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

Love, I Fear I've Burned Out

   

     I haven't posted in a long while. Unless you count two days ago, which I don't, because it was horribly written. I think I've burned out. I have no energy nor any desire to do anything. I'm tired all the time, I feel sick all the time, and everyone's existence is annoying me.
     Don't worry, it's not you, it's me.
     I can't write, though I have ideas. They end up getting lost in my mind. Of late, I can't seem to articulate my thoughts at all, let alone type them up nicely.
     Writing is exhausting if you're doing it right, no matter how talented of a writer you are.

   
     Realizations that are irritating me (I have to write something today...):  <-- inadvertent frown.

• I make annoying sounds when I'm bored.
• I cringe when I step into sunlight.
• I put Twitter on my phone to trick my brain into thinking I get texted a lot.
• I carry around an annoying, little notebook in my back pocket.
• I wear ear plugs in my house.
• I occasionally take off my glasses just because I'm tired of the heavy frames slipping off my face.
• I write letters to people that aren't here.
• I hate that I still log onto Facebook.
• I purposely ignore people most of the time.
• I like to think I am clever.
• I clench my jaw when I type.
• I get so angry when Bruno Mars pops up in my Pandora stations.
• I know that I'm allergic to a metal in necklace chains, but I continue to wear them.

     My brain is fried.
     This computer screen dries my eyes.
     Love, I have burned out. Enjoy the blank pages.
   

Whit Happens