i'm trying to post on my blog, and as usual, am tripping over the realization that i can't really be honest with anyone about most of the things that bother me... and further troubled by the fact that my honesty or lack thereof doesn't really matter, in the grand scheme of things, to anyone but myself... and troubled further still by the fact that my introspection and depressive and self-indulgent monologues are most likely doing what they always do, which is simply to make everyone tired of me... the irony being, i suppose, that i'm equally tired of myself, but without the capacity to just navigate away from the page. so i push myself away further, which is just pushing myself further into the consciousness of the few people around me who genuinely give a damn, making them all lose interest and perpetuating the cycle.
so what is learned from this?
aparantly nothing.

so here i sit, stewing in the juices of the things that i don't want to think about, instead of the things i'm supposed to think about... and all i notice is pain and distance and general lack of hope... and maybe there' a reason for that... maybe the things that god tells us to do and to think about aren't really for him at all, but for us, for our own protection and edification and enjoyment...
but that's not what i am. it's not on my list of perpetual capabilities. i do it for a little while at a time, a month or two, or a week, or whatever i can manage before losing it again...
and it's just as hard, if not harder, to have the answer and lose it again, to live with the knowledge of it's passing and absence, than it is to just deny the answer exists. it's easier to know and accept weakness than it is to build strength, because at the end of the day, weakness is reliable and consistant, and strength is not even always possible. one can be born with weak legs and, through work, strengthen and learn to use them. but one can also be born with legs that simply will not work, and wander dejectedly from hope to hope, trying only to walk, and meeting only crushing disappointment in each attempt, only to find himself, at the end, bitter and tired.

not that i want this to become a tirade. nor do i want to depersonalize it too much. i don't, in fact, know what i want to do here, what inconsequential verbal accomplishment will leave me feeling at least marginally justified in wasting the time and money to put this out there for people who don't want it, or don't want me to think that they don't want it, or secretly wish i'd shut up... or for nobody... or for myself, so i can come back later and lament my own tedious qualities like a man returning to the grave of his mother, entombed conception, the end of a beginning and the beginning of another kind of end.

bah.
i don't know.

if you got to the end of this and wondered why, then you're not alone.
sorry.