72 posts. 5 pages. 36 categories. 189 tags.

Sadly, the foremost of that list contains the fewest I am proud of.  I don’t feel like a real blogger.  For the majority of the time, I wonder whether the words I write are my own.  I find myself wondering about my identity.  Thoughts of who I am, what I write and why I write all seem to chase their tails, not really ever finding a way to catch what they want so much.

They want answers.  Answers which, unfortunately, I can’t give. Inadequacy creeps around the fringes of my emotional awareness and I ask myself again and again: “Who am I?”

In a very banal way, I find myself asking why it even matters. A nihilistic wave of doubt shudders over me. I wonder what the point of existence is. Just like my questions, I begin to chase my own tail.

They say that code is like poetry. Even so, I can’t help but feel that code holds the same attribution as maths: empty symbols creating value by sitting next to each other.  And in the same way, a part of me starts to softly believe that words hold the same value as my current emotion: uncertainty of worth.

Words are like tiny bullets.  And in the very same way, they take the right person to be able to use them properly. They take training. They take naturally to a certain character. Again, that wave washes over me. Doubt.

I’ll agree with you that I am my biggest critic. Still, I can’t help but feel that I’m filled with sloth over my writing. I write lists. Memes. Fanciful ways of showing I have nothing worth writing about. That the idea of writing a real post on my blog would be too much work. Laziness.

I am tired. Truly, tired. No doubt the time of year is causing an effect more than anything; I sense a storm beginning to blow around the edges of my awareness. It feels uncomfortable. Out of place.

I saw my new therapist on Monday. She told me she couldn’t help me. Her organization works short-term. I’m a long-term client. Another waiting list awaits my name.

Sorry that I couldn’t put a positive spin on this one.