Narcissit? Who me?

Monday, July 26, 2010

Oh Me, Oh My.

I know that the posts are boring and tedious when all I say is "Wow, it's been so long since I've updated!" and that those posts are irrelevant because all the four people that read this tell me that every time we speak. (Actually not every time, and maybe not even all that often but it has come up. Once) And usually people request that I update or write something, or even just e-mail them. Maybe they really like reading what I write, maybe they all get together and make fun of my spelling or grammar, or perhaps because they are so bored at work or at home (during those Summer Nights) that they want to read something. Anything. To save them from boredom.

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.


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