Sadly, I cannot guarantee that reading any of the words I have laid haphazardly on this page will actually cure boredom, but I suppose I could try.
And really this is only my first time in the months since my last post, that I have tried. Really I don't have a really high filter of stuff to put up here. I don't spend hours typing things our and then toss them aside because they are quite up to snuff. No I don't have a screening of quality here. So I can't say that I have been trying to write a post. I haven't been researching for a post, or thinking things through. No. I have just been forgetful and lazy, and mostly I haven't had something interesting to say.
It seems like my blog is the backwards of my personal life. When I have no personal life, like say, when I am working or depressed, or reclusive, I seem to be able to write more on my blog. Maybe to make up for not talking to people all day, or because maybe I need to express myself. Then when I am happy, and functioning, unemployed, and maybe, for the first time in a long time, at peace, I don't visit my own little box of vain, egotistical, ranting. Maybe because I don't have to. Or maybe because I am too busy snacking and boarding the regression-train that I don't want to talk about anything. Either or.
Life's funny isn't it. I was looking around my room today (the same room I had when I was 14) and I have all these papers, all these little scraps and lists and all of them are plans. They almost all start with one thing: be a writer; get published. And usually they go on to list the expensive furnishing and fashions that I would be able to afford if I was. But they all start that way. And then I thought "Hmm... I haven't written a word in two months." How will I be able to be a writer when the only times I write are when I am sad and depressed. How can I be a writer when, in those depressed states, hoping for publication spurs me to be productive. But now when think I am a little happy, a little peaceful, and a little contented, as I imagine I would feel if I was ever to get anything published, manage to carry on once I do. Am I chasing some sort of impossible dream. Using it only as a tool to get out of a funk, and brush off for my feeling of inferiority, in a trite "When I'm famous.." thought. And all that vanishes when I don't need it anymore.
Am I rambling?
Maybe I could explain my situation a little better, so that my friends, who fear that I may never return to them, don't get the wrong idea, and give me up for dead, or worse, label me some loser that lives with his parents. I am all those things, but don't think that is the part that has made me happy.
A while ago I did something great. Something astounding. And something I could only dream about for as long as I could remember, and I think that I am still basking in that blissful afterglow. I went to Paris. I got to cross one huge "To Do" off my list and the thrill and excitement of doing that has clouded over (in a good way) everything else in my life. I got to go to the city where (and if you don't believe in reincarnation, excuse me) I once lived and it was great and fantastic. And although I was only there for a little while, I knew I would be back and that everything was going to be okay. So I guess I am still in that space of mind. I haven't been focusing on writing, or working, or applying for jobs, or moving out of my parents basement, or finding something to fill my days, because I guess, in my own way, on my own little list, I have finally accomplished something, and I think that has made all the difference, And whatever happens, happens.
So excuse me my mushy philosophical explanations, excuses and apologies. You see, in a way, I haven't even returned. Yet.