So, this is how it feels?
I’ve lost interest in…everything. I try to find the way forward, but I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what the point is.
Twenty four years…the fuck was the point of any of it?
You breathe in, you breathe out. Eat. Shit. Sleep. – Amos Burton
Part of me thinks this is just depression finally settling in after the breakup.
Part of me knows that’s not the truth of it, though depression is indeed a thing for me now. Emotions, of any kind, have always been a motivator for me. So what then, what is the why of this apathy?
I want to create. I have all these ideas bouncing around in my head, all this writing I want to do. I’m pulled toward art lately — sketching or painting or tattooing. Just not photography, I haven’t touched a camera in months. All that camera gear rotting away because I don’t…can’t feel it. It’s fortunate the clients are too scared to shoot right now.
I want to create. Yet, every time I sit down to do anything on the computer there’s this overwhelming sense of exhaustion, of not caring enough to do the sharing. It’s like, at least for the moment, I just don’t have the energy to interact with people on that most basic level…not even the simple act of tossing an edit on an article and hitting publish. No, that’s just too much effort.
The opposite is true of putting pen to paper. I should have known, as much as I preach about the first drafts going on paper because a keyboard murders creativity. This is different though, stronger. For the first time in years I’ve consistently scribbled away these past months. A Moleskine sits nearly full, stacks of papers everywhere, and the insomnia is in full effect again.
I guess that means I actually am writing a lot, but if no one will ever see it, what’s the point?
Then again, perhaps that is the point.
Late last night (aka this morning) I decided to digitize that nearly full Moleskine onto Medium under a new nom de plume — Six Forty Five — and, when creating this new account…
I suddenly felt motivated again.
Then it hit me: most of what’s on my mind I’m just not ready to share. Rather, I probably shouldn’t share except under the cozy blanket of anonymity perfect strangers on the internet can still provide. I’m not ready for the fallout, or perhaps the opportunities, these words will cause with the people I know and hold most dear. But I need to share; it’s my therapy, and like so many others I need it after 2021. The death of a twenty-four-year-long marriage. The suicide of an absentee father. Oh, and that whole distancing thing…
So here we are. Nib scribbling out thoughts that are totally out-of-character, but totally me. Paper soaked in encre bleu sérénité. Something no one will ever see, except for you.
More questions than answers? Yeah, welcome to my mind.