I’m dragging myself through the days at the moment. I guess it’s close enough to the midterm that I’m allowed to have my eyes on the finish line without too much guilt, but it does mean that I’m not really living my life at the moment, just getting through the days.
I’ve had so much improvement in my life over the past year, or even longer, and I’m grateful for that, but I guess I want more all the same.
You know what I want? I want the fire and drive that pushed me to change so much in the first place, without having to be standing on the precipice of a life that feels like it’s spiralling out of control.
I remember the early days of writing here and I felt like I had so much to say. Words came rushing out of me and it felt like there was a relief as if I’d lanced a boil or turned on a tap behind a well of huge pressure. Now the pressure is gone. I’m no longer fighting for my life it’s true, but I feel a little grey in the aftermath. I mean, sure the colour that I had was probably the colour of infection and not something I’m seeking to have back in my life. But it’s like – and excuse the rather disgusting simile that’s incoming – it’s like when a boil actually is lanced or some infection excised, and left behind is a hole in the skin, or a looseness to the flesh.
While I’m waiting to get fully healthy again, I’m carrying around this sense of something missing.
Should I fill it with healthier pursuits? I wonder if I even need to fill it in? Maybe it’s just feels all gappy because of how familiar I was with the old swollen proud flesh.
Or maybe I’m just going through a bit of a bout of low mood as the days shorten and what daylight there is is mostly spent indoors under artificial lighting. I’m not super good at recognising my low moods until after the fact. I’m not pre-menstrual right now, which is when the worst of my depressive episodes are often triggered with my historical PMDD but it’s not like that’s the only time that I can get low.
It’s telling actually that I’ve some emotional amnesia going on too. Right at this moment I would easily claim that it’s been forever since I’ve felt any color in the world. In actuality it might have been only a day or two ago. I just can’t remember it.
I feel pretty uninteresting and it’s hard for me to understand why anyone would want to talk to me or listen to or read what I have to say. I certainly judge those who I deem to be boring myself, and question their self-awareness. So what gives me the right to come onto a public forum, even such as my own personal blog, and dribble out a long trail of disconnected word soup. Where is my self-awareness? How dare I? How very dare I commit the ultimate sin; being a boring person in the universe.
What will I do with my one wild and precious life? Well it seems that I will travel over well-beaten ground and go in circles in my mind, mulling over the same boring ground over and over again. It seems that I will put nothing of value out into the world, only the same talentless hacks of “hobby” art, and spend the rest of my time barely keeping a sanitary house and stitching in the basic concepts of beautiful beautiful mathematics into the brains of the mostly uninterested and generally uninspired.
I know what I want right now. I want the flash of the novel. The glimpse of excitement and potential. You know what used to give that to me for “free”? Drinking times. But that was eine verdammte luge. I’m determined to do better than that. It’s just that right now everything feels so flat, and it’s so tempting to jazz it up, even if it’s only a soma holiday. Wouldn’t it be nice to feel as it everything had potential to be brilliant? What’s so wrong with feeling like King For the Evening in order to tolerate the drudge and trudge of daily living?
Yeah yeah. Because it’s a lie. And a harmful procedure to boot. And because if I’m to have any hope of not returning to these grey doldrums, I have to fight my way out and through to the lands of true colour.