A call for my ages - I read back in my journal. Ever done that? Just pick a page and see who you were then. Well, it's been five years since I wrote about starting in my writing group. It's the last time I was all fired up about my plans. Working on a book, singing, having a direction.
Since then, I've been thirsty and convinced myself I don't know why. I curl my hair around my finger, tilt my head and go "Gee, what's wrong with me?" I have no motivation.
I am once again what I thought I couldn't be - a hausfrau with wilted dreams. Because I've never watered them!
I got married, bought a house, dreamed and dreamed. I've been feeding my dreams with more dreams, so they die. Caught up in alternate storylines. And I've felt vaguely guilty about that. I go to Vegas and explode, I come home and die.
But man, I'm just starting on my thirties (like being 16 for guys), and it's really beginning to bug the shit out of me. I play Battlefront with so much more fervor these last few weeks, I tell ya.
So this log. Write every couple of days. Hope someone will write something back to me to inspire or piss me off - because the only way my ass gets moving is when I'm really gut-wrenchingly angry or ashamed.
And man, I was both earlier. I talk to myself while doing the dishes - trying to vocalize what the fuck is up with me. And I realized that I haven't done anything truly new for so long. I've listened to new music but I haven't gone anywhere truly new. I go to work, come home and do more work and housework. I'm drowning in my responsibilities and have nothing to show for it. I thought I could at least count on a da Vinci education - real life over pretentious memorization. But it hasn't materialized because I, like most I know, am the opening scenes of Shawn of the Dead. Just a zombie without the fun Fx.
And so this strange juxtaposition of eternal drowning and the burning thirst.
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