I'm thinking a lot about death and nostalgia. Perhaps they aren't as related as they seem. However, my ideas about life ending and a life wasted bring me into the life that I have led. Strange things, like watching TV after school, the music I lived for in eighth grade, the field I played in when we first moved to Half Moon Bay in 1970. I yearn for these things and wish that I could experience them once again. As if I could only truly be happy back then. Honestly, those were hard times but I suppose compared to now they seemed light and carefree. At least I wasn't wasting my days alone in a dark room, just waiting for the end. Bleak house indeed. I'm also thinking a lot about my grandparents, dead and the regrets I suddenly have that seem insurmountable. Just oodles of sadness. All the things I didn't do that I could have easily done. What I would give to go back in time and be 13 again, with the knowledge that I now have. Does everyone feel this way in their forties? Is this what a midlife crisis is? I know it's a crisis, and I suppose it is midlife, though it feels far closer to the end. I also think about illness and disease. The possibilities of what I could be facing and all the time I am wasting relatively healthy. These are horrible paths to go down, let me tell you. I can't tell if I am being hyper realistic though. These are legitimate issues, but preoccupation is a bad idea, I'd wager. Fuck. Life really is hard and just seems to get harder.

I give more weight to my failures than my successes. Failure is a fait accompli, while success is both questionable and fleeting. To turn this type of thinking around will take some work and I'm not sure where to start. I think of this:

     Why do you say everything as if you were a thief?
     Like what you stole has no value
     Like what you preach is far from belief?

A burden to myself and others. Staying in my room keeps me away from influencing others but mires me down even more. The pressing anxiety won't let me leave the house. It's as if something heavy is sitting on my chest and I'm afraid to breathe. I rarely tell others, people to whom I am close, what I am feeling these days. Why should I put that on top of their daily concerns? Nobody needs that.

The white page
Like the blank soul
Purity

Stomach churning
Mornings start
This way

Take my hand
Hold me
Close