Forgive me, Reader, it has been 194 days since my last confession.
It’s been a rough couple of months. The festive season always hits me like a goddamn freight train, no surprises there, but there’s been a whole host of changes before, during and after that’s made me less inclined to sit and write things out.
Way back, before COVID hit and I still had to drive into work to sit in front of a computer screen all day like a Neanderthal, I shared the route to get to the office of this huge truck that had this frustratingly annoyingly good advice on the back.
The Best Time to plant a tree is 20 years ago.
The 2nd Best Time is Now.
God, I hate that truck so much.
Fuck it, let’s get back into it.
I’m finding myself winding myself into knots. About money. About health shit. About how World War 3 is going to start any day now and I can’t fucking believe it’s being kicked off for the dumbest reasons ever. And it’s made it impossible for me to hear my own voice; all I hear in my head is klaxons blaring. It’s not great for sleep.
I’ve been beating myself up for not finishing things. I’ve got half a dozen art projects that are not getting finished because I think, on some level, I’m afraid that finishing means I have to show people and that it’s rubbish. I’ve got a story thing in the works that I haven’t touched in months because I feel like it’s a really good setting but I’m afraid I can’t do it justice.
All and all, it’s still a maelstrom of nonsense in my brain that I’m trying to sort out. But when I sit and give it a thorough examination, I’ve been growing a hell of a lot. I’ve been more open with my wife about my emotional state, I’m not sulking anymore, I’ve been taking better care of myself in the moment-to-moment. It’s not groundbreaking, but it’s something.
Anyway. I live. And ain’t that somethin’, huh?