migrating-to-the-writers-nook-in-my-apartment-for-the-evening

The “writer’s nook”, or, the corner desk in my bedroom, in front of the window, is where I do a lot of writing these days. I wouldn’t say “most” of my writing occurs here, but some of it does. And there are now three(3) writing spots in the apartment (kitchen desk/island, living room chair, and now the “writer’s nook”), so I suppose 1/3 of my writing happens at this spot.nnEver feel stuck forever? Like whatever is going on during a particular day is just a thing you will be doing forever and ever and ever? Like activities to occupy life until one disappears into oblivion? For me, I have been writing/journaling online (mostly online) for the past five years (since I moved into this apartment), and was writing mostly offline before that. And before that, I was on Tumblr, doing a lot of the same stuff I am doing right now. Seems like in my life, ever since the “St Louis Adventure” of me moving to the city, and exercising every single day, and taking the Metro to and fro in the city, and taking boatloads of pictures for Instagram, and trying out different foods from random places and documenting that on Foursquare, that upon my return to Pevely, Missouri (for a year) and then immediately moving to S St Louis County after that (where I am now), that everything has seemed “dry”. Like just a “survive old age” mode. There’s nothing fun about it. Getting old is not fun at all. When I was young (a teenager), I was 110% certain that I would be dead by the time I turned 21, and I damn near fulfilled that premonition through lifestyle choices (bad ones), and mental instability. And for whatever reason, I decided to “start afresh”, and start anew, and get through what I had been going through, and just “get” to wherever the hell I needed to be in order to carry on with life in some sane/sober manner. Most of that occurred out of pure spite (for people who had long since given up on me), but some of it was done because I had a meager aspiration to see what life *could* be like through a normal/sane lens. And now, I’m here – sane and normal and predictable and uneventful. And there’s not much to be said about it. nnI also used to sometimes think that I wouldn’t have “left” anything for the world if I had gone away at 21. Like everything in my life up until that point would have been a stereotypical case of mental burnout, and that some could point to *this* event, or *that* occurrence, and said “aha, yep – *there’s* where we’ll categorize him statistically”, and then anyone who even happened to concern themselves to *that* extent would have wiped their hands clean of the “case” of TMO. Nothing left behind, no impact on the world – a temporary vessel of chaos that had a 21 year expiration date.nnSo, I am past that point now (as I am 38). But in terms of any other “ambitious” forms of longevity, I am over that mindset, too. I feel there is no “other side”, in terms of reaching a better/healthier/cheerier place. If/when my time comes (be it at 55 years old, or 60, or whatever), what needs to be said, will have been said, and that’s all. What I am saying is, I have learned my lesson in terms of “what’s there”, and what “could be” in terms of clean living, straight-laced lifestyle, and timid predictability. I’m here, I’ve *been* here, and I genuinely do not care.nnPerhaps for some being old is tolerable when they set up the pins in terms of growing a family, a healthy pension, a paid off mortgage, and maybe even some long term “impact” on the world. But I didn’t do any of those things, and none of them will ever happen. It’s like *witnessing* a life having gone by, and still being alive to observe it’s failure to launch through a depressing form of hindsight. And perhaps I wasn’t “meant” to do anything. Or (in a philosophical sense) I *was* meant to do exactly as I did, and I did so perfectly, and one’s meager existence somehow fulfilled it’s purpose, and nothing more could be asked of the individual?nnSo, the long and short of it is, when my time comes (whenever it may be), there will be no pseudo-ambitious “fight” to continue with a mundane life. Aspiration has more of a price to pay than a fruit to bear. nnback soon

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jamie@example.com
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