Restive.

I lay here restless as a house-trapped fly. Even poetry seems trite and artificial. I wonder why the excitement of the creation act feels so hollow at times. Why life feels so hollow in between moments of joy. I have been very happy lately, but there are stones cast into the still waters, and worries begin small and intense only to fan out radially into vague overriding discomforts. Change, change. I've moved past the point of grieving, then acceptance, on most fronts. But everything all at once is a little hard to bear, even when it's good.

I seem to be down to only a few people in the whole world. I'm really disappointed in some people I've been close to and thought were true friends. I know I haven't always been the easiest person to get along with, and I know people have their own lives and issues. It's not that. It's the fact that very few people from my past lives show any signs of actually being alive. There is a faint pulse there somewhere, but it does little more than sustain them. There's not enough moving blood to create anything of their own, to learn something new, to contribute to what I have thrown out there, to even evaluate it. By way of example, my site's address has not changed and I have been writing more than ever, yet the number of people commenting on my site have dropped to one. I don't understand this - I would encourage and participate in the creative processes of those I knew and cared about. Maybe I'm just strange. Maybe no one wants to encourage me. Maybe I'm lousy. Maybe I'm a scar and no one cares.

Meanwhile I see blogs where someone talks about buying new shoes or about, hey, tonight I'm doing nothing, and they get 39 responses in two hours. I understand how these things work; they're tiny communities, like chats spread out over time. It's not really about the post itself. Well, mine is. I'm not here to find friends and mates and to spend a Sunday evening telling people how pissed I got down at the pub. So yes, I understand that a huge contingent of the online population is going to find nothing of interest here. But...none at all? I've posted to lots of other blogs I found intelligent or creative in recent months. It's as simple as clicking my name, and they would find their way here. A couple more clicks to leave a comment. You see it once in a blue moon, then they're gone again. I really have no other conclusion to draw than my site is boring and my either isn't accessible or is bad or is uninteresting.

I guess I'm just feeling burnt out right now, hence the recent rash of song lyrics and other people's photographs. I'll get back to my own writing and art soon, I'm just taking a break of sorts. Breaks for my syllable-leaky brain are anything over 24 hours. I live my life at a snail's pace in many conventional ways, but when it comes to contemplating and writing, I seem to operate close enough to C that my thoughts get heavy and the world slows down. Am I aging slower? That's hard to say. There are still duff days like today, but overall I seem to be growing younger.