I feel like I could be doing a much better job about posting on this blog. However, I think I've used up all of my words. Today, in English, I tried to write a paragraph about The Great Gatsby, and it was an assignment designed the way I like to write. And I sat and stared at the blinking cursor for at least five minutes. I never know where to start anymore. Beginnings are hard. Endings can be messy, yet they are also simple. Loose ends become tied up, and you're left with a clear image of results. Starting from scratch is the hard part.
I'm not sure where I'm going with any of this. I don't know what I want, or where I'm going. I often change my direction to accomodate others. I frequently see myself adapting and twisting and turning to fit my surroundings. I feel as though I'm made of Silly Putty, and people form me into whatever shape they want me to be in, and all I do is sit and allow it to happen. But to tell the truth, I don't know who exactly I am. I'm afraid to find out what's underneath all of these layers of other people who have shaped me. What would I possibly discover? And what if I don't like it?