I can’t seem to write. For months now. The words are drying up inside me. I can’t figure out if I’m hollow, numb or content. I’m really hoping for that last one but I know I’m deluding myself.
I guess this is the part where I say something is wrong. It feels like everything is a little tilted. Not enough to cause alarm, not enough to hunker down and find a solution – just a slow insidious malaise. A creeping dread, a covered up loneliness and worst of all a quiet acceptance.
This is what life is now. Not bad but lacking. What about excitement, adventure, discovery – romance.
Ah, romance – that repulsive siren song. That shiny coating of bygone days and Disney fantasies. That happy-happy, that filler of voids and strangler of independence. The struggle between head and heart – hormones and logic. I like the varnish but don’t want to commit to the reality. Still, I find myself lacking sufficient opportunities and without a map of the once familiar territory.
Perhaps a toe into new waters. When did I become so cautious? Is this what they mean by older and wiser? I don’t think I like it.