I’m not sure why I stopped blogging.
Judging from my cell phone bill, it wasn’t that I ran out of things to say. Shutting up is not one of my strong suits.
But bottling up is, and it has been quite the containment season. I think that there comes a point when my thoughts make little sense, even to me, and it is then that the withdrawing comes most easily.
Everyday chatter is one thing, but contemplating things that matter is a hide under the covers and the monsters don’t get you sort of thing. And the silence (at least the pixelated kind) is the only safe place.
I thought I would have a whole lot more figured out by now. I’ve come to peace with the idea that I will always only be me; I won’t be someone else, and that is okay, but I haven’t yet figured out what it means that I am me.
I didn’t hit 25 and, suddenly, I was fully formed–and I must say, it came as quite the shock.
It could be a quarter-life crisis, or just a stiring in my soul.
Ah, nothing like lyrical profundity to speak straight to me, while providing precious little in the way of answers.
Kind of like my blog posts.