Everything i say sounds like nothing. My words trail off into to nothing the moment they are out of my mouth, or appear on the screen... if there was a truth that motivated them it is lost, and you will almost certainly take them to mean something different than what was originally meant- if i even knew that to begin with...frustrating. I want to write, i want to let you in on who i am, on what goes on inside here, but in can't...every attempt miscarries, every word is empty...

I am not mad. I am not angry at anyone. I am not displeased that my plans have been thwarted, nor do i feel i am not being treated fairly....this would actuallybe something significant, because it seems for a lengthy chunk of time i've been used to being mad, i've identified myself with anger at the world for not being what it should be, for not having any place for me, for saddling me with this misfit nature that cannot be at home anywhere, that cannot be satsfied, that belongs nowhere, that doesn't "fit" anywhere, in any role, that cannot slip into a comfortable pre-destined, well-travelled rut and coast along. That simple acts of relation and communication that seem to be second nature to everyone are alien landscape to me. That i am never myself, but trading in carefully processed surfaces- that i am always hiding. That intent and action seem to be seperated by this vast gulf. That i am never understood, not even by myself... that i do what i am supposed to do,I try to play the game, i take risks, and for a while, it seems as if i am actually living, actually present in my life and experiencing it, not standing back and watching it happen to me, i think i am acting and impacting and participating, and that turns out to be yet again only surfaces, calculated sheilding fictions....That i can get completely lost in something, chasing it for that blurry, uncertain glimpse of it dissapearing around corners, always thinking maybe around the next one, focusing all my dwindling energy on one object, hoping to to see the effect, the change i could cause that would prove i exist, thinking i've finally got some grip that will enable me to move, some friction...only to pass through, again, inconclusive, insubstantial...

actually, i'm clearly still AM angry about those things, which might be good, because acceptance, resignation, defeat...these are far too tempting...anger seems to me preferable to sadness, which seems my dominant state, my norm, to be always accompanied by the dull ache of the loss of that which i've never had...but what should i be angry at? What do i overthrow? What can i overthrow without becoming it?

I'm tired of people. Tired of words. Tired of trying to guess which ones i'm supposed to ignore, tired of them contradicting themselves and rendering each other meaningless. Yet, words,once uttered, even if absolutely retracted or superceded, qualified or denied, are never without effect- even if we say we didn't mean them...even if we mean them at the time but change our minds, even if we hear them as trivial or insignificant, they stay there, dormant, in memory, waiting to strike...We cannot act on them,cannot count on them, for they are never what they appear to be...but we can't avoid counting on them, neither words OR people...I'm tired of the effort involved in figuring them out, in translating - i'm so tired of bad translations, sick of us not getting each other, misconstruing and missing, misleading and being mislead...shoring up each other's delusions.
I'm hate my own words as much, probably far more, than anybody elses. Sometimes they are pried from me like my firstborn children, and i begrudge every one, i hate their imposition on the silence- yet silence is never silence to me- it is always full of words. True, full, absolute silence, stillness- i long for it like death, and probably fear it just as much.
and sometimes, like now, they just pour out of me,unstoppable, the most ludicrous things, the most trite, the vilest, the most unsupportable, unthought, unprocssed nonsense. So often i want to say nothing, or say what i think will pass as an acceptable answer, because to try to say what i want to say...i cannot make sense of it, and i know before it is said that it will be misunderstood-or just ignored, or translated into something that means more or less the same as what my audience expects me to say...

Tired of not writing or speaking because it will either be a disjointed attempt that never gets to its point, or a shallow waste of time- but this is not about wrtiter's block- not at all, in fact...

I keep writing and deleting sentences because i can't decide which version of me to pretend to let you in on.

This is a bloody serious blog.I'm sorry. It might be depressing. I wish it was funny. I'm not.

A few days ago, An old friend and i were talking about our mutual discontent with life. We both knew exactly what we needed to do to pull out of it - we both know and understand the choice, the intentional perspective adjustment involved, ... but for some reason, we weren't doing it. It's a bit of a challenge- i don't want to write her again and still be in the same place.

But my sadness isn't about that. Not the same old tired 'I'm not where i want to be'...not this time. Perhaps i am mourning all the little deaths, all the possibilities that die daily with my choices, all the things i have tried and failed, and need to be let go...