(insert photo of something cool)
I don’t feel like blogging. I told myself, one blog, one episode of Walking Dead. That’s the deal. Of course, I gave myself an out. If I was too tired, or too blah, or feeling PMS-y, or ugly, or boring, or coughing or sneezing or bloated, I could give myself a break and just maybe watch Walking Dead anyway. Be kind to yourself, you know.
So. That’s what I did for like 30 consecutive days. In that time, Sadie turned 3, and my brother and his wife had a baby boy, and somehow there are two guinea pigs living in my parlor. That, and I kind of got the blues. Not depressed, not like that. What happens to me is a little bit different. It’s not like I stop washing my hair and can’t get out of bed. It’s more like, my life starts feeling less real. I start feeling less real. I start feeling like I’m looking in the window at everything and I’m not in the same space as everyone else.
And I start drifting along in a sea of laziness. I don’t feel like making decisions. I don’t feel like doing anything I don’t have to do. I nest at home even more than usual. I feel easily overwhelmed. And overriding all this, is a self-flagellating irritation that I just can’t kick it in the dick. The logical part of myself is constantly calculating my blessings, offering up pithy little sayings to the more cynical and despondent me. My inner battle isn’t between good and evil, but between wonder and despair.
Despair because I feel like we’re all fucked. Micro fucked. Macro fucked. Fucked at the cellular level. I think that’s why I’m always dreaming about apocalyptic scenarios, they’re not nightmares, they are manifestations of my desire to start over.
Wonder because I feel like we are still on the cusp of being able to change it. I feel like there is some vast untapped something out there that I just haven’t stumbled across yet. Something that is humming right behind the fabric of my existence and I’m always waiting for that curtain to be ripped away. Even though, by all appearances, I’m just an ordinary person living an unremarkable life, I have never let go of the childish fantasy that someday someone would hand me my golden sword and whisper “It is time to begin.”
(GIF of scary wizard)
So, pointlessness and malaise. And the last thing I want to do when my real life loses color and the fantasies recede, is immerse myself in a false reality where I can pretend to be something I’m not. So I’m not going to write and pretend that nothing is wrong, and I’m not going to write and put my life under a microscope for all to examine. So I went back to that old tree, and drank the elixir of the quiet. And drank deeply of that nectar of nectars, my love for my girl. I never want her to feel she comes second to a screen. And I’ve been listening to all my favorite music. Those old songs called my back to myself yet again.
There was a time not too long ago when I thought I was hot shit for half a second. I was thinking all, custom blog header, and candid photos, and videos, and collaborations. And now I’m thinking, maybe I’ll write some short stories and send them to some literary magazines. If I write a post it is because I am in the mood to share myself with you. I am feeling joyful, or playful, or angry. But please know there are parts of myself I don’t want to share with anyone.
I’m searching for something. Sometimes I look so long and so hard and come up empty-handed. Sometimes I leave my body and float away. Sometimes I come back from that dark place with a laugh bubbling up in my throat. But I always come back. It’s like I’m playing hide-and-go-seek with God. But I won’t play games with you. And I’m over thinking about branding myself or making an identity that makes sense to everyone. I need my words to be out of me, more than I need them to be understood.