My sense of narrative is failing, to say nothing of poetic turns of phrase. I don't write poetry anymore. If that's not a sad and short statement of where my life is, I don't know what is.
It's not that I'm unhappy, quite. You could say that I'm comfortable, except that I'm still searching for who I am. So I hope to blog here more often, to sort through what's happening in my life and to have a record of how my life is progressing.
Reading earlier posts, they're so raw that it still hits me. Naive, angry, hurt, cynical but not jaded. Part of me wishes that I never hit the jaded wall, that I always remain just on this side of hope. I'm older and hopefully wiser. Or at least people look up to me for advice. I feel like an old timer these days, less bitter and more contemplative. Happier to spend a day cooking and eating with friends, and less inclined to try to overturn the scales of justice.
It's what I've always wanted. So why can't I sleep at night?