About time I wrote something

It's about time I wrote something. Literally, anything. All of my non-existent readers have been dying for my attention. And I get it. My writing is pretty...yeah...can't even type that with a straight face.

Still, I should create something. I mean, I'm obviously not sleeping. I've just ordered a ton of boots I definitely don't need.

It's 11:11 make a wish!

ANYWAYS...

What should I write about?

Oh, I saw a fireworks show recently. I sat there, trying to be in the moment instead of yielding to the urge to take out my phone and try my best to snap a single picture that wasn't blurry. And I tried to think of new and colorful ways to describe what I saw. That transcendence of light and sound. And then I thought, "transcendence"? It's not transcendent. No one ascends to a higher plane because they have witnessed a series of chemical and physical reactions that result in a smattering of color across the night sky. No one swoons simply because the explosions of pink and purple and blue and red have touched their spirit and brought them closer to themselves. In fact, I can't even really say that most people are in awe of fireworks anymore. Awe is to grand a word. We do not experience even a scintilla of awe in reaction to what might once have been considered dragon's breath. We may aspire to marvel, yearn to wonder, even desperately attempt to adore what we see. But in reality, it is a fleeting fancy. A shiny bauble that passes the time before we move on to our next activity.

And then I saw a child in the crowd, and I wondered if I was wrong. Awe was surely what I read upon their face. Something as magical as peek-a-boo (which is far more interesting for scientific reasons than for anything else), but louder and bigger and more wondrous. In their giggle was such untainted joy. In their smile such genuine fascination. And every blast was an entirely unexpected surprise. And here I was. Sitting like an idiot. Wondering how best to capture the moment with my limited vocabulary.

Naturally, what followed was a quick spiraling into emotional and intellectual self-flagellation, but we need not discuss that now.

The Texas Renaissance Festival was a blast, no pun intended. I enjoyed the whole day, though my body is paying for it with pain. (I really should explore the wonders of stretching and regular physical activity.) We saw a man eat mud. We watched whips ablaze crack in the morning sky. There was a very brief interlude with a man and his falcon. There were many, many, many lewd jokes. Ones which I rather wish I had not heard in the presence of my mother. Mostly, I just enjoying being with my family. Just being. Not performing. Not impressing others. Not working. Just being.

And the being is probably the most remarkable occurrence of the day. In general, I dislike being. It's a natural side effect of major depression. When I am not occupied by obligations, I tend to find solace in sleep. It's difficult to be aware of your pain when you are not conscious to it. No agonizing over forcing myself to eat.  No anxiety about calling yet another person about their past due bill. No pressure to sell, Sell, SELL. No fear about the inevitability of aging and all the suffering it brings. Just blessed nothingness.

But I spent the day, an entire day, awake, alert and active. Outside. Walking around. Amongst people, of all things. People! All sorts of people in all sorts of outfits from all sorts of walks of life. You know you're not in a great place when people are surprised you can spend a weekend out of your own bed.

"I get out!" I protested.

"So you just gon' lie right to my face," she retorted.

And that was literally our conversation.






I'm thinking I should go to bed. I just waxed poetic about watching fireworks, and now I'm resorting to fragmented conversation to fill the page. Blegh.


I want to write something creative. Something to remind myself that I am a good writer. Not that I was, once upon a time, a budding bit of brilliance. (Ha! Alliteration!)


Perhaps if I attempted to tackle NaNoWriMo. I tried that once. There are authors who spend at least a month planning in advance. What would I write about? Shall I re-vamp an old story? Should I build off the broken pieces of ideas that litter this old dust bin of a blog?


(Dear Reader, I am not rambling as it is 12:21 am and I really should be asleep. Feel free to stop here.)