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Maybe it's the coffee speaking, or the fact that it's closing in on noon and I haven't done much more this morning than make a small breakfast simply because I don't want to worry about lunch later on, or the need to justify my reluctance to get off of this couch that I'm slowly fading into, regardless, I feel like I need to lay everything out and wade through all the thoughts, the anxieties, the unhappiness, the complete apathy, and disregard for my own journey. The only way I know to begin is to write and rid myself of the excuse that I don't know where to begin. Besides, beginnings are arbitrary and endings don't have to be finite. The difficulty is not beginning but finding one thread of thought to single out.


So here's to hearing the symphony through the cacophony...


The simple matter is that I'm not happy--with my life, my job, who I've become, and who I'm afraid of settling into. And yet, have I done anything to change? Isn't that the beauty of life is that we can take what is given to us, interpret it how we want, and put it through our own personal filters and take what we need? Do I have to sit here and let life happen to me? And why can I only come up with questions? I am stuck in this train of thought of trying to figure out who I am when then simple truth is that I'm being as unoriginal as the masses of conformists that thoroughly piss me off. God, I am that English major who says they want to find that all-evasive purpose and just sits on their ass finding new ways of becoming self-destructive when perhaps the shortest road to self-destruction is asking the same question over and over again and disguising it by changing the wording. Reuse and recycle, right?


So, no, I'm not happy, but I'm done questioning it. Forget that. There is no point to questions that lead to more questions. But I refuse to settle. I refuse to become stagnant. And that's what was happening...I was wallowing in my own self-pity. Hell, I still wallow in it, hence the reason that I haven't taken a shower yet this morning. I'd much rather sit here in the comfort of depression. Because that means I can stay on my couch, watch Goonies over and over, drink myself into a nice stupor, put on one equally depressing song on repeat, and then fall asleep. There is that secret level of contentment in being unhappy, because it is a feeling and identity that I can easily understand and fill the role quite nicely.


And I realize that now, I'm writing this rather personal little piece of dribble in a medium that is anything but private, and while I could write a complete discourse on why we mix the private and public sphere in blogs, the spirit isn't moving me this morning. I'm much too cynical to question it. I'm just posting this shit as some sort of conjunction from my self-pity, "I don't know who I am, or what I want" shit to my "fuck it all, I'm going to just write" attitude that I'm going to acquire. Because that is something I want to be. A writer. It helps me make sense of all these thoughts.


A writer writes and I wasn't. So, I wrote because I'm not questioning anymore and this is what I needed to do. Sorry if you spent time reading it. But, I had to take a step somewhere. No revelations. No need for cliff notes. Just a jumping off point and a truthfulness that life sometimes isn't worth questioning anymore.


Life is in the mundane unfortunately. It's all that forest for the trees, beauty in the beast bit that suppose to make it interesting and worthwhile. So I guess that's where I'll stop questioning and just start doing. It's as good a start as any.