When PMS strikes...

It’s been a bad day, and I can’t even tell you why.

Pablo asked me today why I’m not writing. Maybe losing my voice has something to do with losing touch with people. It’s been so long since I’ve had a good friend that I’m pretty sure I don’t remember how. I don’t even know how to be a friend to myself. Mayhap the same thing happens to your artistic voice… That which is unused (or stifled) is eventually just filed under “been so long now that I don’t even know if I can any more.” Or maybe “been so long now that I don’t remember why it mattered.” And you forget all the whys and what made it good to begin with.

I’m just floating by out here, in my cesspool of empty. Every which way I look I just don’t see a horizon, so the feeble paddle I dip in every so often isn’t powered by much in the way of hope. The life is getting sucked out of me, one minor passion at a time. All hopes drain away in the face of droning meaninglessness of passing time.

The irony thing is I’m the one that left each island I've encountered to begin with. I’ve just realized that I may never find what I’m looking for. And frankly, I’ve been looking so long now that I don’t even remember what it is.

Maybe it’s all just a bad skewed perspective. I’m missing it all, waiting to find the salvation inside – the problem that it is truly not there, and I’m only alone in the context of my own internally directed tunnel vision. In reality, am I surrounded by offered lifelines (check out Ben Harper’s song, resonated with me)? I'm so mesmerized staring at the bottom that I forget to look up.

They’re all bad days.