Where was I?
Lately, it seems if I’m going to open up my mouth - something endlessly depressing or marginally boring is going to fall out. I blame the fact that I changed toothpaste brands.
If I’m not apologizing, I’m explaining, and if I’m not explaining, I’m defending. I know that life is not a bowl of whipped cream, but goddamn…
I’m annoying the shit out of myself right now, so I can only imagine what I must be like to be around. So instead of bother the now laundry list of people that I call to look for answers, last night I decided to just write. Lately I have realized the last thing I want to do is write in my journal, any journal. There’s something extraordinarily frightening about putting things on paper. It’s much safer to just let yourself believe your life is a mad misunderstanding in your own brain or maybe just thoughtful discussion among friends.
But the minute you look at your life in black and white you realize:
You’re fucked.
Journaling is a cheap answer to therapy. There isn’t a whole lot I can’t figure out if I just plop my thoughts down on a cheap college ruled spiral notebook (although I took to sketch books a few years because when I’m really confused I collage).
I’ve mined old journals for short stories, sketches, monologues, insight into how I got to where I am, theories on where I may be going.
I realized last night that the last six months of my life have been a blank page. Literally, I haven’t written in my journal since before Thanksgiving. I had no idea it had been so long. Upon this realization I was gripped with a very real, visceral fear - as if the proof of my existence for the last six months was suddenly in question.
Given the fact that my life currently resembles a Telemundo soap opera - sans the guy in the bee suit - I gave myself a quick berating for being overly dramatic and melancholy. I've been busy I told myself - Let. It. Go.
But today I woke up with the same creepy sensation. I have no proof of how I got here. I have no way of looking back and saying, “Here it is. Here is the point of origin.” As it is, I feel life resembling a long exposure photograph - somewhere I stood still for too long and the rest of the world began to blur around me.
So I’m writing again. Last night I found myself writing a short story. My short stories are my uncontrolled dreams - eventually I’ll figure out why I write them.