I miss you. I miss our rambling adventures. I miss pouring my sad empty guts into you. I miss writing for the sake of expression, for the love of writing. I miss a world where I made myself matter, where I followed what I loved and brought others along too. I miss believing in the small things. I miss the small things even when I don’t believe in this.
How much have we lost, blog, in this past year, in all these past years? I feel like I am dying, and that I have been dying for a very long time, wondering when it will stop. I cannot know how I am unless I write. I am such a good liar, a good defender of my own bullshit that I delude myself into thinking I could be anything close to fine. But it is not a sin to be unhappy. I am not bad for it. I am simply sad for it. But sadness is not even the correct term. I am wounded for it, and I stare down at my bloody mess and try to collect the various oozings and keep myself whole. I should perhaps jump into a salted sea, let natural phenomenon cleanse me clean even if it burns up my tolerance for life. I will find more tolerance. Maybe even affection for it.
I hate the insincerity that is demanded of me. I need to utilize creative work to break through these facades. These facades work in all ways. I must shunt my misery while also shunting my love. It is equally crazy to be in love with life so fully it hurts as it is to wear black and sit slumped and not talk to anyone. Where can I possibly fit? Make myself fit into a place I fundamentally do not belong, that too is insanity. Just bear the discomfort and move along. That is what makes sense.
I resent writing because it is not acting, and because I now fear pursuing my real dream, so I sit back and pursue my second hand dream, which I am arguably better suited for. But only because I make myself better suited for it, and who’s to say what an actor must be or must not be? I miss having conviction. The sense of being fearless.