Vent

So, I'll admit: I've been slacking.

I stop and think sometimes- a moment of clarity some call it- and I see my younger self in the past and I'm ashamed of who he's becoming. I know, it's too early for a mid-life crisis, but if it's true what they say, I guess the good die young.

And no, this isn't some kind of death wish.

Have you ever felt like you were dying inside; to rephrase the question (so that I won't have one of my boys placing a hand on that shoulder with those, "I know you ain't turning Emo" looks):

Have you ever felt as though you were losing touch with a part of yourself? More specifically, a part that you might as well have defined as you? I used to be a writer. I'd journal everyday. I'd fill the margins of my loose leaf with stories to bypass the time in AP. I'd write about something when I knew from the start I had nothing, and it would actually be something. I swear to everything I love: it used to be my own little secret, something I'd pride myself off of internally. I figured it was a gift from God, these hands, a personal gift of creation that God, Yahweh, Jah, Him, himself gave to me to remind me of who I was and what I could become.

To make something out of nothing... Yo... I thought that was me. That was me. I know it. But, I don't know where he went. But now, I'm stuck with me.

This guy...

He talks a lot. Brags about the old kid he used to be. But this guy... Me. Right now. In the moment. He's pissed. Torn. Etc. But he's trying to keep his head up. To stay in it. To write again. So I guess the first step is him bitching on the blog. How masculine. Ha.

So much for fathers day. I'm pretty sure my pen's disowned me...