The Next One, The New One, The Eventually Old One

This week has been one most unavoidable, as it just happened, it just went on by. I did a good amount of writing, I know that, but none of it feels like it is on par with my usual (well, I’m starting to doubt what is my usual anymore) status, my usual state of being. I am struggling to write about new ideas, and most of what I am doing seems to circle back to the same exact topics, the same exact stories, and the same exact spiral. 

I have been a bit moody, notably. I notice this when other people call me out on it, and it makes me feel like an ass – I do not like to bring a room down. I do not like to know that I am down, and I do not like to be down. Despite my sardonic and harsh nature of speak …  I am a bit of a shortened Richard at times, I like to come from a place of love, even if tough, or brutish. I am really struggling to convey new ideas with writing. At least comparatively-so. 

I do not feel like I am superbly at the state of consistency that I uphold myself to. If I am being at all honest in the slightest, I cannot point my finger on what a consistent me is anymore. A good chunk of big bursts I have crammed and forced in the name of I have to do the thing, but where is my passion, where is my grit, where is my soul? 

I am in some sort of boredom state, I have to be, and that is a wired needle swimming throughout my fleshy brain. I need something new to rejuvenate my spirit. Is it academic? I think no, but perhaps that can guide me there. This is not a situation that I would call dire where I’ll hunt out some therapist for hire – I gack – not will it eviscerate my entire fire. 

But I am dimly lit.

There is something that I feel a door of embarrassment around, something that I want to avoid and can’t really let out. Something that I am in doubt that I will catch, something that I doubt is looking hard enough to catch me. I have written and rewritten, and drawn and droned upon recollections of my past, but progress just ain’t coming past in a way that feels fast. Excitement and passion are all aflown – is that even a word, the duck do I care – and I am simply doing by. I am simply being am.

Do I need a clean slate? Do I need to be caught? Is this a guarded battle to be won, or even fought? What do you make of all of this? Because I really don’t know.