I haven’t written in a while. Never mind posting on this blog. I think of it, but I don’t. Instead I sit in front of a blank page and consider all that is inside me and in man and in the world we have built for man. I contemplate how to articulate such thoughts but they are all vague and gray and deep down I don’t feel they mean anything and that actually writing them will reveal their abject insignificance. So I just surf the web instead.
I'm not going to promise myself things anymore. Resolutions and goals serve just to betray me. I will not commit to writing every day. I will not commit to exercising more. I will not commit to eating healthier. I will not commit to smoking with my window open, or drinking less, or any such ambition that will bring me down if I don’t break myself trying to achieve it. I want to do all these things, and eventually I will, but I will not burden myself with them.
I will though, and in most respects I have, stop complaining about my life. The routines I’ve built for myself are, even if they sometimes cause me to step back and question why I exist at all, envious to most. I'm lucky. This I recognize. Life could be worse.
Not to say I'm going to be more positive. I'm unsure if I'm even capable of such a thing. But I will try to see things in a less bleak manner. Like I said, my life could be worse, and that frightening horizon of the future will always be steady in my sights, but there is something humorous about being alive for almost 35 years. That in itself is an accomplishment.
My cat is sitting on my lap and he is squeezing at my arm with his paws, his claws giving slow, gentle pokes at me while he purrs himself into a feline trance. It is nice. I can feel it.