I took a break from guitar. Not a conscious decision, just days that were busy enough that I didn’t think of picking her up, which means I don’t even know how long I’d stopped. All I know is that it was long, cause I feel the strings vibrating through every piece of wood that touches my body now, one of those sensations you stop noticing after enough time.
I haven’t had much to say either. Nothing seems important. At the same time, I’m trying to move away from this social media overload, where so many people speak only cause the power to do makes them believe they should. It’s making the gaps between my entries longer and longer, and I wonder if I’ll eventually stop writing altogether.
All I have are memories of lives I lived so long ago that I feel like I’m watching them in 8mm. The friends and the lovers, the love and the hate, the cycles and the patterns. I’m only now sorting out the meaning of each one, maybe cause I’ve finally grown enough to understand myself and my relationship with the world at large. It’s comforting to see how far I’ve come when comparing the person I am now to each person I used to be.
But such progress came at the cost of my innocence; we aren’t always ready to learn the harder lessons, and surviving sometimes means we change in ways that prevent us from becoming the people we’re meant to be. I’m trying to take back that innocence now, cause I know my happiness is at stake.
I always wonder if I’ll ever reach such a complete peace that I’d stop writing completely. One of the reasons I started this blog was to have a place where I could get things down and sort my thoughts out on a page, but I don’t need to do much of either nowadays.
I know so many people who’ve continued writing, even after finding that kind of happiness in their lives. Unfortunately, happiness has robbed them of literary inspiration, and now they have nothing interesting to say. It wouldn’t be so bad if they stopped writing, but they post for the sake of posting instead of having something to say or express or vent, and it reeks of desperation and insecurity.
I used to worry that happiness would make me a boring person too, but now I wouldn’t mind as long as I realized it and gave up this blog. It’s so embarrassing to write out of a belief that it’ll make you interesting. Or even worse, to be oblivious to the fact you’re writing about the most inane things.
Everything is balancing itself out. I’ve stopped trying to predict or control my cycles of introversion and extroversion, productivity and procrastination. As Oscar Wilde once said: “The only way to get rid of temptation is to yield to it”. By doing what I want when I feel like it, every need is met in turn.
Life doesn’t get more comfortable than this. It’s been a great summer.
Now on mashed solids. Ruby at 11 months.
I’m glad I got here by myself, without the help of a friend, or lover, or windfall. It was something I had to do on my own, so I’ll always know I’m strong enough to pick myself up and continue growing.
The only thing that’s really missing now is another cat (or two), but I already blew my kitty budget on Leonard’s vet bills. I’m not at the right place for a new adoption anyway, and I’ve decided to wait until my major projects are finished (hopefully some time around the end of the year) before I take on another life.
It’s official; Kyden has the softest, pinchiest cheeks ever at eight months.
I’ve been back from my trip for about a month and a half, but it feels more like a year. I’m so different now from the person I was before I left. I was dying then, but I’m living now.
The only way I can tell how quickly time is truly passing is in the faces of my friends’ babies. Each time I see them they’re making new sounds, saying new words, more conscious and coherent. I used to envy the carefree innocence they have when running about naked, the single-mindedness they possess when engrossed with a new toy, but now I feel like one of them.