So here I am, approaching a new year chowing down cough drops and reading a book. Not that I have any complaints, I outgrew the “let’s begin the new year shitfaced” a few years ago, but it’s low-brow enough to be a high-brow thing going on here.
I spent the last two days of my Christmas vacation sick at my mother’s and the first hour of my return home silently crying in the backseat of a car, wishing I could be sick at mama’s house again.
Not often do we get to have our mother’s take care of us and pity us when we’re sick once we’re grown and moved out, so I sort of basked in it… I have to admit.
I bought a new journal during my trip home which is always exciting for me. It’s like a fresh start, however, it always ends up filled with the same crap at the end of it’s lifespan.
At some point, even our pleasures become cycles – dull patterns of our life that we get stuck turning in. Not to sound pessimistic, I’m certainly not viewing it all that way, but there is a sad truth to it that can’t be ignored. I’m not really the free-spirit type, more of a silent, creative-type that moves along in the background and freezes up when any of the last shines close. I shy away from any recognizable credit but still beg for it. I’m still not entirely sure if that’s an insecurity or just a personality trait.
I don’t even really know what I’m talking about, I picked up a computer to write and crap came out. It happens. I just figure writing is the important part.