Organization.

I am trying to write something. A very organized article, for example, about a particular topic. Or at least, somewhat organized. From ten minutes ago, I've been sitting in front of the blaring screen, thinking about what to write. I am not writing for the sake of writing. I am trying to write because there are a multitude of thoughts buzzing about in my mind now, and my heart feels like lead. Heavy and cold, but heated up the friction caused in my mind. (Translated? I am thinking too much and making myself feel worse.)

So, I need to let something out. I always need to let something out. I have this inexplicable need to express myself. And to express myself and actually feel it working, it needs to be something that people, or at least I myself, can take a step back and understand. So, it needs to be something even remotely organized.

But organization never has been my strong point. I am not an organized girl. I am a very messed up girl. My head is messy, my heart is messy, my room is messy. Even as I write this, at almost every word, there is a potential topic branching out. Imagine a long twig forking out from all the spaces in this paragraph alone. Imagine a piece of blow-painted paper. I think like that. I feel like that.

The things that come out of the mouth, come from the heart. How can anything I produce be organized, then?

My main problem in Literature class was organization. Because I could not organize my thoughts, I could not pick out the main points, which cost me even more marks. Or was it the other way round, that I could not figure out the main points, thus had nothing to organize?

I have my neat points. I have been organized before, those few times when I was forced to be. For example, while arranging points for our debate team. Do you have any idea how sharp and organized you have to be, to argue in front of a crowd with an opponent whose only aim is to disprove you? My mind was in turmoil those few days- but somewhere in front, the small part that was in immediate use, everything was neat and filed properly. I knew my points, I knew what connected to what, and where everything was. It was a miracle. We won. Guess what messed me up at the end? The neatness was gone. I started blabbing and supporting my opponents. Gone case.

The other example was when we were entering this competition to design an environmental Board Game. As everyone knows, all Board Games have rules. No rules, no fun. No GOOD rules, no fun. So, the rules had to be good. It was like Mathematics, frankly. We did it. We managed to come up with something that worked so objectively, it was a success. The game was fair, but at the same time, loose enough to be fun.

I wonder, times like those, why I can't be that organized all the time. Keep track of things that happen around me, instead of being so blur. Take more initiatives to find things out. Make the effort to get everything working like clockwork. CARE that everything works like clockwork. Keep a schedule and actually stick to it for at least a month. Know where my money is going and coming from.

I can't say I tried, because I never really did try to be more organized. My excuses are aplenty. My favorite is that, being something I'm not, stresses me out. And you will hate a stressed out Carmelia, because a stressed out Carmelia is an impolite, harsh, moody Carmelia. I have many instances that support this. I'd actually snapped at someone to shut up once, while I was trying to get things organized during youth. And I'd never realized it, not until my sister told me about it. How many people had gotten offended by that Mr. Hyde version of me? Should not be too many, because I rarely let myself get into situations like that.

When you attempt to organize things, maybe it isn't that difficult. But people? That's a whole other story. A story I hate so much. I don't like handling people because I don't know how to handle them without breaking anything. I am not tactful. I am sensitive to receive, but not sensitive to give.

Someone accused me of lording and being a leader over them when I don't have the authority to be. If only they knew how much I disliked being in charge of people. Organizing people is one of my worst abilities.

Organizing my novels always breaks me down. My failures are rooted in that one failure to organize. I don't know what I want to write, I always change my mind, the plot always gets lost in subplots and all the subplots always gang up on the main plot.

I'd almost failed English Essay once, because I attempted to write a story which I had to wrap up weirdly, abruptly. The second time, same story. I never tried a third time. I was fed up of feeling sick of myself and my disorganized brain.

That's another thing that I have yet to figure out. My feelings. They have failed me, FAILED me so, so many times.

Emotions are like booze. They make you wake up the next morning with a hangover and wondering why the hack you allowed it to influence you.

Anger, sadness. The feeling of being hurt. Misery. Romance. Happy feelings. Highness. The mysterious feelings evoked when I hear my favorite songs. All of you have been there, done that. All of us are there right now, and doing that. And my reactions to them, again and again, did not consult logic and practicality before they are stamped and executed. God willing, things end up okay. God willing, they don't, to teach me a lesson.

Right now, I have to keep reminding myself to stick to the topic, and not veer off like some drunkard in a fifty-year-old car.

I have a friend whose room has a messy idea breeding ground for him (Lord knows what that means.) My idea breeding ground is Facebook. Perhaps, I'll get some fertilizer from the statuses my friends post. It doesn't matter, because that empty, white box is enough for my brain to start working itself silly.

Thinking of what to post as my status sometimes can mean an hour of soul-searching before I finally decide on a select choice of words. I never want my statuses to turn up mediocre, but they do anyway. That doesn't stop me from trying again and again to post something worthy enough to represent who I am. That something does not even have to be worthy, come to think about it. It just has to be correct.

And rarely any description I have of myself can be found to be correct after further consideration. There is always something wrong with the description, an 'if', or a 'but not when'.

So I end up posting the most organized form of my feelings: Lyrics. Music that could work like smoke into my emotions, soak itself into them, and still come out neat and tidy in the form of words, drumbeats and melodies. I don't need to think. Screw thoughts. All I have to do to express myself is choose my favorite piece of music, borrow the lyrics that they're attached to, and express those lyrics. Extra points if those words can correctly mirror my thoughts and/or emotions. If not, they'd still represent the real me, just because I love them enough to let them speak for me.

And the bottom line is? I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore.

The under-the-bottom line is? I am anchored to sanity by only one: Jesus.




Always confused, Carmelia.


Feeling, tired.
Thinking, tired of thinking.
Westlife- More Than Words


Edit: Now that I think about it, the reason I broke off from my last blog was because I found everything too... Well. Messy.