Post Snippet; Not Aunt

I know it's been a while, not that I particularly have anybody to account to except myself, but for anyone else reading this, I'm going to be shameful and just put a couple of posts up of...yes, posts, that I made elsewhere.

I don't think it's super relevant to anything, aside from the interesting idea that sometimes the only noteworthy writing I do for long stretches seems to just be talking to people. I sometimes wonder if things would have been different if I wrote for a newspaper or something like that, but for some reason I never thought that was an actual thing I could do.

Even now I feel like...it's probably more work than I can handle or that I'm not accomplished enough or something, which is an interesting thing to think of oneself. Mental blocks being what they are, I don't think I've ever thought that writing positions constituted an actual job that I could earn money from, and even writing books is more for the love of the story than anything else.

That's a weird one, isn't it? To have the feeling that the arts cannot be a job, even though we have arts jobs everywhere. An idea that somehow, doing something you're passionate about cannot be something you get paid for. That you're just telling stories or expressing your heart or feeling the wonder of the world, why would earn material, worldly goods from that?

Which is nonsense of course. People in professions considered far more practical have through time also been those with creative hearts and passions, and we need do no more than walk our streets to see that. So I have no idea why I hold this unreasoned view.

Perhaps if you hold it too, the only thing I would say to you is...don't. Just live, and be the wonder that your heart wants you to be.

It feels, at least, that you have a supportive partner-friend and a current living situation that, while not ideal, at least isn't too negative to deal with. It sounds like a tough situation that you're in but it does seem like one that can - and probably will - get better. It's kind of difficult at this age - at least for me - to feel things changing about my self and my appearance and still feeling static in where I'm going or have gotten. I'm never going to be this age again. And that's sad because I haven't done a whole lot with the years behind me. But somehow I just can't shake this little bit of hope that I have. It's almost gnawing, always telling me not to give up, that even if I've given up with my hands I can't give up with my heart.

Full disclosure, I just had a sandwich. A pretty simple one, and one I've probably been eating for decades in one form or another. I genuinely wasn't expecting it to kick as much ass as it did. That was a good sandwich, and it really had no right to be, with mediocre meat between mediocre bread, it shouldn't have moved me at all. But it did. It's probably why I'm posting here right now (even though I don't know if this will be welcome or not), and it's helped turn my brain on a little.

How does that help? Simply this, today a sandwich made my day better. Tomorrow something else will. And even though I'm a little lost in the void too, I know every little stone on the path helps me move forward. Eventually the work will pay off, usually sooner than we think because the world is a wild wild place, full of unexpected twists and turns, and when we're down sometimes it throws us a line to keep us in the race.

I don't know why.

Somehow I think it's meant to.