I never do have anything particularly uplifting to say for the New Year. Once I announced that I was emotionally broken, once clinically depressed, another that I was just plain homesick. (These things would be more dramatic if they were less predictable.) And before that I wrote in my paper-and-leather journals.
This year I can't complain of anything but youth and ignorance, which are both entirely too curable.
I've promised myself I'd actually begin thinking about living somewhere. It's going to take a major shift in thinking, for me, since I'm used to transience and it is what I'm familiar with. I wonder if I could always be ready to get up and go . . . it's rather nomadic. My recent group of friends is not used to the expatriated lifestyle I'm used to living, and they find the ideas of constant adventure a bit wearing--one of them went so far as to say it was wrong, that no one could have relationships that way. But really, their lifestyles are strange. A constant routine sounds so odd, to me. Maybe it would be comforting. Maybe I'd get my memory back. Anyway, I'll think about it.
The pretty colours, shiny lights, and consistent crises that carousel through my brain are keeping me occupied, but they can't hide the feeling there is a wind that roars in the hollow places in my heart of hearts. I'm cold when I'm by myself. I'm not ever going to be enough to fill myself with meaning and reality. Even my ego isn't that big:)
But even after reading this and knowing a small part of me, you still won't talk to me about it, and I will keep it guarded and yet free for you to see. You won't talk to me about it because it would require the kind of conversation that talks about emptiness. That means clichés and an itchiness that may or may not lead to a sure conclusion. It would mean that you would already have to have a basis of trust with me that would allow you to use that kind of vocabulary. There aren't that many people who do, just because the subject, thought not inappropriate or off-colour, is an odd one.
It's only almost 6 p.m. and I am exhausted. What am I going to do with myself.
Be myself. I hate that answer.
It's midnight. I'm already thinking badly of the new year.
It's 2 o'clock in the morning. I hate consequences and misunderstandings and blocked up kitchen sinks and nice hairdryers and everything about love that makes us want to test it.
Also I should go to sleep before I feel like blogging any more. It's only downhill from here.