Blemish

Blemish

Things change.

I apologise for the ridiculously cliched way in which I started this post, and I would completely understand if you never forgave me for it. I'm still having trouble accepting the fact that my fingers are actually deserving of the right to be part of my body after typing something so hopelessly devoid of insight or originality that even a ten year old with limited internet access could have come up with the exact same phrase. If this is the first post you've ever read from me then I guess that also enforces my brilliantly practiced skill of making terrible first impressions. I could start this post all over again but I won't, because you see, that's the point. We're a product of our mistakes.

Or what we think are mistakes. I tend to avoid introspection because if there's one thing I dislike, it's when my ego has the same level of self-confidence as a teenage boy on a Taylor Swift induced cryfest over a girl who he kinda sorta knows through, like, the internet. Taking a good, long look at myself and questioning my actions aren't one of the most entertaining things I've ever done. Partly because I think I'm always right, and partly because I know I'm actually wrong most of the time and reliving those excruciatingly embarrassing moments of my past makes me feel like I'm watching a compilation of the worst American Idol auditions ever and every contestant is me.

But past all the negativity and the why-did-I-even-do-that-was-I-really-that-stupid instances, I actually had a personal epiphany. You know, like those moments in Disney princess movies where it all makes sense and background music starts playing, except that I was alone on my bed in the middle of the night and my phone was too far away for me to start playing any relevant songs. I realised how much I had changed since the last five years, two years, and even since last year. And what struck me most was that the movies really weren't lying because I actually had been oblivious to it all. Those forgettable conversations, those missed deadlines, and those scribbled thoughts; they all shaped me and I couldn't even tell. 

I'm not sure what to make of this. Writing usually helps me make sense of my emotions but I'm still unsure if I should feel scared, excited, sad, or horny. I guess I'm still taken aback by not really being the same person as I used to be because I was literally that person and now I'm not. Also because you're now mentally grouping me with those girls who go on and on about their 'new me' and 'omg ive changed im NOT that person anymore!!1!111!' and it's rather unsettling. 

Maybe I'm scared of who I might become; maybe I'm scared of change itself. I don't know why it even bothers me. I might be (God forbid) growing up. Or not. I guess I'll have to wait a few years and repeat this whole process before I really know, if I ever do.

I still haven't forgiven myself for the first two words of this post. Sorry again.