I guess I killed my own blog. Or at least I let it die.
I feel like one of those kids who begged and pleaded and groveled for a goldfish and promised to take care of it and love it and feed it daily and clean the tank and
...then it dies.
It hasn't been for lack of things to write about that I have been away. My mind is clipping right along sorting through every imaginable thing to think about. The thought process I am dealing with now goes more like this: Perhaps if I just resign myself to my plain existence where I eat, sleep and work, then I will no longer be disappointed in myself. Quit trying to make sense of it. Quit trying to work it out. Quit hurting other people. Just quit.
It is a dismal feeling, but one I cannot stuff back into the tube from which it escaped. And for better or worse, I am growing ever more OK with the idea of just eeking out an existence rather than truly living.
I read other blogs, and I am so excited for what I see there. For guys working this out, and getting better, and learning more about themselves. I am not so sure I am making similar progress, and that gets me down all the more.
I spent a *lot* of time alone now, a *lot*. I spent my birthday alone; I spent Easter alone. And as much as I know some of your are pounding your hand against your mouse shouting, "Then get out and meet some people and do something about it," I also know that being around other people really wears me out. I'm an introvert to the core.
So for now I'm stuck. I hope it passes; I really do. But for now, I'm just plain stuck.