My writing skills atrophy, and yet you come back. I love that about you.
Life continues to wiggle around like those piranhas people are using to nibble dead bits of flesh off their feet during pedicures. I can’t get a grip on it, and I’m not sure I’d want to if I could.
Trains continue to rumble by, trucks continue to heave, Grayson continues to fetch, The Mc and I continue to debate and brainstorm and plan for our new home(s). Work continues to pile up even while sucking away half my weekend, and bombards me from the moment I open my eyes in the morning. I remind myself of a few things, things that fail to change reality even if they do momentarily shift my perception:
- There will be nothing on my headstone about an empty inbox or a tidy desk
- I will have unread email when I die
- It’s only life
It’s only life. *sigh* A life that for the time being is so full of nothing that I lack inspiration to write anything at all. We all have boring lives, why would you want to read about mine?
I was secretly hoping the resort I’m at wouldn’t have, so I’d have to sit with pen to paper. That’s how this started a million years ago.
First it was a make-shift diary in a light blue covered spiral notebook in seventh grade that I hoped someone would find and read and save me from myself. Later it was a series of yellow legal tables (I’m still awfully fond of) and eventually I bought this domain, started coding a blog by hand and ultimately we evolved/devolved together into this heap.
I want to write more about those journals. About what happened in the late 90’s that kept me from pen and paper for years. Maybe later, when I’m struggling to sleep without a TV in my room and exercising the demons that still haunt my quieted mind from time to time.
For now, I’m listening to the whir of the vent, the birds outside, the group of women checking in downstairs giggling and shrieking at each other in reunion. They’re reconnecting and catching up on their lives and travels and loved ones, they’re celebrating life and friendship.
I suppose I’m doing the same…with a party of one.
24 Jul 08
5:31 pm
um whoa..and whoa…whoa!! (and a Joey from “Blossom” whoa!!)
It’s a little connection I find between us that we prefer pen to paper rather than trying to type our way through jumbled thoughts and feelings. It’s something about the way the words look when jotted down with our own unique scribble that makes it our own. And that it doesn’t matter whether we misspell or our grammer would make our 5th grade teacher or even our Senior year Lit teacher scream. Because it’s still our own and nobody really HAS to read it.
But then someone does read it. By mistake. And it’s something that they shouldn’t have read. And it makes you stop writing because “you shouldn’t write something down if you don’t want someone to read it”. Silly me. I thought that was what a journal was for…………..