Hysterical Blindness

A friend of mine wrote, “GREAT to see you blogging again. It's hard to maintain enthusiasm for it sometimes, but I love to read about whats going on in that head of yours.” Which got me thinking. Does this really constitute as blogging and what exactly is inside this head of mine.

There is never any quiet. (When you are married and have a kid) Solitude comes at a premium and the time that I do have between work, gym, home and the occasional trip to Target doesn’t necessarily count. No wonder artists are, for the most part, in and out of relationships the duration of their lives. The habitual pain of the break up accompanied by enough time with oneself to stay centered and connected is like gold to them. Throw in a healthy addiction to smack or some all natural, can only find in the South American rain forest, hallucinogenic and you got yourself a treasure trove of material to work with.

I love my family more than anything else. Without them I would be half of a broken woman. They complete me in a way that I could never describe. I just want to make that perfectly clear. That being said, I have never known what it is like to be alone. Even after thirty-three years, I often wonder if I would be a different person if given the opportunity to exist with only myself. I think the quiet would teach me to be more accepting of myself and of my thoughts and to be more patient with myself. My inner dialog can be interesting but I struggle with verbal and written expression. I suppress and I don’t know why. Perhaps (probably) having a significant amount of solitude would send me spiraling deeper into my shell but I tend to think I would be forced to try to fix the bent pieces of me.

How many different ways can I write the same post My game is tired at best. Sheesh!