I haven't done a lot of writing. And I don't just mean on this blog. It has slipped to the sidelines of interest, it seems, which is sad because words still remain my favorite.
I've been feeling....ick for the past few days, in a spiritual/psychological sense, not the sort of ick that accompaccompanies a burning forehead or a doubled-over-on-the-couch stomach agony.
I don't know, it just seems to me that when you're frustrated with the things that make you happiest, something's wrong. And I used to purge this feeling with words. So here we are.
I'm sorry I've been bitter or brutal, biting, bland.
I'm sorry if I've portrayed the friend then withdrew my hand.
I'm sorry I don't feel the way I did when I was lost
And you looked like forever holding me for naught.
I'm sorry you frustrate me so much I can't articulate it
And that my perception of the universe isn't what you'd make of it.
I'm sorry I just rhymed a word with itself
And that I set it up to slant rhyme with this.^
I won't do it.
Now is an appropriate time to remind the reader I blog because it's cathartic for me to know my words are out there, being read, and thus it's not always the immaculate nature of the words that I am seeking. So...Deal. If you want perfection try finding a post titled an actual title. Cuz this one will probably be "another untitled."
*Because. I'm trying to stop this bad grammar thing.
I'm noticing I get unhappy when I need change. Maybe that's for humanity in general, I wouldn't know, I only presume to know through the power of the pen and the stage. I've been frustrated with improv, feeling like, while I'm getting better, I somehow missed the migration to this different island and everyone is over there doing their thing and I'm on my island doing mine, and it's not bad for the island but I'm missing nuances that everyone else has from the New island and am just standing over there going What?
(Cassie and I decided my Amy Poehler-esque memoir would be titled Life Is One Run-On Sentence. Copyright is pending. I only mention it so in the likelihood this year is my last and someone wants to publish my genius, it would be on record what I would have it called.)
And I say this with the trepidation that those closely associated with me might read it, but my friends are very frustrating to me. It's not anything they're doing, it's me, it's all me, but for whatever reason my tolerance for these people I adore is skewed in such a way that I fear I've been very curt to some of them unintentionally, for which I apologize. It's just...it's getting that way again. This seeping unhappiness and dissatisfaction for life, but this time there's nothing to blame it on. There's no non-reciprocating love interest, no No-I'm-actually-over-this non-reciprocating love interest. There's no People-were-getting-famous-with-their-genius-skills-at-my-age, no Why-can't-this-just-be-reciprocated? non-reciprocating love interest. There's non of that. There's almost an apathy for that, for all of it, but the apathy isn't the problem. There isn't a problem. I'm not happy.
And it's not the weather because I was more on edge at the dessert December than I was at the bite of winter's chill so hold off on the belittling weather remarks.
And I'm not posting this for you to comment and fix me. I'm posting because the posting does the fixing. It's voicing all these stupid apparently-hyphenated remarks and musings and stumblings so I can wake up tomorrow and say It's because you don't have a sleep schedule anymore, doofus.
And maybe that's it. This will be a good year. I'm not bad at everything I'm good at. Even if that sentence is a trick to make sense of. Try turning it off then back on again. January 1st is the restart for your system. Do not shut down or unplug until updates are installed, just take a moment, take a breath, take a nap.
Who knows, maybe the best hasn't happened yet.