I respect bloggers.
I respect their patience, their generosity, their fearlessness, and in many cases their real skills. Great way to practise writing, great time to be a writer.
I just can't get the mental space for it at the moment. I've spent the last three months working through a whole bunch of nonsense in my head, nothing I can share. But I think I'm finally coming out the other side now.
All along I was just trying to 'be philosophical' about some issues that disturbed me. In reality, I found that philosophies based on my own wacky ideas just didn't hold enough meaning to combat the unrelenting impenetrability of the outside world.
I tried to 'get perspective', but you're always looking from the same place if you're just doing the same things each day.
I knew that time would inevitably heal all wounds (or wound me, if necessary), but time seems to be different on the inside. Six months flew by in the real world, but hardly a day in my mind.
I think I'm over it now. This feels good, although I feel like I'm rebuilding a life left vacant, a little derelict - which is strange. Lots has happened, and I was there, but ghostly. Distracted. Trialled by fire, maybe. Or other wanky nonsense.
Interestingly, I figure the last six months would've made pretty interesting blogging. Better than this, anyway.
Is blogging as therapeudic as it looks? At least I know writing is.
