Carry Wood; Chop Water

 It's funny how much I write, in relation to what actually makes it onto these writing platforms.  For so long I would just ramble away with whatever happened to be spinning through my tired mind; for years I didn't write much in journals at all; this was my journal.  Now, I have to be much more guarded about what I write, so my focus has shifted back to journals that (mostly) don't get read.  When I started journaling thirty years ago, I imagined it would be easier to translate to a reading platform, but all I've really got is stacks of journals.

 I've written about this before: the stacks of journals; the boxes full of journals; and what it all really means.  Shit, at this point I feel like I've written about all of this before.  Maybe that's why I publish on this medium so rarely?  Also something I have written about: reading journals from high school that sound like I wrote them last week; nothing much has changed.  Well, nothing about the way I feel about things has changed.  Obviously, things have changed immensely just in this last year.  I am stuck in such a psychological whirlpool.

 I am tired.

The new job is still terrifying because I really have no idea what I'm doing; the old job is exhausting because people keep quitting, but at least business is slowing down a little for winter; home is full of emotion; life is swiftly speeding by; the holidays are here already; it's cold; while I'm lucky to have this much work in the winter months of a little mountain town, I'm not making enough; I am not enough; I keep going; I can't go on; I'll go on; ever tried, ever failed...

 Everything is fine.


I wish no one was paying attention.


I wish it was still ironically funny for me to say that.

 This girl is amazing.  She is right there trying to live up to what she thinks I need her to be, but she is already more than enough.  I can't pretend like this journey hasn't been a bit of a nightmare, but everything is beautiful...

Lavanyamaya.

... sometimes cleverly hidden in the reality of it all.

 I just want to go to bed.


I just want to sleep...and sleep...and sleep.


Nothing I write at this point is really a fair representation of what is actually happening, though I want it to be, which is why I have always wished I could simply live in fiction.  I created this character to protect myself from the little mountain town that I am now fully immersed in, and while I had been planning my escape for over a decade, and managed to actually escape, on someone else's terms, for a couple years, but am now in a position where I actually want to be here.  This is all so confusing to me.  It is so much easier to just hate everything.


I still want to disappear, but I don't want to miss this.

I still want to walk the earth with my family and share the beauty that I see in this world, with the world, the best I am capable, but I keep showing up for work, and I keep doing my job, and I keep paying rent, and I keep smiling, and I keep crying, and fuck.


Eroica, the child I've been waiting a lifetime to have, which no one truly appreciates, is two months old... eight and a half weeks. What the fuck am I doing?


No matter.
Try again.
Fail again.
Fail better.