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I am feeling weirdly melancholic tonight and I'm not sure what's triggered it. Perhaps it was the weather? We had a line of storms sweep through the area earlier this evening. Maybe all those negative and positive ions has knocked something out of synch in my brain.
Or maybe I'm just spending too much time alone.
Normally, I'm quite happy to be alone. I've spent most of my life alone. My happy place is my bedroom with the door shut, the fan on, sprawled on my bed, mucking about on my laptop.
But lately...
I don't know what I want anymore. Nothing seems to appeal to me or, if I'm honest, leave me feeling fulfilled. I still go into the Store on the weekends, still do the job, still squire Paul around, but it all just feels like theater sometimes. Like I'm not living a life, just kind of going through the motions.
Just typing that made my entire body break out into itchiness. That's probably a pretty good indicator that I need to say it, to give it voice.
But my sense of dissatisfaction doesn't end there. I haven't written anything for publication in over five years. Nothing I write feels "right." I usually get three pages into a story and trash it. Sometimes, I'll make it as far as eight pages and then I'll delete it all and put the laptop away and wonder why I even try anymore?
Right now, I just feel like I'm wrapped in plastic. I can't touch the world and the world can't touch me.
Or maybe I'm just spending too much time alone.
Normally, I'm quite happy to be alone. I've spent most of my life alone. My happy place is my bedroom with the door shut, the fan on, sprawled on my bed, mucking about on my laptop.
But lately...
I don't know what I want anymore. Nothing seems to appeal to me or, if I'm honest, leave me feeling fulfilled. I still go into the Store on the weekends, still do the job, still squire Paul around, but it all just feels like theater sometimes. Like I'm not living a life, just kind of going through the motions.
Just typing that made my entire body break out into itchiness. That's probably a pretty good indicator that I need to say it, to give it voice.
But my sense of dissatisfaction doesn't end there. I haven't written anything for publication in over five years. Nothing I write feels "right." I usually get three pages into a story and trash it. Sometimes, I'll make it as far as eight pages and then I'll delete it all and put the laptop away and wonder why I even try anymore?
Right now, I just feel like I'm wrapped in plastic. I can't touch the world and the world can't touch me.
