I don’t know exactly what happened.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. I have a host of excuses. A million of them. Some could even make you cry.
But I can’t roll out that list. Pointless because every writer has them. Poe an addict, Toni Morrison a single working mom, JK Rowling on the Dole. Virginia Wolf was certainly down in the dumps.
So let’s just move on.
Except there is one small thing.
I realized today I’m angry. At everything. At everyone. It’s not a huge loud anger. And it is murky and misdirected. But I think it is anger nonetheless.
This happened once before when I was going through a huge psychological transition in my life, at the end of which I was divorced, gay, bartending, and writing.
And now, 25 years later I’m wondering, what the hell is left?
But something is left. Something has been sitting and stewing deep in the darkness like Gollum in The Hobbit, just waiting for that ring. And pardon the pun, but I can’t put my finger on it.
I don’t think therapy can help with this one. Or food, or avoidance, or prayer, or alcohol. Not even a winning lottery ticket, which is what I usually hold out hope for, despite the fact that I never play.
Maybe Morgan Freeman could help. I like him. Maybe a nice hobby, like scrapbooking or bodysurfing.
It’s hard to have an existential crisis at my age. I feel ridiculous. Petty. I can’t sing Coldplay’s Fix You at the top of my lungs and have anyone take me seriously and join in.
But I can blog. I can come back to this, sit here and hit the Publish key, hope someone is still out there.
Lights will guide you home…