I am here still, though the activity of this blog says otherwise.
But I am, I stop by and reread my posts now and then trying to reconnect. Obviously, it’s not working, hard as I try. I am just so tired and burnt from life that I cannot function even in my real world. It’s frustrating and sickens me that I don’t even have the energy to sit and be in any measure of comfort.
When even daydreaming about my stories as I flip through them like channels in my mind doesn’t do more than wear me down, you know there is something wrong.
What pisses me off more than all of it though is there is no one else to blame but me. Much as I try to blame any outside person or situation for my current state, the choices I make right down to the mood I carry are all mine.
I don’t tolerate it well because my mother never would. If she saw me sulk she would mentally beat it out of me until I felt so bad that I would shut up and shut down and never mutter a word.
Since moving out my thinking is maybe these times in my life are needed and programmed into who I am. As I write and daydream I uncover such intense emotions, some I dig up from my own past raw and painful as I can find to deepen my characters and plot. Naturally, anyone would need a break from that right?
But because I fight it with my mother firm in my head, I make it twenty times worse and drag it out longer than it needs to be. Say like a month or two longer? When I can wallow for a day or two in melancholy and then move on back to better things.
That is my main battle as a writer and as a person, to accept who and what I am without shame or excuse. To shed the expectations and demands of others and hold true to myself.
Anyway, here is where I am. I am still here, though a little lost.
Maybe, that isn’t such a bad thing.