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.
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