If I had something to say

Sunday, December 27, 2009

So it’s been a while. I usually sit here and don’t type very much. I don’t think very much, for that matter. I keep pretending that I’m going to do things other than scribbles. I don’t anymore. I don’t even consternate. It seems that my decision to stop consternating turned off the spigot of writing. I realize it’s like my drawing: if I have no ideas I draw a little guy staring at a colored background. If I have no ideas for writing I either consternate or don’t write. Consternating is my way of saying nothing.

And even now as I approach paragraph number two I slow down. I keep thinking there’s something I want to say but I don’t know what. All I know is that I have to stop censoring myself. I have to get beyond the silliness of what others think. Isn’t this why you’re writing, though? For others to read it and woo and wow when they see the cleverness of the words? It feels that way. It feels like all I’m ever looking for is approval of others, to see comments and love from the social world. What is life beyond that? Is there anything in life beyond the relationships with others? I thought the relationships were important? Perhaps it’s something more, something that my lack of ego can live without. Do I care who reads this or who comments on this? Do I care about much?

I’m sipping my coffee. It’s cool today. I’m still a bit sick: congested and headachy. I meant to take medicine before I left the house but forgot in my hurry to get an egg and cheese sandwich. It wasn’t as good as I remembered. Nothing is ever as good as I remembered.

My attention wanders and I pop open my browser window. I’m not trying to make goal or do much today. I’m just putting words on paper and hoping for an epiphany. I don’t have many of those these days.

I woke up in the middle of the night last night worried about stuff. I worry a lot. Sometimes I worry about work, sometimes it’s about family, and sometimes it’s so meaningless that I can only laugh at the idiocy of waking up at that time of night for such a triviality. I have as little control over what thought wakes me as I have over how long it takes me to get back to sleep.

Still there is nothing worth anything anymore. I’m not sure why I’m here. I’d like to believe the fairy tale of religion. I would love that my purpose was to be tested and to choose to grow closer to G-d, to bring him into this world through my actions. I would like that there was a purpose, that the world was not just a random bit of matter spinning in an uncaring universe. But I’m small, tiny even. And sometimes my desires or wants are not interesting and don’t represent much.

This is not going to the front page. This is going to the pile that nobody reads.

I used to have hobbies. I don’t remember what has happened to them. I’m awfully bitter today. I guess I’m disappointed in myself. Here I have almost two weeks of little work and I don’t do much. I should have set up a project for my down time. I should have thought this through and used my time efficiently. Instead I’m just sitting here on a Sunday morning, the only time I actually sat down and did something, and not doing anything. Ugh, I’m not sure what I should be doing.

I don’t even know what projects I want to do. I want to write I want to draw I want to program. But I have no real goals. I should work on the Chinese website to help me learn Chinese. Not that there aren’t thousands already out there. I need some goal some purpose something.

I need inspiration and goals and wants. I need help.

I need motivation and I need needs. If I want to make video games, make video games. If I want to write, write damn it. Why do I need inspiration for that? I should have plenty for what I have now. It doesn’t make any sense what I’m doing or not doing. I’m sick and tired of my bullshit and my lackadaisical attitude. I’m sick of not doing something because I don’t do it. That excuse is and always has been old. I want something new, something with meaning, something that shows who I am for those who care who I am.

And yet here I sit and do nothing. I think about returning home and playing video games, of wasting away the day and not accomplishing much. I think of the nothingness of life and wonder what I was ever thinking that made me do something of value. I want to write about things that happen. That makes me happy. But if nothing happens what can I write about? I need to make things happen and then write about them. What could be easier?