January 15, 2008
For some reason, I find myself in a rut. I am obsessing over the things I am not. And the things that I am? Well, they're contributing to the things I am not.
Is it my job, duties or obligations? Is it the economy? Is it winter, the weather or lack of time? Is it because of my self-inflicted non-shop therapy? Is it the PMS Avenger? Who knows. It's not each part. It's the sum of all the parts.
Why am I writing this? Or worse yet, publishing it openly? Am I looking for a condolence or two? Am I fishing for help? Am I hunting for attention? Am I trying to see how many question marks I can get into one post? Nope, nada, nit, no way, never.
Believe it or not, writing this junk makes me feel better.
One might argue that these types of thoughts and feelings are best documented in lined and bound books cleverly coined journals. But truthfully, those wretched things scare me senseless. First, they have this secret undisclosable nature about them - the writer (aka me) tends to throw out necessary censorship. Second, no one hears you. Which I already get a lot of (being a windowless basement employee, mom and wife.)
Thoughts become words. Words eventually become paragraphs. Paragraphs provide clarity. Nothing is solved or fixed, but worries are magically aligned.
Here, on my blog, I am heard. And no one talks back.
**Comments don't count as "talking back" because I have the ultimate power of deletion.