Outlet
I'm starting to wonder if my age has anything to do with my inability to force myself to sit down and write out what I'm thinking these days.
This used to be my lifeblood. This was how I dealt with everything. As the years have gone by more and more of my dealing is done internally, or quite frankly not at all.
I miss this. I miss this like I miss Denny's nights and not having bills. I miss this like I miss driving with my car windows down when the sun is out with a cigarette. I may have been quit for a good chunk of time now but dammit I miss it sometimes still.
I always seem to end up back here checking to see where I was X years ago on this date. It's my sick sad way of reminding myself of where/who I've been. Some days what I find is good, other's it's completely depressing.
I'm also worried that I've gotten to a point where I have nothing left to offer. What stories could I possible have left now? Office Space, coding monkey banter? That's about it. There is little time for life philosophy in all this chaos. I hardly have time to watch a tv show let alone write with any sort of intelligible wit.
My decisions have brought me here, but I'm always wondering where I'd be if a few steps had gone the other route.
I don't know, I need to make it a point to write again, but I can't seem to find the motivation/time/drive/energy...
I do miss this...at the very least I miss having my thoughts having some proof of existence. I miss the tangibility of my memories when they are here.
This used to be my lifeblood. This was how I dealt with everything. As the years have gone by more and more of my dealing is done internally, or quite frankly not at all.
I miss this. I miss this like I miss Denny's nights and not having bills. I miss this like I miss driving with my car windows down when the sun is out with a cigarette. I may have been quit for a good chunk of time now but dammit I miss it sometimes still.
I always seem to end up back here checking to see where I was X years ago on this date. It's my sick sad way of reminding myself of where/who I've been. Some days what I find is good, other's it's completely depressing.
I'm also worried that I've gotten to a point where I have nothing left to offer. What stories could I possible have left now? Office Space, coding monkey banter? That's about it. There is little time for life philosophy in all this chaos. I hardly have time to watch a tv show let alone write with any sort of intelligible wit.
My decisions have brought me here, but I'm always wondering where I'd be if a few steps had gone the other route.
I don't know, I need to make it a point to write again, but I can't seem to find the motivation/time/drive/energy...
I do miss this...at the very least I miss having my thoughts having some proof of existence. I miss the tangibility of my memories when they are here.