I'm finding it difficult to write anything coherent or remotely interesting right now. Which is painful for me to admit, for words are my passion. Words and music. And anything with the ability to tell a story.
I've been wondering for awhile if where I am right now is where I truly want to be. All I know is that I want to write. How impractical. How romantic. How impractical and romantic. Those two words are perfect descriptions of what my life has been up to this point, a fact, I admit with a guilty smirk on my face, that drives certain authority figures in my life absolutely nuts. I like that. Having the ability to drive someone completely mental. What an awful person I am.
This past year has been a whirlwind of anxiety, depression, empty wallets, and a whole lot of "what the fuck?" moments. I've lost too many people. And I don't mean lost as in when you were little and went to a shopping mall with your mom and deliberately hid under a clothes rack, I mean lost as in, I'll never find them. They're not giggling underneath a rack filled with blue jeans, they're gone, just gone. And they were the good ones, the ones I could see hobbling down the street with me when I'm ninety-two. I've been feeling a little lost, a little confused.
But I feel good when I'm lost, so it's alright.