I feel like writing, but I don't have anything to say but the same old whines. I'm listening to stolen records (Christine's, I forgot to give them back) and pondering my next move.
Wondering, if life is a journey, did I get left on the wayside?
Can I dust myself off and hitch a ride? Keep walking into the unknown? Rummage through the roadside debris for a new metaphor?
I realize the vast majority of what I write here is pretty superficial stuff. If it's not a cursory run-down of what's happening, it's bitching, whining, or ranting about the usual shit, or TV commercials. I haven't got a poetic soul, just a sad and undeserving one, if I've got a soul at all.
I've become disconnected from the intellectual pursuits that gave me any sense of competence, the people who gave me a sense of belonging, and the goals that gave me something to look forward to. And I've resorted to hyperbole and over-dramatic shrieking on more than one occasion. Since I've finished school, my one lifelong pursuit since birth, I've become empty and senseless.
I have to keep telling myself I'll get the hang of life, sooner or later, but who knows? People stagnate and stop growing sometimes, too. Not all movement is forward. Optimism hasn't always served me well.
Every silent moment, filled with the din of media totally unrelated to myself, builds to form something I don't know yet. Will I like the person I am when the movement stops or changes?
And in my searching for a purpose, don't tell me to find God. Don't tell me what I should look for, because sometimes I find things better by wandering than by mission.
That's it. I've got nothing. Back to the headphones.