As 2016 nears its end, I find myself writing a blog post for the first time in so long. It's hard these days to find the time, but harder still to find the will. It has been nearly 2 years since my wife left, and as much as I'm over her, I am still uncertain about where to go from here.
|Totally random picture of me...|
I haven't written a single word of fiction in the last two years. I keep thinking I should, and on rare occasion I've glanced over some of my past works, wondering if I can do it again, but then I run out of time or desire. It's hard writing for myself anymore, as everything I do is for someone else. I find myself plagued with selflessness, always seeking to make others in my life happy, and I rarely do what would please myself.
I'm not saying that my life is horrible. Many people would kill for the life I've got, but that doesn't make it satisfying. Every life has its trials, its ups and downs. Right now, I'm stuck in a rut, but I don't know how to escape, or if I want to escape. Is it really so bad here? Maybe I should just settle for what I have, and be happy with what I've got. My dreams are asleep, and I don't know if I can get excited enough to wake them.
I can hear my handful of readers screaming in their heads right now, saying I shouldn't give up, or that I've got to get up and fight anew. I hear you. The handful of people who truly enjoy my fiction. The lingering sparks that seek to ignite the fumes left inside my creative fuel tank. I fear the tears may have me waterlogged, though.
Don't give up on me.
I don't wish to sound pathetic, and I don't need anymore sympathy. I'm only seeking to figure things out, come to terms with myself, and maybe work up the courage to move on. That's why I'm writing today.
To be fair, I feel miserable so often because I do not know what I want to do. So many things I care about don't feel right, so when it comes to watching a show or playing a game, I simply don't. When it comes to having fun, I let everyone else in my life decide what to do, because they can have fun doing what they want to do, but I don't feel good doing what I want to do. Does that make any sense? I can't enjoy what I like, so I let others do what they like, even when I hate it, because what's the point in making them feel disappointed having to do what I like to do, when I don't even get any satisfaction out of it? No sense in them suffering too. They don't like what I like, and I can't force them, but there's no fun for me if they don't like it. So I've lost much of the entertainment that defined me for much of my life. Strange, pathetic, ridiculous; whatever.
Now, I understand there are people out there who appreciate the things I like, the kind of books and shows that I enjoy, but that's not the point. I don't feel like being with those distant friends, let alone complete strangers. I was uncomfortable around people before my divorce. Now I've ended up cutting myself off from just about everyone, but that doesn't bother me so much. It's the fact that I'm alien to those who are closest to me, and I can't change that.
I probably shouldn't post this to my blog, because I can't see that it'll serve much purpose other than to make people less interested in reading my ramblings... What the hell. I've tried to write something for months, and this is the first time I've been able to get anything down, so I have to start somewhere. If I don't get it out, I'll just end up keeping it all to myself like I have been, and there will be no more words. I will never work things out, never be able to decide where I'm going, if I keep it off the page. The written word has been my avenue for personal exploration all my life, and writing it just for myself isn't good enough. It's why I'm having such a hard time, because putting down words, knowing that only I will ever read them, seems pointless. If I ever want to write anything of substance again, it must be put out there for others to read, because the words cannot end with me.
I hope to write more in the near future, but I have no idea what that'll be.