I often start writing these blogs not knowing what I will write. After years of writing these, I sometimes wonder, do I have anything else to say? Yes, I do.
People may say that memoir can be a self absorbed endeavor, and at times it can be. But why is that a bad thing? An excavation of the self is always warranted. Why did we do this and why didn't we do that? At times, it can be both healing and reflective and writing has allowed many writers to heal their trauma and fight their demons.
I have too many inner demons to fight I think. I've been so irritable lately. There's something waging a war in my brain. It could be because my shih tzu Chewbacca is struggling health wise and I wake up most days at 4 am to comfort and watch over him. Truth is, I don't know what I'll do without him. Recently, I was reminded of how fleeting our time here is. How important life is, and how we must treasure that gift. And use it.
It's too easy and trite to just say smell the roses. Plus, I've smelled enough damn roses. I've danced my ass off. I've drank enough from the flask of hedonism. I don't want to be a party girl anymore. I want to have fun yes, but in an intentional way. The definition of fun is perhaps changing for me. For me, fun was working all day Saturday on one story, and I just felt so full after. Is that happiness?
I'm not really sure I suppose. I'm still trying to figure this out, because, ultimately, I don't know shit.
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