My porch is currently occupied by a somewhat tattered kitchen chair, a black stool dotted with random flecks of paint, a cup of tea I have no interest in and an old vodka bottle whose purpose in life has now been redirected to collect the butts of my friends’ cigarettes when they come over.
And me. Possibly the saddest and most frustrated thing on my porch is me. I have settled into a space defined by restlessness and ennui.
I want to be doing things; I want to feel inspired. Yet, everything that comes to my mind fails to interest me. Even the tea, which I brewed a few minutes ago as a gesture of self-comfort, no longer holds the means to desire. It’s as though everything I have, simply by virtue of being easily attainable, is no longer something I want.
I feel rather like a petulant child. If I were still a teenager I might have wandered into the common living space and complained of boredom at which point I might have been redirected by one of my parents to clean my room or go outside and get some sunshine.
Indeed, the sun is shining as I sit here on my porch, which almost makes me want to go to the pool. But I am not in the mood for a book (a specifically rare sentiment, in my case) and going to the pool by myself doesn’t sound like much fun.
Still, I’m somewhat cheered by the inclination to be outside on the porch, at least in company with the sun. It’s not depression. I’ve had a few bouts with that particular state of being, and it always leads me to want only to curl up in the darkest corner I can find. So, I’m forced to reflect that it could be worse.
Even just writing all this out cheers me somewhat. Somehow, putting words on paper always improves my mood. I guess that’s the way it is with things you truly love. Even if you don’t think you want them, if you spend a little time with them anyway, they have the power to uplift you.
I’m debating now whether or not to post this. To be honest, I’ve felt a lack of inspiration all week (which may be based directly on the pressure of having a requirement to create content). But it feels so intimate on such short acquaintance. Indeed, I haven’t called any of my friends because the idea of explaining this feeling to anyone over the phone seems like more than I care to attempt right now. It’s too near me, somehow, to express easily.
But maybe you’ve felt this way before too. Maybe sometimes you feel restless and anxious, yet also uninterested in any of your normal proclivities. Maybe you “get me” here.
Or maybe you think I’m being ridiculous and moody. I’ll be honest – part of me feels that way. Why can’t I just “get it together”, so to speak.
However, in my experience, giving in to moods and allowing them to pass through you, really focusing on feeling them often decreases their power and induces them to leave you alone much sooner. So I’ve immersed myself here in my own drama for a few minutes, and I am actually feeling a bit better.
At least, I now am re-interested in my tea, which has cooled off sufficiently. So I think I will post this. Maybe you’ll think I’m weird (I’ve certainly had that word applied to me before). But maybe you’re also feeling a little blue without a clear understanding of why that is, and you just want to know that someone else feels that way too. And that clearing the air, being true to yourself, and, eventually, a good cup of chai, can help.
I wrote this for yesterday’s post, and initially didn’t use it because, after writing it, I felt a bit like a whiny brat. However, I e-mailed it to a friend of mine before I settled on that decision, and she really connected with it, and thought other people would, too, so I’ve decided to share after all. Isn’t being authentic really about being “real” all the time? If I seem like a jerk to you, I’ll have to admit, I can be that way every now and then. That’s honest, and I don’t want to only show you the good parts of me – you deserve the whole big, scary, lovely, wild picture.