Pretentious Post Number 69 (tee hee)
I don't think I've posted here at all this year.
I remember when this journal was important to me. And I feel as though it should still be important...but its not. Maybe the well of me no longer goes as deep. This is not a going away post, unless of course I don't ever update again.
Something went wrong along the way, but I haven't been able to figure out exactly what. There is sense of impending doom, a loss of invulnerability. Did I suddenly become a grown up when I moved in with my person? I certainly don't feel as though I have graduated into adulthood.
Ramble, ramble.
I've been writing, and that has been going well, and I'm almost finished with the first draft of the book. The project has been taking most of my energy, and I'm hoping that by the end of this year I will have something readable. 160,000 words and growing, which puts it at about five hundred pages long...very very long. In theory I'd like to get it published, but realistically I'll have to cut about half of it out in order to do this. We shall see.
Work is work, and I care to say nothing more about it.
Life with Jenn is awesome, and she makes my world better in so many ways. She's sleeping now, and soon I'll sneak into bed and feel her warmth and wonder how this all happened. Sometimes I step back and find it strange that I am actually living with someone...it doesn't seem to be a very me thing. Maybe it works because it doesn't seem to be a very her thing either.
Sometimes I miss Philly, the convenience of inconvenience of it, and the people I've lost touch with since moving. I'd like to get back more often than I do, but the distance always feels greater than it is.
Sometimes I miss me, and I'd like to be a complete wreck like I used to be, to hurt and be hurt, and say dumb things and mean them. I don't stand on enough tables, or wander through strange places.
Sometimes I miss you, not you, the other you, the one you used to be, before you became you.
The rain just started, and I want to go out and feel it, and remember the way it felt so long ago. An adult child in the city, on his own, stepping out into the street, and choosing to never go home again.
Does nothing dream of me?
I remember when this journal was important to me. And I feel as though it should still be important...but its not. Maybe the well of me no longer goes as deep. This is not a going away post, unless of course I don't ever update again.
Something went wrong along the way, but I haven't been able to figure out exactly what. There is sense of impending doom, a loss of invulnerability. Did I suddenly become a grown up when I moved in with my person? I certainly don't feel as though I have graduated into adulthood.
Ramble, ramble.
I've been writing, and that has been going well, and I'm almost finished with the first draft of the book. The project has been taking most of my energy, and I'm hoping that by the end of this year I will have something readable. 160,000 words and growing, which puts it at about five hundred pages long...very very long. In theory I'd like to get it published, but realistically I'll have to cut about half of it out in order to do this. We shall see.
Work is work, and I care to say nothing more about it.
Life with Jenn is awesome, and she makes my world better in so many ways. She's sleeping now, and soon I'll sneak into bed and feel her warmth and wonder how this all happened. Sometimes I step back and find it strange that I am actually living with someone...it doesn't seem to be a very me thing. Maybe it works because it doesn't seem to be a very her thing either.
Sometimes I miss Philly, the convenience of inconvenience of it, and the people I've lost touch with since moving. I'd like to get back more often than I do, but the distance always feels greater than it is.
Sometimes I miss me, and I'd like to be a complete wreck like I used to be, to hurt and be hurt, and say dumb things and mean them. I don't stand on enough tables, or wander through strange places.
Sometimes I miss you, not you, the other you, the one you used to be, before you became you.
The rain just started, and I want to go out and feel it, and remember the way it felt so long ago. An adult child in the city, on his own, stepping out into the street, and choosing to never go home again.
Does nothing dream of me?