It turns out that I am not dead.
That’s a good thing.
Not blogging for the last year-plus is not a good thing, and it gets even worse when you hear my bullshit excuse.
I had planned to edit a novel for the blog, similar to the others I posted. Then, like a smart person, I placed my laptop in water and it died, so I needed to extract the novel (a more recent edited version) from the hard-drive. I bought the tools and never did it. This was over a year ago now. A year of never opening the box. A year of procrastination for absolutely no reason, of instead of just spending a few hours and fixing the issue. Honestly, I still haven’t done it, but I’m getting there. Slowly. Just writing this is a big step, and I cannot rightly explain why I haven’t taken the necessary steps.
That isn’t to say I haven’t been writing or editing. I have, more than ever, but that’s not important the blog right now.
I even bought a new laptop since my stupid mistake, while continuing to stare at the flooded one and reminding myself to extract the documents but never actually doing so.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me other than a lot.
Anyway, the reason I’m blogging once again: tonight I took a deep, somewhat terrifying delve into the past while searching the internet and emails for an old poem I wrote. Or I think I wrote, as I’m beginning to believe it was a dream, since I can’t find evidence of this mysterious poem anywhere. I did, however, stumble across my old blog, all 200ish posts, almost all of which should be erased from the internet. Really. I have to erase it. Not because I’ll be canceled like the rest of the world for thoughts that are now ten years old, but because most of the writing is just horrendous and doesn’t deserve to live. I wrote too much of it strain-of-fucked-up thought, like some addled emotion-druggie bent and twisted off of melodrama and incoherent ramblings. It’s simply revolting but at least rather difficult to unearth.
The writing of the now ancient blog is just too much, and not in a good way, but I did find some lost artifacts I’ve been searching for. Somehow, I seem to have lost all of my poetry. This may be beneficial, since it was surely terrible apart from a few poems still near to me and heavily edited across the years. But I’d nevertheless like to have the poems in my possession, so now I have to extract even more documents off old hard-drives and potentially find a long lost folder somewhere in my parents treasure trove of a house.
The thing is, talking about writing makes me want to write and read and submerge myself within the art, and it’s been awhile since I could actually discuss the craft and what it means to me. Internally, I’m always aware, but I often live too much and too comfortably within my own head.
But in the past twenty-four hours I found myself having a true, meaningful conversation about writing, art, and life in general, and for me, art and life are very much the same. I find impactful conversation harder and harder to find yet refreshing to the point in which I’m reminded about what I value and hold dear. Passion, for one. For art. For life. For living and all the emotions and truths and fictions that stir within and reminds us not just what it feels like to be alive, but to revel in the process. The process of creation, of art in any form. But also, the process of living and finding enjoyment in our limited time.