lay your armor down
I'm sitting here, just about to close up my computer for the night and (try to) get some sleep, and suddenly I feel like writing. In the journal I haven't updated in, say, just shy of an eon. So here I am, with the writing. And I don't even know what I want to say, or if I have anything to say at all.
This summer has been monumentally unexciting so far. Go to work, or don't. Waste time online, or go for a walk. I've been walking a lot. Read a book, watch some Firefly. Think about all the things I haven't done, and how the weight of that inaction makes it just that much harder to get going at all. It's a bit of twisted guilt. I haven't even touched my sketchbook since school ended nearly two months ago, and it's reprehensible. I know that. I want to dive back into drawing, painting, creating... but the fact that I haven't done anything, that so much time has passed and I have nothing to show for it, somehow makes me less likely to pick it up again. Like maybe I'm not good enough anymore. Like maybe I never was.
Good enough for what? Doodling in my sketchbook? My sketchbook that no one even looks at? I don't know. I've always had a problem putting down anything less than perfect on paper. It's self-defeating, to be sure. You can't get better if you don't practice. For some reason the idea of practice has never been valid in my mind. I need to be good at things right off the bat or I'm clearly not meant to do them at all. It's very all-or-nothing. And very fucked up, I am quite aware.
So summer is half over and that's what I have to show for it. Mind-numbing, soul-crushing retail experiences and a neurotic and continuous state of inertia. I haven't even seen much of my friends. I think I've hung out with Bre two or three times. I've seen Cassie once or twice, but only at other social functions. Of which I have attended only two, and even then I had to make myself go. I had fun once I was there, mostly, but getting there is hard. I haven't felt much like being social lately. I've never been what one would call a social butterfly, or even a social caterpillar. But it's worse lately. I feel very out of place. I've been drifting in and out of some major funks, and overall I'm just kind of depressed. It's pretty serious fun, I have to say.
I always have these grand visions of what summer should be. Campfires and fireflies and floating down rivers in big innertubes. Amusement parks and road trips and singing catchy pop songs into the wind. But then summer rolls around and all it ever is is fucking hot, too hot for campfires, and rollercoasters still make me sick no matter how much I love them, and neither my car nor my wallet would survive a road trip. I can never seen to reconcile the way things are with the way I think they should be. Reality is disappointing.
Tomorrow is Mason's visitation day, so I'm going to Harrisburg to see him. It hurts to see him in there. My little brother, behind a pane of bullet-proof glass. I wish I could say it's surreal, but it's not. Visiting people in jail has been one of the more constant aspects of my life.
His visit isn't until 6ish, so I think I'm going to drive up early and spend some time on the trail near my dad's house. I miss that place. I miss having somewhere quiet and out of the way to go. Somewhere to just be, alone, with no sirens or car horns or snippets of other people's conversations. I think my idea of heaven is a place where no one is looking at me.
I feel like I should make a quip about all this melancholy. Lighten things up a bit. Cover up any exposed bits before anyone gets the wrong impression. Or maybe I should just delete the whole thing. But I needed to write a little, indulge in some self-centered ranting. I've been putting it off because people I know read this. And yet I didn't just write it in my paper journal, for whatever reason. I don't know. It's not like I'm offending anyone. Shit, I'm only talking about how my summer is sucking balls and proving once again that I have The Big Issues. As if that's a surprise. So, whatever. I need to get some sleep.
This summer has been monumentally unexciting so far. Go to work, or don't. Waste time online, or go for a walk. I've been walking a lot. Read a book, watch some Firefly. Think about all the things I haven't done, and how the weight of that inaction makes it just that much harder to get going at all. It's a bit of twisted guilt. I haven't even touched my sketchbook since school ended nearly two months ago, and it's reprehensible. I know that. I want to dive back into drawing, painting, creating... but the fact that I haven't done anything, that so much time has passed and I have nothing to show for it, somehow makes me less likely to pick it up again. Like maybe I'm not good enough anymore. Like maybe I never was.
Good enough for what? Doodling in my sketchbook? My sketchbook that no one even looks at? I don't know. I've always had a problem putting down anything less than perfect on paper. It's self-defeating, to be sure. You can't get better if you don't practice. For some reason the idea of practice has never been valid in my mind. I need to be good at things right off the bat or I'm clearly not meant to do them at all. It's very all-or-nothing. And very fucked up, I am quite aware.
So summer is half over and that's what I have to show for it. Mind-numbing, soul-crushing retail experiences and a neurotic and continuous state of inertia. I haven't even seen much of my friends. I think I've hung out with Bre two or three times. I've seen Cassie once or twice, but only at other social functions. Of which I have attended only two, and even then I had to make myself go. I had fun once I was there, mostly, but getting there is hard. I haven't felt much like being social lately. I've never been what one would call a social butterfly, or even a social caterpillar. But it's worse lately. I feel very out of place. I've been drifting in and out of some major funks, and overall I'm just kind of depressed. It's pretty serious fun, I have to say.
I always have these grand visions of what summer should be. Campfires and fireflies and floating down rivers in big innertubes. Amusement parks and road trips and singing catchy pop songs into the wind. But then summer rolls around and all it ever is is fucking hot, too hot for campfires, and rollercoasters still make me sick no matter how much I love them, and neither my car nor my wallet would survive a road trip. I can never seen to reconcile the way things are with the way I think they should be. Reality is disappointing.
Tomorrow is Mason's visitation day, so I'm going to Harrisburg to see him. It hurts to see him in there. My little brother, behind a pane of bullet-proof glass. I wish I could say it's surreal, but it's not. Visiting people in jail has been one of the more constant aspects of my life.
His visit isn't until 6ish, so I think I'm going to drive up early and spend some time on the trail near my dad's house. I miss that place. I miss having somewhere quiet and out of the way to go. Somewhere to just be, alone, with no sirens or car horns or snippets of other people's conversations. I think my idea of heaven is a place where no one is looking at me.
I feel like I should make a quip about all this melancholy. Lighten things up a bit. Cover up any exposed bits before anyone gets the wrong impression. Or maybe I should just delete the whole thing. But I needed to write a little, indulge in some self-centered ranting. I've been putting it off because people I know read this. And yet I didn't just write it in my paper journal, for whatever reason. I don't know. It's not like I'm offending anyone. Shit, I'm only talking about how my summer is sucking balls and proving once again that I have The Big Issues. As if that's a surprise. So, whatever. I need to get some sleep.