I’ve always been a seeker,

Seeking answers to questions.

Searching books

Finding information…

Commonalities in authors

Truth in poems

Sensibility in stories.

I’ve discovered a few things,

Learned a few lessons,

Found a few constants.

*

And yet…

Some days I still feel I know nothing.

And that I am actually stuck in the same place I was a decade ago.

Growth is deceiving and illusive.

We don’t always recognize it until we see something from our past to compare it to.

For example, a decade ago I would have been devastated by a relationship or love interest not working out.

Today I am mostly numb to it.

I actually expect it.

I still process it endlessly, but I also shrug my shoulders and continue existing as normal.

But I don’t necessarily think this is better.

I mean is that growth or is it cynicism?

I want to feel passion again.

I want something real…

Even if it ends in pain.

I’m worn and disillusioned.

I need a change in scenery,

A burst of inspiration,

A shake up.

I need to BE inspired.

*

If not for my daughter, I would walk away from this current life status and start a new one.

So in the meantime…

I write.

Writing is survival.

Words at least release my angst onto page, expelling the unused pent-up energy out of my body.

I am looking for the color in my life again…a spectrum of emotions to bring me alive again.

Maybe I’m depressed…

Maybe I’m just middle-aged.

Maybe I need a new hobby.

Maybe I need to dance in the rain.

Maybes are becoming boring and predictable.