A Reason for the Gibberish

I was reminded last night that I write my entries ‘in the moment’.  For the most part this is true.  They are, after all, my thoughts at the time.  And even though what I write one night may not be exactly how I feel the next morning, I write it nonetheless knowing that it helps me to just get it out.

And Lord knows I have taken my fair share of heat for my thoughts, both written and implied.  I have been both praised and killed for being brutally honest.  The truth is I don’t care anymore.  I don’t care if you, the audience, agree or disagree with what I write.  I don’t care if you like or don’t like what I write.  I don’t care if you find it humorous or offensive.  I write for myself first and foremost.

I know what you’re thinking.  “What about all that ‘I write for you and for me’ crap?”  OK.  Good point.  If everyone stopped reading, I don’t know if I would keep writing.  But maybe I would simply because writing, for me, is therapeutic.  It’s an engaging process.  It’s a way to blow of steam without causing physical harm to anything or anyone.  Granted, there may be emotional casualties, but that door swings both ways.

Writing for me is an exercise of the brain.   It’s fun to see if my fingers can keep up with the flood of thoughts and images and ideas and frustrations that are fighting to escape from my head.  It’s funny to see how hard I hit the keys when I am really pissed, and sometimes it’s tough to type while continuously wiping away the tears.

And there are times, like now, when it’s hard to think because the feelings can be so overwhelming.  I feel like the mythological, Roman god Janus, which is often depicted with two faces looking in opposite directions.  Janus is frequently used to symbolize change and transitions such as the progression of past to future, or of one condition to another.  You feeling me on this?

I feel that my life is one, big paradox.  I feel that I am the line that separates Yin from Yang. I look at my life and think about how I want to go out, and eventually go home, with every relatively attractive woman that says hello; but I don’t want to ‘date’ anyone.  I want to pack my bags and move from Tampa, but I won’t because my kids are my world.  I want to move forward with my life, free of the pain and hurtful memories of the past 12 months; yet I don’t want to lose the wonderful moments that accompany those painful thoughts.    I want to change my ways and be different, but different for what? Or better yet, for whom?

Part of me is too busy sobbing and feeling sorry for myself.  The other part is saying, “Shut the F up and get your ass in gear.  Just move on.  Just let go and move the F on.”  I know, you’ve heard this all before.  After all this time, the song remains the same.   Which is exactly why I write.  Because some days are better than others.  Because some memories are sweeter than others.  Because some decisions are much more devastating than others.  And because the reality is tough to deal with, and one of my ways of dealing with it is writing.

And as long as you are willing to deal with it and with me, I thank you again for reading.


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