It’s been a while since I last wrote something here. And, I suppose, since I’m on vacation, now is as good a time as any to write some more. Thing is, though, I don’t feel like I have anything worth writing.
There’s nothing good to report.
And the wad of gunk that is my life just doesn’t seem like fodder for posting. So what’s left then? Senseless ramblings? Hip observations? Bits of my world-view? I don’t know. I’m just not into the writing thing much these days.
Truth is, I’m not much into anything. Work is work and the rest is, well, not the best of times. Fact is, I’ve been experiencing a pretty big depression for the past several months and that’s taking a toll on my writing. I do some occasional journaling, but nothing that’s shareable.
What is good, I suppose, is that I have been doing some experimenting as I journal– still messing around with different POV’s, considering the notions of subject and narrator, the varying degrees of narration and exposition, looking at things with both a microscopic view and a broader scope, just to see what I can see. But what I see makes me sad and frustrated and pretty damned angry. I’m finding myself more and more discontent with my world and social obligations (that I have to go to work, that I have to behave in a certain way, that I have to wear a mask on certain days when things are far less than good).
And I’m finding that the realities that ripple out from one central event are more like waves, huge swells that make me question more and more what it is I’m meant to do–and I don’t mean that in a ‘what should I do’ sort of way, but rather a what will I do. I’m more interested in where I’ll be next rather than where I will go, if that makes any sense. I guess the best way to put it is that I don’t feel a whole lot of control over most major life things. And I’m just waiting for the next thing to happen, whatever that may be.