I feel like I can’t write anything new without it feeling like a past post, or poem, or explored topic. Like retreading old ground, hiking a trail I’ve forgotten has already been traveled.
Past Me had a lot to say. Relationships and religion were important. I wrote about desired love, lost love, plans for the future, expectations from my life, hope of a better life, or brighter, or more meaningful.
Apparently, Present Me is considerably less vocal, at least on paper. Wife and work dominate my list of important topics, and the rest has faded into the background. I’m starting to wonder…well, two things: Is this adulthood? Autopilot, until some catastrophe jolts me into consciousness?
And, is it better to be careless and have nothing interesting to say, or inspired and miserable?
Is this why artists have horrible domestic lives? Do they need to be consistently terrible people, surrounded by terrible people, in order to create that which moves the rest of us to tears?
You know what? Here’s something Present Me has figured out: I’d rather ask questions than answer them. I think there are some cases where asking without knowing, and possibly never knowing, is better than assuming or posturing.
What do you think?
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