A Monologue, If You Will

Good afternoon.

It's been a while.

I pretty much gave up blogging last July after attempting to make a post each day every day for a year. It was too much to handle, so much so that I grew sick of writing, period. This was a bad decision, but what could I do? I was exhausted from writing and continually threw up crap that meant little, if anything. I needed a break, and I took it.

It was a little overextended. Writing has provided for me a huge (and often the only) outlet for everything I kept within. It's a poor substitute for another person, but being the overly shy, socially inept coward that I am, it was enough. Ironic considering this is put out in public for all to see. However, not all gets put down in writing. Much more lie away hidden (and really should go into a private journal, but I haven't made myself do that just yet).

But it remains that I had done very little writing since, and my heart grows weary and heavy with burdens both new and old. What can I say about the last several months? There have been joys and hardships. Relationships have been created and broken. Some folk have been freed, others bound. People have moved around, worked their talents, enjoyed the fruits of their labor, or perhaps wallowed in the pain of defeat. I watch as life around me unfolds. I watch and wonder, "How shall I participate? Which path do I take?" Hands reach out and pull me whichever way. Others, they have their plans. I have mine, but they get trampled on. After all, why should anybody bother with them if I still don't put much stock into them? Instead, I allowed myself to be ripped to pieces and tossed around wherever the wind decides to blow.

I'm sure that was all nice and confusing. What I mean is that I'm dissatisfied with a life where I sit passively and let come what may, and solely react to what's thrown at me. I have dreams, plans, but they will amount to nothing because I'm not good at anything. Of course I'm not. I won't put forth the effort to become good. So I dream big dreams and live in their imaginary splendor while living a completely passive life.

In that time, people have learned new languages, created works of art, organized and pulled off big events, made impacts in their communities, did something. I want to do something. Maybe I should. But what can I do? I'm not good at anything.

But I can write. I've written before, and I can do so again. And so, I pick up the pen once again. I've stories to share.