Just Call Me
I’m not sure what to make out of this blog post but I do know that I need to fill myself up with things other than food, unhealthy food, I should state, and my “filling up” usually means consumption of books (which explains why I’m broke from hoarding this week) or, sadly for you, writing spontaneously about things I have not put much thought to (redundancy check?).
It’s quite a difficult battle really how I feel overfilled and emptied out all at the same time by certain decisions I took whilst prancing back to my path of self-(re)discovery (redundancy check part two), and awareness of the world I have built around me. Tough industry, I suppose, that prods everyone in its frontline to certain phases in their lives they once thought-would/could/wish did not exist. Nonetheless, I am not making any sense.
The good news is my heavy heart is settling load elsewhere as I type these virtual blank ink on this virtual 5-minutes-ago-was-blank paper. The bad news is you’ve probably read this far and still haven’t picked up on anything and I’ve just wasted your time (and am continually wasting your time to this word, and the next others…) over something that should not even be put on a blog (*if this even should be considered a blog; maybe a public, self-detrimental, intangible form of compartment that makes scattered emotions and ideas look organized - would be a better account), but I am putting it on a *blog because I (1) can and because (2) I have worn my heart on my sleeve for far too long and (3) have gone through too much trouble because of it to start caring now.
With that, I’d like to end wasting your time by telling you something you might (should) already know yourself - (and no, it isn’t that I use too much of this () even though I do but that shouldn’t be an issue because writing is my art and art has no rules (except for really expensive and subjectively beautiful paintings by geniuses – the rule of thumb in that “art” area I suppose is to resist all urges of stealing it/the idea of it) and this is going further than I had (not) planned) - that maybe the answer to the emptiness is emptiness itself.
Maybe we are designed to have a hole, a gap, an in-between. Maybe we can fill it, over flow it, maybe it’s designed to sit empty for the rest of our lives, and that’s okay too. Maybe you can buy yourself happiness, maybe you cannot. Maybe your money will fill you up with so many things to be bought and sold, that you will eventually be happy and not sleep in same or different beds, and not feel the emptiness you felt when you had a hundred then, and now a million - maybe not. Maybe love can break your shackles and gather your bearings that have long been thrown out and strewn, and take you to new heights you once believed was imposible and finally make you into the wo/man you always dreamed of becoming – maybe not.
Maybe all there is in life is to keep trying, until you wake up in one of these maybe-mornings and just, know.