2019

writing (here and for personal reasons) feels so altogether foreign even though it's what pays the bills.

but it's the new year and this feels almost ceremonial, just for the heck of it. 

perhaps i'm feeling hopeful, or perhaps a small part of the cloud has lifted. or perhaps i know that writing will make me feel better. 

the cloud, yes the cloud i speak of has impressed itself upon me for the last few years. let's just call it what it is-anxiety, or so I think, where expectations and goals don't line up with reality and there is that knowledge within that you know you can do more, that you are not truly invested, and that life should and ought to be so much more. that death of the living is the worst kind of death there is. and it is very real. it's almost as if i have forgotten what it is like to be in a flow state, to be engaged and committed and connected. to be knee-deep and involved in something so completely that time, and people, and things don't matter for a moment. And that is probably the pinnacle of what it means to live, and a luxury of the most meaningful kind. to be immersed, heart, body and soul into something is joy, and is perhaps the only thing that makes life worthwhile. this could apply to anything–a chef, a studio assistant, a bus driver, a mattress salesman, a entrepreneur, an artist. end of the day, it doesn't matter what you do, as long as you do. and do with every fibre of your being. yes, that has to be it. 

to a 2019 of doing, being, failing, loving, doing, everything.