“The stars don’t understand how you can sleep at night after everything that you’ve done, though they’re mostly just referring to all the napping.”
I was catching up on one of my beloved writers when I came across…. Well… a good half dozen moments of brilliance. Funny thing about it…. aside from the general hilarity of the site as a whole, there was the sentiment resonating with me which would normally dictate another day without a post:
“Make a new friend. Learn to chainsaw juggle. Read a book. Go hang gliding in your underpants…. If you have done all of these things and you still don’t have anything to write about, then you shouldn’t be a writer. I’m a firm believer that if you don’t have anything to say, then you shouldn’t be talking. And if you don’t have anything to write about, don’t write.”
And I don’t…. have anything to say or write about. Yet here I am, simultaneously mumbling out loud and typing furiously away. I chalk it up to what feels like months of silence. It can be tough keeping everything inside while experiencing a complete lack of an interested audience. I suppose to that end, I finally “get” Twitter and social networking as a whole. Society, at large, can magically toss every last thought out there without running into a wall of “Shhhhhhh!”. But that’s a lie. I still don’t really get “it” or much else, for that matter.
Each day, I arrive at work (I’ll leave my punctuality up for interpretation on that one) ready to say something. Anything. Desperate for camaraderie. Socializing. Interest. Something. I often find myself preparing little anecdotes for that first break of the day. Those few minutes where I can fill the silence with something meaningful, charmingly witty or at the very least amusing. I’ve spent many years of my life listening. And I mean REALLY listening. Hanging on every last word as though taking sips of the finest wine. Being present. Engaged. PRESENT. That’s a difficult trait to find in another. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not assigning blame as there is none to be assigned. I’ve often found there is a force at play far more powerful than words when two can sit in ethereal silence. Still…. There comes a time for words too. When it feels cozy to be heard. Not just casually acknowledged, but heard.
It’s no government secret that I have very few friends. That can be a treasure too…. I’d certainly prefer the gift of a few extraordinary creatures in my life than an overflowing cup of acquaintances. But backing that train up – I question whether the precious few have any patience for me anymore. Perhaps not even patience so much as interest. I seem to be increasingly irrelevant as I age. That’s a tough pill to swallow. What happens when I cease to have anything, tangible or otherwise, to offer? I’d like to think I’d spontaneously implode so as to at least clean up after myself.
This all most likely boils down to a good ‘ol fashioned helping of loneliness. In the past, I took great pride in maintaining a sense of happiness within my walls. Man oh man, never place that meter in the hands of another. If you aren’t happy alone with your own thoughts, there isn’t a person in the world who can fix that for you. Yet solitary confinement can have its limitations on healthy balance. “Fuck balance”. A phrase from one of my truest friends. I love that. In lieu of that dirty little word, perhaps I’m looking to be more well-rounded beyond the roundness of my own physique. I’ve thought about going back to school for something. Not sure what. Or when. Or how, exactly, I plan on paying for that. So I read. A lot. Too much, I think. I don’t believe I learn much. A lot of it is noise. Noise. I think I need to stop filling the silence with my thoughts when they are quite possibly exactly that.
I need a hobby. Then, perhaps a nap. Or a sandwich. A sandwich and then a nap? Shake things up a little? For now, I just need to go quietly.