It feels like thick mucus. It doesn’t gum on the skin but peels apart when poked like overly stretched rubber sheets. It’s the blues again and it colored me during the last couple of days. It arrived as our hectic month drew to a close. It reached into my stomach and yanked my organs to the ground. With every step I felt as if I dragged my insides under my feet.
I really shouldn’t be like this. Things are wonderful. I have a beautiful new home. Our real-estate broker tells us that the Castle will sell—and although he’s probably too positive for his own good, his reassurances do make me feel better about the other mortgage payments. Work is growing busier. We had a great weekend with wonderful friends. Our dogs are happy (if still a bit chilly) in their new dog room, and their invisible fence training will be complete early next week. I have yet another hundred-thousand-dollar website idea. I reserved the name and started coding. I even managed to draw a few doodles lately.
Things are booking along, and yet last night I couldn’t sleep. Part of it was too much caffeine. I drank two short coffees and a Pepsi with lunch. But it was more than that. During the drive in this morning, I said “another day another dollar” twice. I can’t really believe that, can I? There’s got to be more than that. And I’m not going through one of those “the world is an illusion, nothing is real—why work to buy stuff I won’t need in a feeble attempt to stave off feelings I won’t admit having” states. I have had those, and it feels different. I want to pretend that this is more than whacky brain chemistry.
Yesterday I reread the last two entries of my Pink Sweater story. When things are slow, I sometime hit the Random post to see what memories I can find. I’m not such a bad writer. Not a terribly good one, but there are parts I enjoyed reading—and I’m not just saying that because I wrote it. (Okay, maybe I am saying it because I wrote it. I’ve talked incessantly about how much I enjoy reading my own writing. It’s just that after so many years have passed, I can’t even remember having written any of it, let alone still believe it’s my writing in any real sense.)
I’m tired of not writing. I’m tired of putting down three sentences that talk about the weather and my bi-weekly doodle and calling it good. I remember the times when I wrote words on a daily basis.
Maybe that’s what this is. I’m looking for something that’s not there. It’s not the location but the place in the day. Wow, am I consternating? This sounds like consternations. I can’t remember the last time I went down that path. It’s not a bad feeling. I’m putting words on the screen and typing away. I just have to be careful not to dig too deep of a rut, or I’ll be here for awhile. That’s okay. The weather is good and I cracked my fingers and if I stay longer than my welcome, the landlord won’t complain too loudly.
The caffeine kicked in and the day is starting again. I’m not sure what this accomplished, but it is something to post, and that’s what I’ll do. Don’t worry about me. I go through these feelings. They last a few days and then they’re gone. I miss them sometimes. They give me a chance to be alone with my thoughts, to run away from the world and peer inside. If you haven’t noticed, there’s not much there. But that’s okay. Sometimes valleys are beautiful.