If anything, I feel worse now than I did at the close of my last post.



I’ve run out of myself.


No dreams, no myths, no imaginings, no paranoias to dress up in words and present you with. It crosses my mind that without those things, I really don’t have a reason to keep my Xanga.



I’m sort of surprised that I don’t feel more shock at my writing those words. I’ve had this blog for almost six years. I kept it even when nobody at all was looking at it. But I guess I still had things to say then.



It’s taking a tremendous effort to even string these words together.



Maybe the real reason I had all those words before was her. I suspected it about a year ago when I found the words didn’t come as easily, and I told myself that was silly; she couldn’t be the central idea that pushed so many verbs and nouns and adjectives from my fingers.


I am pretty sure she was. I just lie to myself a lot.

And…even as I wonder if I exhausted that source, I have a little cluster of bruise-purple doubts in the back of my mind.


I only ever said those words once. I could say them again…

But I couldn’t say them with feeling, and that would have been the important part. Even when I said (correction: they were typed) them without feeling, which is the only time I ever did, it was still there because the order of the words was pretty enough to evidence that there was some kind of feeling…they were the kind of words that came from feeling about a thing so intensely that when you talk about it, there is a vehemence in the words that gives you away even though you’re not feeling that emotion.



I have a suspicion that I will never go see them.

And that I will not be missed.


All it does is bring me back to my original problem (well, maybe the second one…who cares about my feelings? it’s the words I’m worried about now) of what I can say here. I mean, I had a lot going on…but as often as I have written about him, I think I’ve wrestled my Wolf down to where he’s at least not making me twitchy and insane…not that he doesn’t still burst out on people, but I feel disinclined to write about that.


I can’t write about work. Not enough interesting things going on there.


I can’t write about my friends, as I find myself forced to admit that I really only have one close one again, and she is far away. (For the record, my interpretation of what is a good friend is someone who talks to me and thinks with me about things, not whoever I happen to spend the greatest amount of time with.)


I don’t feel like I will ever be one of those people who writes a lot about my relationships. I never wrote much about the previous one except when he asked me why I never wrote about him, and I don’t feel like writing about Jester is the thing to do either. What on earth does one say about relationships when writing anyway?

Typical relationship posts:

1)      Things are awesome and I ❤ so-and-so!!!!!

2)      Omg, so-and-so is insane and I can’t stand him/her and I’m going to tell you every annoying thing they ever did ever and ask you if I should stay with them and/or hope you leave me comments and back up my point-of-view!

Yeah. That’s not me.


I can’t write about my writing, since I haven’t done any. I feel guilty about this whenever K asks me about it. It was worse when she asked me while I visited and I said I hadn’t written anything…she looked disappointed. Shocking, since she almost never reads any of the things I send her…


I’m sick of doing surveys and dumb stuff.




Conclusion: I really have nothing left to say. I had to work really hard to come up with even this much.



It’s getting harder and harder to think that it even matters.