Wednesday, November 10, 2010


I seriously dislike this time of year. The nights are colder and longer, days shorter. The sun sets early and it depresses me. The holidays are approaching, my least favorite time of year. I want to punch people daily from Thanksgiving until January 2. I feel a jar closing in over my head around this time of year, suffocating and constraining me. Bulky clothing, long sleeves. My skin hates being covered. Fall is somehow worse than winter, especially this year as our summer was so short and cold. At least in winter we have rain and Spring around the corner. My bah humbug is starting early this year.

I'm writing some again, which is a good thing. It isn't easy, I'm struggling. I've lost momentum and most of all, passion. My life is devoid of passion. I cook a lot and bake but those are hobbies. Writing used to be a passion but I've lost it, for now. I truck along but I'm not excited. It'll return, I hope, it aways has before.

I love so many things about getting older. I love the confidence and awareness of who I am. I love that I have enough experiences that make me proud and a few that make me cringe. I know whatever happens I'll be okay. But I remember an exercise we did my my 11th grade English class. Our teacher asked us if we would prefer a short life composed of extreme highs and terrible lows or a long, even-keeled life. With the exception of one person, everyone wanted the short, exciting/devastating life. My twenties were that life, the amazing highs and horribles lows. Now that I'm a little bit older I get those swings less and less. Sure, I'm content and I have nothing truly to complain about but I often worry that I'm just kind of floating on, saying yes when it's easy and no when I have to. I'm more and more solitary, much of which is chosen but not any less lonely at the lonely moments. I miss my old brave self. I'm hoping to write her into existence, not only in the story I'm creating with a character with passions similar to the ones I used to have, but also hoping that in the act of writing a reawakening can begin.

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