break

I'm not sure if this is the kind of thing that happens to everyone, or the kind of thing that happens only to me, or the kind of thing that happens only to me only because I'm giving my synapses a reprieve from nearly four years of gentle, numbing, drug-induced contentedness.  Regardless, I find myself at the convergence of old thoughts, unanswered questions, and fragile bits of wisdom that have always threatened to disappoint me at any moment.  I know it all sounds vague, but it feels as clear and familiar as cold, running water.

Among these thoughts and questions is an old realization I had -- namely that I can't live and write about my life at the same time.  There's only a finite amount of energy and focus in me, and the end result is bad living and good writing,  good living and bad writing, or proper living and no writing at all.  There are more complexities to it than that, of course, and I'm not suggesting it applies to everyone. 

Writing usually allows me to refine, solidify, and deepen my ideas.  It helps me fill in the holes of which my brain is otherwise very forgiving.  It's unfortunate that it fails me so utterly when it comes to my life, my self, and my tenuous little ego.  With regard to those topics writing seems to obscure more than it reveals, confuse more than it clarifies.  To put it simply, it's a large and looming distraction from the business of living.

Which neatly leads to my recent absence.  A couple weeks ago I realized something terrifying:  events didn't feel like they counted unless I blogged about them.   My life somehow ended up taking a backseat to the ongoing documentary of my life.  I was having more dialog and taking less action than Prince Hamlet.  Suffice it to say, I found that discovery altogether alarming.  As such, I've been on -- and continue to be on -- a break of indefinite length and absoluteness.  No point in documenting a life that grows thinner by the minute for the endeavor.