not quite brilliant enough to be suicidal
April 05, 2008 (b)
The Boyfriend and his brother are moving into a new apartment this weekend, and as inconvenient and taxing as the moving experience can be, I really wanted to help. Unfortunately, my muscles are still jell-o-like, and my body still refuses to go along with anything I tell it to do…or not do, as the case may be.
Luckily, Brother’s ex-wife and kids are lending a helping hand, and I don’t feel so guilty for being out of service this time around.
Basically, I’m stuck in the house feeling bloated and germy, reading books I’ve already read a thousand times before, watching TV…which by the way, has REALLY rolled down hill since the last time I actually managed to SIT AND WATCH for more than the usual fifteen minutes or so that my virtually non-existent attention span allows.
This is not exactly the greatest canvas for self-reflection.
Do I even need to reflect anymore? I think I spent the majority of my teen years doing the whole soul-search-and-destroy thing. You’d think enough for be enough.
But the fact remains that there are things which are still not working. I haven’t managed to disentangle myself from the emotional wreckage that was me and D yet. I’m in a relationship, playing constant game of tug-if-war with my intentions. Maybe, in a way, I crave the insanity that comes with never being quite sure… I’m thinking it helps me to be creative.
Does this mean I have to choose between being creative and being content?
Look at all the brilliant writers who committed suicide— Virginia Woolfe, Sylvia Plath, Hemingway…it goes on and on…
On the flip side, though, I don’t know if I’d reach so far as to call myself “brilliant” or anything. I mean, I know I’m good…sometimes…but is that really enough?
Why the hell am I even going on about this? I haven’t eaten yet today, and having an empty stomach usually puts me in a very foul mood. Or is that the isolation?
Enough with the thinking. I’m going to go play King’s Quest for awhile and vegetate.
