The days are so fast, are they not?
I often fantasize about returning to blogging...only blogging. That invisible net space where I met so many of my friends in my twenties. But who will read? Where has the community gone?
And the lame-ness of writing about writing. I mean, really, Amy. Do you come here once every 6 months or so to yammer on about how there isn't any old internet anymore? Yes, I suppose I do.
What else is there to write about? I'd write about the brilliance of my now three year old girl, but the world is a scary place now where people are concerned for the safety of anyone merely seeing a picture of their child's face. I could write about how messy I am, and how I'm constantly frustrated. But would that bring out more frustration? Be therapeutic? Scare everyone away?
Ha. "Everyone".
I used to have some sort of stalker on this blog who would post occasionally rude comments. Now there is a tumbleweed blowing by in the digital wind, if I'm to be hopeful. No one loves a stalker, but I would love if the bland sameness of the woke-invoke void that is current social media could just leave us alone. Us old timers...we who wrote long paragraphs and uploaded photos from digital cameras (or even scanned them in!) to our blogs. Eh, no one wants to hear about that.
I'm depressed. The creeping inability I've developed bites at my heels constantly. It's silent...and everywhere, and easy to ignore when things are good. Why can't I get anything done?
Why is my focus so terrible? I cannot complete projects. I get so distracted that it's comical. But no one is laughing. I am a massive failure to many people I am sure...with a history of some losers in my life who like to tell me this. And Satan...yeah that guy. You know what he likes to say.
but here i am.
send me?
