I’m tired and perhaps even, when I think about it, surprisingly apathetic — I think. I have more closed entries in my blog over the last three weeks than open ones. Gone are the days when I felt as though I had something insightful or creative to say here. Now there’s nothing but the same old nonsense, recycled every six hours before being put on ice, in part because everyone’s heard it before and in part because it’s still more than I feel safe saying out loud.
All of my days now have begun to seem the same; life feels very settled in its unsettledness and all of the the images since Chicago are now blurring together. The road, the white carpet in my parents house, the road, the trailer at night, the road, the white carpet in my parents house, the road, the trailer at night, some pages, the road, the white carpet in someone else’s parents house, the porch at night, some pages, the road, the white carpet in my parents house, the bridge at night, the road, the white carpet in someone else’s parents house, some pages, the white carpet in my own interim house, the steps at night, some pages…
There’s more to say, but as has been the case for so many months now, it won’t be said, because there really isn’t more to say.
I can’t hear the ocean from here. I’m tempted at midnight to walk through the woods to see if it’s still there, but I’d just get there and stare at it and turn around and come back bewildered and disappointed and unfulfilled to the white carpet and sleep unsoundly and get up in the morning to some pages…
It’s tempting, when everything starts to seem the same and you lose track of everything that grounds you to suggest that there’s nothing worse than days that seem to repeat endlessly during which you don’t really solve anything, but there are things worse than that that you never account for. Do you really want “just a change, any change” if that change ends the repetition only for a moment by making the days worse, then descending back into repetition again in their new, less desirable form?
I have already drank enough to be ill in the morning and smoked enough to be ill in the morning each separately, but I have done them together. I can’t tell any of the important people in my life that I miss them, because that begs the question: if they are following their path, and I am following my path, and those paths do not coincide, what would I change to remedy the situation? Would I force them to deviate from theirs? Would I deviate from mine?
But that line of questioning in turn begs the question: do I have a path?
That I follow?
Or am I making the worst of all decisions by choosing nothing?