Tired

I hate the word "lover". I don't know why. It just bothers me.

This relates to nothing I had to say here, but then I wonder, did I have anything to say at all?

I feel like I don't know how to do this blog thing anymore. Gone are the days that it just came to me. In many ways I feel with them has gone days when I was in connect with myself. Lately it's all just a jumble. Living life day to day. Getting by. Uncertain of the future. It's really not the worst. Mediocrity is not what I thought it was. I don't think I'd mind a life of minimum wage and fast food meals and back yard barbeques and bridge club. Ambition was once my identity, and now I'm not even sure it's something I want as a part of me anymore. So much for my already dwindling sense of motiviation.

I moved home today. It's what I'd wanted for a few weeks, but now I don't know. What was I fighting for in the first place? And now, here, have I undone all that good? Did I make a point at all? Or is it simply a time we'll look back on one day. "The lost months."

College starts soon. I guess I'm excited. I'm nervous. I'm scared I can't do it. I'm worried about how much I'm going to miss here, and Nathan. We both know we CAN do it, but what if I get there and I don't want to. What if things change? I've lived through change. I thought I was good at it. Doesn't mean it's ever something I've loved.

I wrote because all day I felt like writing. All week I've felt like writing. Hell, I've been dreaming of writing for a while now. Again, well, like I use to. But these last few months I just feel so worn. By the world, by my family, by the depression I've been battling. On the bad days, days like today, I wonder if I'll ever feel anything other than apathy ever again. I mean, logically I know it's a passing phase; but that doesn't make it any easier to get out of bed.

This blog is one of the few things I'm proud of. I feel I owe it to myself, and to the reader, to make every post a full effort, passionate and precise. Worthy of your time, worthy of my pride. I miss the days when writing came easy for me. When it was as I intended it to be, a cathartic method to explore not only the outer world, but the inner depths of my soul. But now I'm a little lost. Out here on my own I'm just trying to find myself again. Writing was once where I did that. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe tomorrow I'll wake up and be me.