A Little Desultory

It’s been quite a while.  I don’t know why it’s taken so long to write, especially since I rather liked what I’d written before…

I’ve thought of a few things in the intervening time.  Poignantly, I thought to myself, after laughing lightheartedly and enjoying a rather tender moment, that even in these tender moments I feel somewhat out of place and a certain bight of melancholy, as if I don’t belong or that this isn’t the place for me.

I thought once again about opening up the blog to those that I know, but I hesitated once again and pulled back.  I don’t want to write for anyone, and I think that keeps me free.

I can’t say what’s been in my mind otherwise.  I will soon have an extended break from work which I’m looking forward to.  I’ve been reading quite a bit, and writing a little less I suppose.

I don’t know if anything’s been plaguing me recently.  Maybe that’s it… maybe I’ve been turned outwards recently… I have been somewhat productive and I’ve taken to reading most nights… thankfully.  I suppose I haven’t been turned inwards so much…

I look inwards and I see turmoil… and a dark chasm even… uncertainty… existential angst… but I don’t have a desire to then stand upright and march forward… I don’t know if my life would or could ever be a triumphalist narrative… but I’m not sure exactly… I don’t even know what that means in the next moment… or what it could mean.

I think of swearing that I’ll never open up this site to those near me… and that I’ll keep it hidden.  The project could take a new turn, certainly.  I think as well as that we… or I must learn to be honest with those near me, and should be able to speak my mind and speak freely with those that are close to me.  But at the same time, I do see myself playing a role… and I do like to write for an anonymous audience – one that I can imagine and give shape to… more so than an audience that I know.

Really there isn’t much new.  I suppose I’m waiting more than anything.  Maybe I’ve sat down to write out of guilt as much as anything, rather than an inner need to give voice to… yes of course my suffering…

I feel like an imposter sometimes.  I’m happy that often, when I read these words later on, they take on a certain profundity or weightiness.

I think of the women in my life in passing… but only in passing.

I don’t know who I am.  I sometimes imagine that they do… maybe more than I do… the women who have at one time or another seen me…  I laugh a little, imagining myself as transparent to them and opened up completely; naive and bearing all.

I’ve reached the end I think.  This little piece has served one point, and it’s that I think I’d like to keep this blog anonymous, at least for a little while longer.

Take care dear friends,


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