for that), among the many people I met, one of them goes by the name Paco. I suppose the relationship the two of us have are that of brother-sister, kind of. Anyway, the point was, I heard him talking about his girlfriend, who lives in Arizona, a couple of times, but I didn't pay much attention (perhaps because I was trying to sleep in between classes). Later, last Christmas, we had a quickie conversation over the phone, and he says that he's in Sabana Grande, spending time with his girlfriend and her family, who lives there. Though I was curious, I still didn't ask.

Then, I noticed on his MySpace that his #1 was a girl named Zeliann. The name hit me, because that was the name of my friend from years gone by. I had wanted to ask a bit more about her to Paco, but I kept putting it off because I felt that I might be wrong. Then, finally, a week ago, she messages me. And it turns out that I was right; this was the same girl I'd met so many years ago, who was dating someone we both met in completely different ways. I guess you can say I was more than a little surprised. I mean, this is one of those wild coincidences that almost never happen, and yet serve to make the world fill just a little smaller than it might be.

I think that it's a little ironic, though. Since I moved to Puerto Rico when I was ten, I'd done my best to cut the ties of my past. I'd only recently started thinking about it more when I played Final Fantasy XII, and learned about the character Balthier. Balthier is the sort of character that appears to be calm, cool and collected almost all the time, dashing and charming and not the type to permit others to tell him what to do or where to go. Yet, deeper down, he shows remorse for the path he's taken, and an intense desire to run from the path, to cut those strings for good, and instead, his past comes running after him, and is clearly the faster one. I think that's what's happening to me now.

In fact, now that I think about it, why am I trying to cut my past out? I can't even remember the reason. Maybe I just hated the person I used to be, and just wanted to get away from everything that had become attached to my memory of the person. If that's the case, though, then I'm always going to look for ways to severe ties, because I'm not particularly fond of who I am now. Hence, the entire premise and background of this blog, in title, sub-title and what my lil' sidebar now says. I'm trying to fix myself, but at the same time, not really. I simply just put out my usual self on, the one that's aloof and independent and rebellious and absent-minded, and I go about my day to day life. Yet, if and when the opportunity presents itself again, and this time when I'm more mature to handle it, I know that I'd try to cut my past out again, and this time for good.

But maybe, just maybe, I feel this way because I've already learned that home really is where the heart is, and doesn't need to be tied to a specific place or events. If I can say with conviction that my heart is content, wherever it is that I am and whatever I happen to be doing, then I'm home. I think, also, that I'd like to find someone to call home, even if I'm greatly cynical towards that concept at the moment (since I tried and failed miserably at that). Still, maybe I just need to keep on going forward in life, not looking back at the past that will always tie me with a string, until I find the solution that works best for me.

I like the December breeze here a lot, almost as much as the beaches here. Maybe that's home for me. I also plan on seeing Zeliann when she's visiting family in Sabana Grande. We sure have grown up.

On an unrelated side note, I'm still tinkering with my layout. In other words, I need to put in the footer, and make the text a little bigger for the visually impaired. :) I made a more comprehensive about me page.

On finding our voice

As I flipped through my friends-page on LiveJournal this morning, sleepy from having gone to bed past 1am (I was at a Ragnarok Online marriage -- don't ask), I stopped scrolling all of a sudden. At that moment, I'd just been hit with a question. Why do people blog? Why do people keep journals on the Internet for all to see and read? I mean, really, is there a point? Writing a blog means you're expressing yourself on the Internet. But anyone who's been using the Internet since it became popular in the mid-90's will know that trends come and go faster than you can even type the word "trend". Plus, it's the Internet. It's as big as the universe itself almost. Finding the means to have your voice heard is both difficult and time-consuming. So anyone has to wonder why even bother.

During the time I've spent blogging, I've seen all types of blogs. I've seen blogs of 15 year old emo kids who can't spell to save their lives and usually make 8 entries a day (if not more). I've seen blogs that stream video of themselves. I've seen blogs that pretend to be the blogs of someone's pet. Basically, if there's a subject to write about, a blog also exists about it. It's similar to Rule #34, which is, there's porn of it, no exceptions. I imagine that Rule #34 a. would be, there's also a blog of it, no exceptions. Emo kids who don't do a damn asides cry virtual tears about how their lives suck and how no one understands? There's a blog. Bee hives? There's a blog. That old VCR of yours? If there isn't one of it yet, there will be. Yet, of all the countless blogs that exist out there, precious few will ever be known by a large amount of people.

So then, why? Good question. Why am I even writing? Another good question. I think the most appropriate answer is that we all want to have our voices heard, however insignificant it may be. 15 year old emo kids want to embarrass themselves by crying virtual tears. People want to tape themselves and get a chance to have someone see them (I'd do a video post if I had a video camera, for the record). Hell, maybe pets want to keep blogs themselves, so their owners do it for them. Let's face it, how many of us will ever publish the book of our lives, much less even write it? Let's pretend for a moment that I myself am an aspiring novelist. Anyway, maybe Internet blogging gives us all a chance to have our thoughts and voices heard, however insignificant it may be. In the process, those of us who were wondering where our voices were find them lying buried deep in the ground, and bring them to the surface. Or else we find how different our voices have become over the course of time.

That is the general blogging community. But what about me? Why the hell do I blog? I mean, I maintain about five different blogs. The two blogs that are of most importance at the moment are my LiveJournal and this blog, Can't you just fix me? One is my personal journal, the one in which I couldn't care less if I sound like an angsty 19 year old, and where I frequently display affection for my fandoms (it's the former). The other is the blog in which I write for sentences on end about anything that I think is important, in the most entertaining (or sarcastic, whichever) way I can possibly think of (it's the latter). Occasionally, I write some angst here too, but it's only when I feel I should. One blog is the one I only want certain people to read, because I've been writing in it since I was 16, hence there's immaturity and (shudder) emo (it's the former). The other is the blog that I want to become well-known someday (someday), and it's the latter. But why bother?

Well, I won't go on about why I keep my LiveJournal. As for this one...well, at first, it wasn't even intentional. I'd just read an article in El Nuevo Día about "how to blog" (snicker) around May of this year, and I decided that there shouldn't even be how-to guides on how to keep and maintain blogs. So I made this, with the intention of making each and every entry thought-provoking, even if it only a sentence or two was written. And here I am now, still writing. I must truly think that people enjoy reading sarcastic wisdom from someone who's barely lived for two decades (and only remembers one and a half of it). But see, I don't want my voice to just be "heard". I don't want to just "find" my voice either. I found my voice in high school, thank you, acting. I want to be listened to. When you hear something, you simply hear the random noise it's making. But when you listen to it, you're able to understand what it is that's trying to be said, be it someone's voice, the wind going by your ears, or the muffled ticking of your watch. It's not just random noise anymore; it's a voice. And I want my voice to not be random noise, I want it to be listened to and distinguished from other voices and singled out. I want people to stop and think, "hey, she actually says something somewhat important, let me stop and read this thing for awhile". If all my life, all people do is hear me, but not listen to me, then I've utterly failed.

Of course, maybe this correlates to the fact that I hold the lofty goal of becoming famous. Or maybe I'm just a 19 year old who thinks she knows everything and is really just an immature brat. I don't really care. Even if I'm never listened to, and simply heard, at the end of the day, I like writing here. It's an outlet. And I seem to be moderately entertaining, since I have a small (albeit loyal) audience.

In other news, I managed to completely redesign the layout of this blog, so it looks spiffy now. I even made the header myself. I feel awesome.