Quarter-life Crisis

Oh, look at what I've stumbled upon. A rusted Internet link and works left to collect viral dust under a mess of cyber cobwebs. I would apologize and tell you how sorry I am for neglecting the compilation of accumulated thoughts, but that would defeat the purpose of writing, now wouldn't it? See, the best part of writing is that it's a self-evaluated piece of art. I'm not here for my audience, not matter its members. I'm here for me. And lately, I have been getting bothered by the audience to pick up this blog again, so for my sake, I'm writing. It's not for you, let's just clear that up right now.

I left off two months ago (during what I now understand to be the roots of my quarter-life crisis), feeling somewhat defeated, for no reason in particular. I said that it was time for a change, that I'd work on things, that I'd rediscover myself in the woods, that I would come back in time, and that I would be back in full swing.

Truth be told, I lied. As much as it would please me to tell the few of you who are still with me that I'm back in full swing, I'm not. And, as much as I wish that my current state of writer's block, mild illness, emotional instability, and exaggerated cynicism would deteriorate to nothing, it won't.

I'm in a kind of mid-life crisis, though I'm not midway through life. I suppose you could say I'm in more of a quarter-life crisis? Regardless of the specifics of this crisis...I'm still in a crisis! And that's the problem. The few anchors to sanity that I had left are slowly leaving me. Before my quarter-life crisis, I had writing, music, and debate. Now it feels like I only have debate. I can't write (obviously), everything that I try to create is appallingly synthetic or overly raw. So, I stopped writing. Music has always been more of a fallback to a fallback. If I couldn't write, I'd pick up the guitar. I can't play guitar anymore, as it would turn out. I've never viewed an instrument with such frustration. I know full well that it's an instrument of beautiful capabilities and when I can't pull that out, I get extremely angry and want to throw my fist through a wall. So, I stopped playing. And then there's debate. Despite the emotional turmoils, drama, excitement, and heartbreak that go into debate, it's the only consistent activity that I have left. Unless the whole world wants to fall to hell, I'm preserving it.

I don't know what else to say, though there's a lot left unsaid. Have you ever been in one of those moods when you just want to curl up with some chocolate or maybe a pint of ice cream and watch sad movies all night? I did that last night. I fell asleep to the Last Song. I didn't have chocolate or ice cream though. I didn't cry either. I'll work on that.


Now what?

Whit happens

This Too Shall Pass

     I have no desire to go outside. I still wear hoodies, though it's summer. I still wear jeans because I never get too warm in an air conditioned house. I still don't wear shoes because I never wear shoes.

     I have no desire to pick up my guitar and strum and hum the blues like I used to. She stays in the case where I admire her from a distance. She stays in the corner and collects dust as I spit excuses as to why I can't play her. She stays there to keep me company in my room for one.

     I have no desire to write. I won't scribble poems in the margins of my notebooks. I won't fill up ridiculous amounts of memory on my phone texting letters to people who aren't here. I won't type my life to a blog that used to be my best friend.

     I have no desire to move. I lay about doing nothing in particular. I lay in bed trying to take a nap, though I took one just minutes prior. I lay on the floor listening to vinyl that's been played hundreds of times that day.

     I could tell you what I don't want, but not what I actually do want.

     I should tell you that this will pass over.

     I won't.

     But, now I've contradicted this whole post.

     Don't get me wrong, I'm not depressed or anything like that. Never. I don't know what it is, this lost motivation of mine. Let it be boredom, let it be exhaustion. Whatever it is, let it be.


Whit Happens

Let's Start from the Beginning...ha. No.

Introductions are for people who have nothing better to do with their lives. As for me? I strongly uphold the idea of jumping right into everything, grabbing life by throat and demanding a regurgitation of time. Why do we need background checks when the past is gone? Why do we need to introduce ourselves? I liked things in kindergarten when it was okay to be yourself and people liked you for who you were, not how grand your About Me square is on Facebook. I shouldn't complain, at least now it's a competition of who's the most original. Before it was all about who was the most normal…how bromidic. If you demand an About Me piece, I don’t have much for you: I love music, I love cultural art, and I’ll probably call you dumb if we don’t share the same vocabulary. Despite my intolerance for incompetence, I love you.

I hope you’re satisfied. You’ve managed to squeeze the last bit of normality out of this crooked soul.

If you’ve come across this mild tangent I so pathetically call my life, congratulations. You’ve come as far the common ant crossing a side walk, what seems like such a long trek is merely two feet. Besides the fact that you’re reading this and somewhat feeling insulted by my ostentation, I hope you enjoy the fact that sometimes Whit just Happens.